“IT’S POISONOUS?”

“Only the leaves,” Aimee explained, obviously unaware how amazing she looked with that coastal sun mining the copper in her hair. “The rhubarb stalks are what you eat. The curly green leaves get tossed.”

“Unless you’re on the chef’s hit list.”

Aimee shook her head, causing gold to meld with the copper. Her smile over the brim of her coffee cup made Lucas’s pulse hike. “Never talk cuisine with a crime scene guy.”

“The only time I ever tasted rhubarb was when I was a kid. I thought it was red celery. And smeared it with peanut butter.” He grimaced.

Aimee laughed. “Bitter as all get-out. That’s why you add sugar.” She lifted the glazed scone he’d bought with their coffees. “But probably not more than in these, because I’m mixing the rhubarb slices with fruit —strawberries. Natural sugar.”

“The bitter with the sweet.” Lucas nodded, gazed out over the spectacular view. Even after a lifetime in San Diego, he never tired of seeing that blue ocean beyond the sand, hearing the soul-soothing sound of the waves. “I’m sure there’s some sort of life metaphor there.” He met Aimee’s eyes again, remembering, like he had late into the night, the sensation of holding her close. “Today I’d rather just think about the sweet. So, rhubarb, sugar, strawberries, and . . . ?”

“Nice try. But no chance.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and Lucas realized they were the exact color of the sea behind her. “You think I’m going to give you the recipe? How do I know you’re not a culinary spy? I’m not about to reveal my secrets.”

It was no secret to Lucas that this woman managed to stir emotions he thought he’d set aside. Had no time, or need, for. But holding her last night, seeing her now, only proved his grandmother’s often-repeated theory: “There comes a time when you see with your heart.” A week ago he’d seen a beautiful and stubborn young woman working the angles to get herself out of a bad situation. But then he’d seen her kindness, her dogged determination, intelligence, humor, and —

“Not going to admit to recipe espionage?” she asked, prodding Lucas from his thoughts.

“You’re safe with me,” he told her, glad she couldn’t guess that he’d started to wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Brush that coppery hair away from her face, draw her close, and . . .

“Out of respect for my ‘art’?” Aimee asked, the teasing gone from her voice. “You said that about my cooking, called it my ‘culinary art.’”

“Yes. I think my grandmother helped me to see a lot of things through that lens. She always talked about spiritual gifts. She said we all have them —God-given talents —and that part of our work here on earth is to discover them and use them for good. She thinks of her painting in that respect. And tells me that my eye for photography is a gift too.”

“I agree. On both counts. Though your contemporary olive work was not the least bit inspired.” She chuckled, brushed scone crumbs from her lips.

There it was again, the thought of kissing her. Get a grip, Marchal. “Does it feel that way to you, too? Cooking, I mean. That it’s your calling?”

Lucas didn’t expect Aimee’s reaction, certainly not a sudden welling of tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her eye with the coffee napkin. “I’m fine. It’s just that cooking was a huge part of my relationship with my mother.”

“No need to apologize. She . . . That’s what you meant yesterday, when you said you knew what it felt like to lose someone?”

“Mom died ten years ago. Ten years on Valentine’s Day.”

Lucas flinched. “She passed away on your birthday?”

“My sixteenth. She was sick for a while, but I don’t think you’re ever prepared for . . .” Aimee found a smile. “Mom was a school nurse. She always kept an eye out for kids who needed some extra TLC. And food. You should have seen the sack of homemade power bars and fruit she lugged to school. She was an incredible cook, and I was her sous-chef. I think my first bib was an apron.” She sighed. “Kitchen time with Mom was the best.”

“That recipe for the contest —it’s hers?” Lucas deduced.

“Strawberry rhubarb crumble was my favorite birthday ‘cake.’ I could always count on it. And some daphne.”

“Daffy? Like . . . the duck?”

“D-a-p-h-n-e.” Aimee spelled it for him. “The February birthday flower. She’d find one and tuck it behind my ear, from the very first birthday I can remember. It’s pink and white, sort of delicate, and smells like heaven. It’s from a shrub that only blooms this month. I guess it’s very finicky to grow.” Aimee shook her head. “Like rhubarb in Southern California. Thank heaven for the Garden of Eatin’.”

Lucas was quiet for a moment, watching her sea-color eyes and thinking there was so much more behind them than he’d ever guessed. “And now, on your birthday, you’re fixing her recipe. For the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off.”

“Yes. To honor her. And because the grand prize is full tuition for culinary school. I think she’d like to see me do that.” Aimee took a breath. “I’ve been a little slow at finding my calling. And now all of it —the contest, my birthday, the tenth anniversary of losing her, and that dessert —feels like it was all supposed to happen. Like God had a hand in it.” She met Lucas’s gaze. “Does that make me sound like a crazy person?”

“No.” He resisted the strong urge to pull her close, hug her like he had last night. Or maybe Aimee had reached out to him first; Lucas still wasn’t sure. He only knew that it had felt right. Felt that way now too. “I don’t think it sounds crazy at all. I do believe in a divine plan.” He smiled. “And my grandmother would give a big amen to that.”

“My mother too.” Aimee peered out across the ocean. “You’re talking with your grandmother’s doctor today?”

“Her geriatric psychiatrist. Or I should say, the one that was assigned to her. My grandmother had plenty to say about that, trust me.”

“Why a psychiatrist? Unless I’m being too nosy.”

“No, it’s okay.” Lucas fielded the familiar stab of pain. “To evaluate her for dementia or clinical depression. Find a reason for her refusal to eat and come back after the stroke.”

“Is dementia possible? I mean, your grandmother seems so clear.”

“She does —is —from everything I can see. I think the psych component is part of a standard evaluation in these cases.” He hated that his stomach had gone sour. Best to change the subject. “So . . . this dog of Wanda’s, what kind is it?”

“A corgi named Potter. Old, from what I can tell. And really friendly.” Aimee smiled. “I thought he was going to topple off the tailgate of Wanda’s SUV to get to me. Her best friend, looks like.”

“My grandmother loves dogs. They had an old beagle until a couple of years ago. My grandfather always talked about surprising her with another one. But . . .” Lucas thought better of restating the obvious. “I’d go out and buy her a dog today if I thought it would help.”

“You always hear that animals are good medicine.”

They were both quiet for a while, watching the waves in the distance. A gull soared overhead, his lone cry unanswered.

Lucas shifted his weight, drew in a breath. He told himself to just say it. “If things heat up on the abduction case I’m working, the way the authorities think they will, I’ll probably be doing some overtime. Hustling between evidence gathering and the hospital. And you’ve got work, plus whatever you need to do to get ready for that contest.”

Aimee’s eyes met his, and Lucas almost lost his nerve.

“I mean, it’s a hectic week for both of us. And you’re probably already doing something for your birthday weekend. But —”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I don’t have any other plans for the weekend. My father will call on Saturday —he lives in Orange County now. And my brother will text, probably two or three days late.” Aimee shook her head. “First-year medical student at OHSU, Oregon. He doesn’t even remember his own birthday. My cousin’s working swing shift all weekend. So even if I win, I’ll probably just be happy dancing at home by my —”

“I want to take you to dinner,” Lucas said in a rush. “Sunday, if that works. I promise I won’t pay any waiters to embarrass you with a birthday song. Nothing like that.” Either his heart was hammering his ears or a tsunami was about to wipe out San Diego. He was out of practice with this kind of thing. “I like you, Aimee. And I thought it might be good to see each other away from the hospital. You know?”

Her cheeks were his new favorite color again. “Yes.”

“Yes, you know? Or yes, you’ll come to dinner with me on Sunday?”

“Both.”

He stared, the tsunami becoming a warm eddy. “That’s . . . great. That’s —” his pocket buzzed —“my cell phone. Excuse me a second.”

“Sure.”

He read the text and then checked the time. “I need to get back to the hospital,” he explained. “The doctor wants to talk with me.”

“I’m ready.” Aimee grabbed her paper trash and coffee, reached for her purse. “I’m sure, like you said, that psych exam was simply routine. I don’t think they’ll find a problem.”

“Right,” Lucas said as they started back up the road to the hospital. “Routine.”

He thought about taking Aimee’s hand, but it was probably too soon for something like that. Besides, would she want anything to do with him if she knew the truth? Today’s psychiatric exam wasn’t routine. Lucas had asked for it. If his grandmother was found incompetent, it could explain her decisions regarding her advance medical directive —the refusal of IVs and feeding tubes even as temporary measures. Her health was declining. Was Lucas really supposed to stand by and let that happen? Especially if today’s exam showed that Rosalynn Marchal wasn’t as “clear” as Aimee thought?

A wave of guilt made his gut tense. Am I hoping for that?