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  Cal. Cal was going to win that damn bet. He always won, the bastard. “I’ll call her,” David said. “We’ll have lunch. I’ll play it by ear.”

  “Don’t screw this up, David,” Cynthie said. “My life is riding on it. My career is riding on it. I need that wedding picture on my book cover!’

  “You know—” David began, but Cynthie had already hung up. “Wonderful,” he said, and began to dial Min.

  Min was sitting at her desk, trying to be sensible, when the phone rang. Cal, she thought, and then kicked herself. They had a good sensible plan that would prevent either one of them from getting hurt, they were logical, rational people, so that certainly wasn’t him calling. The phone rang again, and she picked it up and said, “Minerva Dobbs,” and waited for Cal to say, “Hi, Minnie, how’s the cat?”

  “Min,” David said. “Have lunch with me. We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t,” Min said, trying hard not to be disappointed. “But I do need lunch. We can go Dutch.”

  “No, I’ll pay” David said. “I mean, I’d like to pay.”

  “Sure, fine,” Min said, confused.

  “I’ll meet you at Serafino’s at noon then?” David said.

  “Is that the place where the chef is trying to make a statement with food?”

  “It’s the hottest place in town,” David said.

  “This should be good,” Min said and hung up, chalking the whole thing up to the general weirdness of her life lately.

  When she got to the restaurant, David was waiting. He stood and smiled when he saw her, and then he stared. Min looked down and realized he was focusing on the blue gauze top beneath her gray-checked jacket.

  “You look wonderful,” he said.

  “I’m evolving,” Min said, sitting down at the inlaid table. “I’m also starving. What’s good here?” She looked around at the silver and blue. “Besides the decorating.”

  “I already ordered,” David said. “I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

  “Thoughtful of you.” Min called the waiter back and changed her order to salad and chicken marsala. Might as well see what Emilio’s competition was doing.

  “I think I made a mistake,” David said, when the waiter had placed his bowl of chilled chestnut watercress soup in front of him.

  “I think so, too,” Min said, looking at the beautifully garnished sludge in his bowl. “You’re going to hate that soup. There’s a hot dog vendor outside. Maybe we should—”

  “Not the order.” David took a deep breath and smiled. “Min, I want you back.”

  Min stopped fishing overly artistic vegetable flourishes out of her salad. “What?”

  “I was hasty,” David said, and went on while Min thought, The bet. That damn bet. You’re afraid you’re going to lose the bet.

  She sat back and considered the situation as David rambled on. Somehow, David had gotten the idea she was going to sleep with Cal. Now where would that have come from? The thought that it might be Cal gloating to him made her ill for a moment, but then common sense came back. Cal wasn’t a gloater. Also, he wasn’t dumb, and it would take somebody really dumb to tip off an opponent that he was about to lose. And anyway, Cal wouldn’t.

  “Are you listening to me?” David said.

  “No,” Min said. “Why are you doing this?”

  “That’s what I was just telling you—”

  “No,” Min said, “you were telling me about you. You were hasty, you were thoughtless, you were stupid—”

  “I didn’t say stupid,” David said, sounding testy.

  “Where am I in all of this?” Min said.

  “In my life, I hope,” David said, and he sounded so sincere, Min was taken aback. “I asked you out in the beginning because I thought you’d make a good wife, and I still think that, but what I missed was how . . .” He stopped and took her hand and Min let him, just to see what would happen next. “ . . . how sweet you are.”

  “No, I’m not,” Min said, trying to take her hand back.

  “And how . . .” He looked at her gauze blouse. “ . . . sexy you are. You’ve changed.”

  Min yanked her hand back. “David, this is buyer’s remorse, or the opposite of buyer’s remorse. If you got me back, you’d dump me again. Go date one of those skinny women you like to look at.”

  David started to say something but stopped as the waiter brought his veal whatever and her chicken marsala. Min sliced into the chicken and tasted it. “Bacon. And tomato. What kind of fool puts bacon and tomato in chicken marsala?”

  “Min . . .”

  “You can even see the bacon pieces in the sauce. Emilio would spit.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously,” David said.

  “I know,” Min said, putting down her fork. “Honest to God, what were they thinking!”

  “What I’m trying to tell you,” David said, “is that I think we should date again.”

  “No, you don’t,” Min said. “You’re panicking because I’m dating somebody else. Taste your soup.”

  “I’m not—”

  “The soup,” Min said.

  David tasted the soup and made a face. “What the hell?”

  “I told you.” Min pushed her plate away. “Never go anyplace the chef is trying to talk with food. You’ll end up paying for his ego. Sort of like dating.” She picked up her purse. “I’m sorry, David, but we have no future. We’re not even going to finish this lunch, although I do appreciate you paying for it. Thank you.”

  “Where are you going?” David said, outraged as she stood up.

  “To get a hot dog,” Min said. “I think that vendor had brats.”

  Emilio called Cal on Tuesday night at six. “Min ordered takeout again,” he said. “You taking it to her?”

  “Yes,” Cal said automatically and then remembered they weren’t seeing each other. “No.” Which didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. “Yes.” Which was a huge rationalization. “No.”

  “Uh huh,” Emilio said. “So that’s a no?”

  On the other hand, he had to eat. And he should thank her for taking care of him on Saturday. And he wanted to see her. “No,” Cal said. “That’s a yes. I’ll take it to her.”

  Chapter Eight

  Min answered the door in her godawful sweats again, no makeup and her curly hair going every which way. She looked wonderful. “Hi,” she said, sounding surprised, and then she grinned. “Emilio shanghaied you, huh?”

  “He said you were starving,” Cal said, smiling back in spite of himself. “You took me to the ER. You put a glass of water by my bed. I owe you.”

  “That’s lame,” she said, but she stood back and he walked in, glad to see her ugly cat staring one-eyed at him from the back of her ugly couch.

  “I can’t believe you still have that cat,” Cal said, unpacking the bag onto the table. “What did you name it?”

  “I can’t believe you brought me that cat,” Min said, heading for her kitchen alcove. “And I haven’t named it anything yet. We’re still trying to decide if we want to make a commitment. Although he does come home every night and sleep with me.”

  “Smart cat,” Cal said.

  “I was thinking about trying to make him an indoor cat because cats live longer if they’re kept indoors, but he’s a guy, so I’m assuming he’d hate being tied down.”

  “Depends on what you tied him to,” Cal said, thinking of her brass bed.

  Min brought plates to the table. “You know, if you’d brought me a snow globe I could understand, but a cat?”

  “You said you didn’t want a snow globe.”

  “I don’t,” Min said. “Well, I want my grandma’s Mickey and Minnie globe back. Bring my grandma’s back to me, and I’ll love you until the end of time. Bring me another cat, I’m going to rethink the whole chicken marsala thing.”

  “Speaking of which,” Cal said, “what happened this time?”

  Min groaned and went back to the alcove and Cal followed her, feeling right at home. �
�It doesn’t look bad,” he said when he saw her latest effort. “It just doesn’t look like chicken marsala.”

  “I was trying to avoid the olive oil and butter,” Min said, and then held up her hand before he could speak. “I know, I know, I’m learning my lesson. I used chicken broth instead. It smells good but it doesn’t look right.”

  “That would be because olive oil and chicken broth are not the same thing,” Cal said. “You’re all right. Just make a roux to thicken the broth and serve it over fettuccine.”

  “A roux,” Min said.

  “Melted butter and flour,” Cal said. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance in hell you have butter.”

  “Bonnie might,” Min said. “I don’t have fettuccine or flour, either. I’ll go borrow them from her.”

  “Do you have a big pot for the noodles and a colander?” Cal said, looking around the spare alcove. She’s got to find a better place.

  “In the basement,” Min said.

  “That’s convenient. Where’s the lid?”

  “Lid?” Min said.

  “Something that will keep the cat from going headfirst into this pan while we’re down in the basement?”

  “We’re going down to the basement?”

  “Do you want to learn to cook, Minnie?” he said with more affection than he’d intended.

  Min blinked. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Then you’ll need pots and pans,” Cal said.

  They went to the basement, and Cal picked out one of the half-dozen unmarked boxes at random and opened it with his pocketknife. Min unwrapped the first package in the box: her grandmother’s green colander. “This is the box,” she said as she dropped the colander back in the box. “You went right to it. You’re good.”

  “Hell, yes.” Cal grinned at her and picked up the box. “Move it, Minnie, and don’t forget to stop for butter, flour, and pasta.”

  Teaching Min how to make a roux should have been pretty innocuous, but the kitchenette was tiny, and she was close, and her curls smelled like lavender, and there wasn’t anything about her that wasn’t round, and there was that brass bed with a satin comforter just a room away, so after he’d explained the basics of roux, Cal retreated to unpack the box.

  The cat was sitting in it. “Out,” he said, and it switched eyes on him, lolling among the lumpy packages. He reached in and picked it up and put it on the floor, and it rubbed up against his leg, purring. “Very affectionate cat,” he told Min.

  “I know, I love the damn thing,” Min said. “He curls up beside me every night and purrs along to Elvis. He’s smart, too. He’s learned how to hit the stereo button so he can play Elvis without me.”

  Cal pulled out the first package and unwrapped a thick, clear glass, angular bowl that looked as though it might have a specific function. “What’s this?”

  Min looked back. “It’s an egg-beater bowl. There should be a metal lid for it with a beater in it.”

  Cal dug around the box until he found it. The lid sat on the bowl with the crank for the beaters above it, and the beaters below. “That’s pretty neat,” he said, and picked up the next wrapped package, a heavy one which turned out to be nested mixing bowls, thick white china with a blue stripe.

  “Oh,” Min said, “I remember those, my grandma used to make cookies in the big one. That was back when I ate cookies.”

  “The good old days.” Cal picked up the next package. It was heavy and round and as he unwrapped it, he began to realize what it was. When he pulled the last of the paper away, he wasn’t that surprised to see a snow globe with Mickey inside, dipping Minnie in her pink dress. But he was appalled.

  “So, how long does this cook?” Min said. “I mean, before the flour loses the raw flavor? Cal?” She looked back at him. “What’s wrong?”

  He held up the snow globe, and she froze over the chicken pan.

  It was heavy in his hand, heavier than a snow globe should be. He tipped it and saw the key on the bottom. “Music box?” he said to her and she nodded. “What’s it play?”

  “It Had to Be You,’ “ she said, faintly.

  “Of course.” Cal looked at Mickey and Minnie, trapped forever in the globe. Bring my grandma’s snow globe back to me and I’ll love you until the end of time.

  “I’ve been looking for that for fifteen years,” Min said, her voice flat. “And then you go right to it. How do you do that?”

  “It’s not me.” Cal put it down on the counter.

  “You didn’t make a deal with the devil, did you?” Min said, staring at it.

  “What?”

  “You know, some kind of bargain where everything you did would be perfect so that every woman you met would be unable to resist you, only you forgot to mention that should work only with women you wanted, and now we’re stuck in this loop with each other?”

  Cal took a deep breath. “Okay, leaving aside the fact that you think the devil exists and is making deals, I’m a little upset that you think I’d be hanging out with him.”

  “Well, hell, Cal, you’re practically his first cousin,” Min said. “You’re tall, you’re dark, you’re handsome, you’re charming, you wear suits, you never sweat, and you always show up with whatever I’m needing at the moment. That snow globe has been lost for fifteen years. I keep getting this feeling that if I say yes to you, I’ll go straight to hell.”

  Cal nodded. Why did I come back here? “Okay. You know, I’m not hungry anymore. I think I’ll be going.”

  “That might be good,” Min said, staring at the snow globe.

  He picked up his jacket and headed for the door and then paused as he opened it. “Have a—” he started to say and then stopped.

  “Nice life?” Min said, still staring at the globe.

  He shook his head. “It just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he said, and went down the stairs.

  When he was gone, Min walked over to the snow globe and wound it. It began to tinkle the first bars of “It Had to Be You,” and she looked into it, and tried to get her breath back. The dome was heavy and perfect, sitting atop a black art deco base, and inside silver glitter and tiny silver stars swirled as Minnie beamed out at her, happy to be in Mickey’s arms, and Mickey beamed at Minnie.

  Maybe that’s what I loved, she thought. That she was so happy and he thought she was wonderful. Plus there was that swirling pink dress Minnie was wearing and the great pink shoes to match. Well, the shoes were a little plain. Min tipped the globe to see, and the glitter and stars swirled again as the song slowed down and ran out.

  It’s not me, Cal had said, but it was him. She’d been going along, perfectly happy, and then he’d walked into the bar and shaken up her life and suddenly it was all glitter and stars everywhere. And every time things calmed down, every time she got things back to normal, he came back and shook—

  Something furry nudged her leg and she jumped. The cat meowed at her and she picked him up and thought about the situation logically. Of course it wasn’t him. Coincidences happened all the time. That was life. As long as nothing else happened . . .

  “We’ll just stay away from him,” she told the cat. “We won’t go to The Long Shot unless we know he won’t be there, and this will all pass and we’ll be normal again. No more goddamn glitter.”

  The cat switched eyes again, and Min realized that talking to an animal using “we” was probably not normal, either. “Chicken?” she said to the cat, and gave up on logic to eat dinner.

  On Wednesday, Liza was at the bar trying to signal Shanna when Cynthie sat down next to her and smiled at her. “Hi. Where’s your friend?”

  “She said she had to stay home with her cat,” Liza said, “but I think she’s avoiding Cal.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Cynthie said. “The best way to resist him is to stay away from him.” She looked around the bar. “Do you see him?”

  “No,” Liza said. “Tony said he’s working late. Why?”

  “Because if she’s not here, he should be working on you.”


  “Me?” Liza said, appalled. “She’s gone so he’s going to pick me up?”

  “No,” Cynthie said. “It’s important to the health of a relationship that her friends and family approve of him. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to charm you yet.”

  “He’s not dumb,” Liza said. “And we’re not buddies.”

  “Well, your friend is doing the right thing by avoiding him,” Cynthie said. “I don’t think he’s going to get to her at all.”

  “He got to you, though, huh?” Liza said.

  Cynthie lifted her chin. “I . . .”

  Liza waited.

  “Yes,” Cynthie said. “He got to me.”

  “Rat bastard,” Liza said.

  “No, he’s not,” Cynthie said. “He just—”

  “Needs approval from women because of Mommie Dearest,” Liza said. “You know, with all you know about him, you could write a book.”

  Cynthie sipped her drink.

  “Ah,” Liza said. “You are writing a book.”

  “Yes,” Cynthie said. “But not about . . . well, not entirely about . . .”

  “Boy,” Liza said. “So when he left, you lost a lover and a research subject. I don’t understand this. You’re an expert in this relationship stuff and he still got to you?”

  Cynthie bit her lip. “What you know logically doesn’t help if you’re feeling something emotionally.”

  The pain on her face was real, and Liza put her hand on Cynthie’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know,” Cynthie said, sticking her chin out, “it’s not a problem. There are people with much worse problems than mine.”

  “Doesn’t make yours any more fun to bear,” Liza said.

  “No,” Cynthie said. “But it does help with the selfpity.” She shoved her glass away. “If I’ve made Cal seem like a bad guy—”

  “You haven’t,” Liza said. “In fact, I think you have a pretty rosy view of him.”

  “No,” Cynthie said. “He’s a good—”

  “I don’t care. I just want him to stay away from Min.”

  “Me, too,” Cynthie said.

  She finished her drink and left, and Shanna came down the bar and said, “Refill?”