Part 238 (2/2)

be gun-shy right after the breakup of a marriage. ”Let's go into the

kitchen. I was just getting started on dinner.”

The dog followed them in, resting his head adoringly on Emma's foot when

she sat at the table. Michael poured wine in gla.s.ses he'd borrowed from

his neighbor. He turned on the radio, low. Emma recognized Nat King

Cole's creamy voice as she idly scratched Conroy's head with her other

foot.

”How long have you lived here?”

”Nearly four years.” He was glad to have company in the kitchen, a

rarity for him unless he counted Conroy. He had fresh vegetables lined

up on the counter. Puzzling over them, Michael wished he'd asked his

neighbor for a recipe for tossed salad. He remembered to wash the

lettuce, then taking up the neighbor's carving knife, prepared to chop

it up.

”What are you doing?” Emma asked.

”Making salad.” Because of the way she was looking at him, he paused

with the knife over the head of romaine. ”Maybe you don't like salad.”

”I'd rather eat a hot-fudge sundae, but I like it well enough.” She rose

to inspect the vegetables. She counted four fat tomatoes, slightly

underripe, a half-dozen peppers of every color and description, leeks,

mushrooms, a gourd of some kind, a full head of cauliflower, and a bunch

of carrots. ”There's certainly enough of everything,” she decided.

”I always make a lot,” he improvised. ”Conroy's a fiend for salad.”

”I see.” Emma smiled then took the knife from him and set it aside. ”Why

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