"You're married?" Andrew glanced at my hand. I thought I saw a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.
I held up my naked fingers and wiggled them. "Not anymore. Ex as in x-ed out of my life. We split two years ago. I got the kids and he got his mistress." Time to turn the conversation toward my own ends. "Do you work with the Chiqetaw Players a lot?"
There was a loud swell of singing from the crowd—apparently it was someone's birthday—and the noise died down. He glanced around the room. "No, but a woman who was in my writers group convinced me to let her theater troupe produce my new play. Unfortunately, she wasn't… couldn't… make it to the opening. After that performance, I'm sorry I came."
I knew he was talking about Susan; I could feel her energy in his words. Perfect. Now how to continue this thread? "I hear a woman from the Chiqetaw Players died the other day. A real tragedy. She took too much medication or something." There. If he wanted, he could walk right into the snare.
He nodded. "Susan Mitchell. She and I were in the same writing group. She was a good friend. I still can't believe she's dead."
The look on his face made me feel like I'd punched him in the gut. I gave him a sympathetic nod and bit my lip. Sometimes I could be a real bitch and not even realize it, and for once, I didn't like that part of me. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that we were talking about the same woman." A lie, but I wanted to save face and I didn't want him thinking I was deliberately trying to hurt him.
He gave me a tight smile. "No problem. Susan and I were talking about becoming critique partners, but it never would have worked."
Critique partners? What could he write that would mesh with Susan's work? "Not to pry, but what do you write? I mean, besides plays?"
His teeth flashed white against his naturally tanned skin. "I'm a romance writer, too, though I'm not nearly as well known as Susan was. I write under the name of Andrea Martin."
Romances? The man wrote romance novels? Intrigued, I almost forgot why I was there but what he said next brought me back into focus.
"I think Walter would have objected to our partnership. He didn't appreciate the work she put into her books."
I stared at the floor. He had given me the perfect opening, but I didn't know quite how to proceed. I didn't want to come off like some yellow journalist, scrounging for dirty laundry. But I needed to know. I searched his face. "You were close to her, weren't you?"
He paused for a moment, and when he spoke, it sounded as if he had chosen each word precisely. "She was a good friend. I'm going to miss her."
"I'm sorry." I sat there for another moment, feeling like I should say more. Here he was, hurting over the death of his friend, and all I could manage was vague sentiment. Finally I blurted out, "I'm no good at sympathy—I never know what to say. My ex used to complain about how blunt I was, and I guess he had a point."
Andrew relaxed. He leaned closer as the noise from the crowd got louder. He said something I couldn't hear and I shook my head, so he leaned over, his lips near my ear. "Do you really want to go to dinner with Harl and James?"
I gave him a half-cocked grin and shook my head. His eyes lit up again, and I realized how much they sparkled. "Not really," I confessed. "I want to get out of this crowd, out of these boots, and I'd prefer a bowl of soup instead of a fancy dinner."
"C'mon!" He jumped up, grabbed my hand, and headed for the door. I barely had time to grab my coat and purse as I struggled to keep up. Harlow turned in time to laugh and wave us on. I could have killed her for the knowing wink she sent my way as Andrew dragged me out into the cold.
The streets were beginning to freeze when we stumbled out into the frosty night. I loved the squeak of new snow under my boots—it made me think of northern nights and the aurora borealis—a clean, clear feeling. We only had a few inches of snow so far, but my breath left puffs of ice crystals in front of my face, and I glanced at the sky. The clouds had parted, and a shimmering expanse of stars twinkled overhead. The temperature was going to plummet.
"So, where do you want to go for that bowl of soup? Forest's End is still open, it's a good diner." Andrew let go of my hand and fumbled in his pockets for his gloves. I pulled mine out of my purse and slid them on, holding one hand over my nose and mouth so the chill air didn't bite into my lungs.
A glance at my watch told me that it was almost nine. "Not to be forward, but what about my place? I have turkey soup in the refrigerator. I also have two children who I need to get home to. Otherwise, I'm going to have to take a rain check."
"Sounds good to me. I'll follow you in my car." He waited until I was safely in my Cherokee. We crept out of the parking lot onto roads glistening with black ice.
Once home, I slammed the car door and motioned for Andrew to follow me up the stairs to the front porch. The light in Miranda's room was on, but the window was closed. For once, it was too cold for her to perch on the roof. Andrew followed my gaze and looked curiously at the railing. I could see the question in his eyes.
"My daughter is studying astronomy; she likes to sit on the roof, so I built her a guardrail." I waited for the usual reaction that I got when people realized I let my daughter hide out on the roof at night with a telescope, but he grinned.
"Better than having her roaming the streets. Now, you said something about turkey soup?"
One of Kip's video games echoed from the living room—a series of ughs and crashes and oofs. Mario Brothers maybe, or whatever he was playing nowadays. I couldn't keep up with all of them.
The scent of the rose-cinnamon potpourri drifted through the air. I loved my home. Comfort—we were all comfortable here. Flooded with a deep sense of satisfaction, I shook off my coat and hung it in the closet. Andrew handed me his, and we sat on the bench that stretched along the wall of the foyer to take off our boots.
Miranda came galloping down the stairs. She stopped short at the sight of the strange man in our hallway. I introduced them. Andrew waited for her to extend her hand first. I liked that—I would never bring a man into my home whom I felt might disturb my children in any way. She gave him the once-over, then turned to me. "What show did you see?"
I planted a quick kiss on her forehead. "We were at a play, not the movies. In fact, Andrew wrote the show—it's called Obsidian."
"Jenny's mom is in that… Mrs. Dillon." She led the way into the living room, where Kip gave us a dazed nod. He got so caught up in his games that I could probably waltz around naked and he'd never notice. But at Andrew's appearance, he let go of the mouse and asked, "Who's this?"
Andrew leaned over to look at the computer game that Kip was involved in. "Andrew Martinez is the name. Hope you guys don't mind, but your mother invited me over for a bowl of soup, and frankly, I'm starved. What are you playing?" I watched them interact, joking around at the computer. Kip missed having a man around the house, and I always kept an eye on him with male friends so he wouldn't get too attached.