FORTY

Angela Drake was kissing him and he had no idea why.

At her subdued request, he had driven her to his townhouse on Canal Street; neither of them had much to say on the way over. This made a forty-minute drive seem a lot longer than it was. Angela Drake wants to come home with me. I should be as happy as I am nervous. But I’m more confused than anything else.

The silence was broken when they pulled up to the low three-story brick building (which was only low in contrast to the skyscrapers in the distance). “This is nice.”

“It’s not home, but it’s much,” he replied, hoping for a smile. Alas. Thwarted hope. Sorry, Olivia Goldsmith. Your wit was not up to the task. Although it might have been my delivery.

He parked in his spot, got out, pulled the backpack full of leftovers and dirty dishes from the back seat, and walked her across the street and up the front walk.

The weight of the pack felt like a reproach. So you scrubbed a gravestone and indulged in roast beef sandwiches and Caprese salad. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? That everything would be fixed—for both of you—and you would date and fall the rest of the way in love and live happily ever after?

No. Not for one moment. He had never fooled himself that anything about Angela Drake would be easy. But he wasn’t in it for easy, and it had been a wonderful day. Not just a wonderful day with Angela, a wonderful day in his life.

Up to a point.

And though he was furious with Inmate #26166, he thought his time was better spent trying to help Angela calm down after she threw up. He had a hunch that her male relatives would attend to that other matter, regardless.

When they got inside he saw her looking around appreciatively and decided to get a crucial detail out of the way. “I inherited this,” he explained. “My grandmother left it to my brother and me. By the time she passed away, it was just me.”

“Okay.” She was examining the books in the shelves to the left of the fireplace. “Gorey fan, hmm?”

“Yes. Also Wilkin, Hiaasen, McNair, Kinney, Iggulden, Miller, Gaiman, and Branch.”

“Eclectic,” she murmured, examining Susan Branch’s homey, watercolor-illustrated Vineyard Seasons shelved beside Frank Miller’s Sin City.

“Yes. And, again, I inherited this place. I wanted to be up front about it.”

She gave him an odd look, and he was amazed at how quickly he’d blown it: within twenty seconds of putting his key in the lock. A new record.

“The reason I’m telling you this—”

“Twice.” She softened that with a gentle, “You don’t have to explain.”

“—is because the last woman I went out with used real-estate listings to select romantic partners.”

That got her attention, and even better, the odd expression morphed to interest. “I guess that’s my cue to say ‘no way’ but . . . y’know. Chicago real estate.”

“Remarkably, that is exactly how she explained it to me,” he replied. “Once I realized why she asked me out, I told her I inherited this place. I didn’t earn it. Didn’t buy it. I’m a cop. I’ve always been a cop.” I’m not rich, in other words.

“She dumped you.”

“Unfortunately not. She told me that inheriting it wasn’t a deal breaker, because ‘no matter how you got it, it’s still a terrific piece of real estate, we should go out some more.’ Quote unquote. So I ended up dump—uh, breaking it off.”

She brought up a hand to cover her grin. “Jeez. I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“That’s Chicago,” he deadpanned, because Richard Gere in Chicago had been a tap-dancing demigod. He loathed all musicals save that one.

He led her through the short hallway and the two steps down into the sunken living room. His furniture consisted primarily of classic dark wood and muted colors: a tan love seat, a deep brown couch, dark patterned throw rugs, lots more bookshelves. The reddish-brown hardwood floors glowed. He had an unnatural fondness for waxing them: It was tedious and he could shut off his brain while sinking into the task. It was much like meditating.

“Something to drink?”

“Please.”

“White wine? Red? Water? Tea?”

“Water is fine.”

She followed him into the kitchen, which was small and sleek with dark wooden cupboards and black appliances, and took a seat at the butcher’s block.

“Angela, you don’t have to eschew wine because I can’t drink with my medication.”

“I don’t think I was ‘eschewing’ anything. And you can, but . . . you probably shouldn’t.”

He laughed. “Excellent point. But please, have whatever you like, truly.”

“Water really is fine, sparkling if you have it.”

“Oh, I’ve always got some of that on hand. I have an unfortunate addiction to chocolate egg creams.”

“I’ve got no idea what those are.”

“Too bad, because I am sworn to guard the family recipe—also from my grandmother—for life. But they’re wonderful, trust me.” He pulled out a small bottle of Perrier, made use of the ice dispenser in his fridge, and poured her a cold glass. She drained it right away—stress was a notorious dehydrator—and he promptly refilled it.

“So.” He paused. He waited for his brain to spit out the right thing to say, something that would fix everything and make her smile and reassure her that her uncle might not give a shit, but she was surrounded by people who cared about her. Think of something. Anything. An affirmation of life. A knock-knock joke. Something.

Drawing a blank here, his brain replied. Sorry, old friend.

He cleared his throat. “So. About what—”

But she was already shaking her head. “Nope.”

He took the cue and backed off. “As you like.” But now what?

Angela, thank God, seemed to know. Of the two of them, she was definitely the least jittery. And the most dehydrated. She drank half her second glass, got off of the stool, and walked to the fridge, where he’d been stuck as he begged his brain to cooperate.

“Tell me to stop,” she said, “and I will.”

Then she kissed him.