Page 7 of First Date: Divorce (Wyoming Marriage Association #1)

TUESDAY

K.D. did not get her full exploring or shopping done first thing, because Pauline had other ideas of how to start the day. She served up coffee, juice, and drill sergeant.

Actually, Eric did the coffee and juice. Also fluffy scrambled eggs and perfectly toasted bagels.

Drill sergeant? That was all Pauline.

But K.D. didn’t know that was ahead when she showered and dressed before opening the door to the hall, carrying the papers she’d studied last night.

The door to the room she’d guessed as Eric’s bedroom was closed. The door to the hall bath, however, was open.

From the hall, she saw the towels were not dropped to the white tile floor, but the hanging job would never pass muster with a neat freak. Not that she was one. Not really.

She stepped into the bathroom and adjusted a towel so it wouldn’t slide off the bar.

The towels were the same dark green as pillows on a couch she’d spotted through an archway last night. The shower curtain was green with abstract sweeps of white and cream. She twitched it back, spotting a grocery store shampoo, soap, a washcloth.

A smooth counter as white as the floor surrounded the sink.

Not vinyl, she knew that, but didn’t know what it was.

She flipped open the medicine cabinet above the sink.

Not the regulation, narrow kind her matchbox apartment offered.

But generous in width and depth, with three panels of mirrors.

The two on either side could adjust for an all-around view, though he had them flat.

A razor, shaving cream. She mentally catalogued the basic collection of headache pills, a couple over-the-counter packets for allergies, bandages.

A Chicago Cubs mug with a broken-off handle held a hairbrush and combs on the bottom shelf.

She closed the cabinet door, catching a glimpse in the mirror of the form at the doorway.

Without turning, she said, “How often has Pauline told you that you need a new toothbrush.”

He stepped across the threshold and leaned against the doorframe. “Would you believe me if I said she hasn’t?”

She twisted her neck to look up at him. “No.”

“Four times. Most recently yesterday. By the way, you missed this.” He stepped into the room. It wasn’t a bad size for a bathroom, but it suddenly seemed the only way for two people to navigate it was to stick close to each other.

Reaching in front of her, he caught the narrow front panel of the cabinet directly below the sink and tilted it back, revealing a triangular space that held nail clippers, and small scissors.

“A secret drawer, huh?”

“A wife should know all a husband’s secrets.”

A flash crossed her brain, too quick to be identified. Then she saw something in his eyes that hadn’t originated with his brain.

Uh-oh.

And a second uh-oh, because maybe her flash hadn’t originated in her brain, either.

“Before secrets, the basics. So, first, I need to know your house.” She breezed past him to the hall.

“Make yourself at home,” he invited with a wry smile. “My house is your house.”

“Not totally, since you moved here after the separation. I can get away with some lack of knowledge because I’ve never lived in the house. But you’ll have done some things the same here as you did where we lived together. Where did we live together — apartment or house?”

“Condo. Modern. Your choice, not mine.”

She glanced at the now-open bedroom door, zeroing in on the broad bed. Made, but not obsessively.

A closer look could wait. Preferably when he wasn’t around.

She started down the stairs with him behind her. “So you rebounded to a place that would be all your taste. That could indicate you’d given up on repairing the marriage. You’d have to sell to move back to Chicago.”

“You’d have to move here. Not only because I’ve poured a good amount of my life’s blood into this place — literally.

I’ve also opened a practice here. Not starting all over — again — by going back to Chicago.

Besides, I like the pace here. Pauline’s office is what used to be the front parlor.

” Open pocket doors opposite the stairway allowed a view of a rigorously neat desk with two guest chairs in front of it, and a settee in the window behind it.

Across from the door, a large armoire sat near a fireplace.

“Pauline said she got the front room because clients see it first, and I’m too messy.

I think she wanted the fireplace and bay window. ”

“Who can blame her?”

“For my humble office,” he gestured for her to continue to the left through Pauline’s office to another open doorway with pocket doors, “we have to repair to the rear parlor.”

It was smaller. And messier. But it had great built-in bookcases flanking a side window.

“You don’t look too abused,” she said.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

He ushered her out of the room by a side door and down a short hallway that opened into the large living room that … glowed. Not gaudy like neon, but like a lit fireplace in an otherwise dark room. Curtains were drawn back from a series of windows occupying both angles of a corner.

She walked to the windows as if she had no power to do otherwise.

A deck wrapped around the outside, with cushioned lounge chairs and potted plants. Red. Petunias? No, something else familiar. Geraniums.

Light streaming in from those windows created part of the glow, but not all of it.

It was what the room did with the light.

Light angled through the windows, like dusty gold. The unadorned woods absorbed it and threw it back, the soft cream of the pair of couches reflected it, the deep green pillows mellowed it.

“This used to be the dining room.”

He didn’t need to identify it as his living room. That was obvious from the easy comfort of couches, chairs, tables, and bookcases.

She turned from the windows with real reluctance. Then she saw what anyone sitting on the opposite couch would see.

A painting as large as the new TV her sergeant had exulted over. Greens and golds and gray, with impact slashes of rusts and black.

She imagined him on that couch. His back to the night-darkened windows, reading a book by the swing arm lamp beside it, looking up to that painting…

“You kept that in your divorce settlement?” She didn’t know why she asked that.

“No.”

His tone said there was more to that answer than two letters. It also said badgering him wouldn’t get the answer. Sometimes law enforcement required patience. Hammering made suspects harder, like tempered steel.

Although Eric Larkin didn’t qualify as a suspect … precisely.

“Want breakfast?” he said. “I make great scrambled eggs.”

“I’d comment on your lack of modesty, but since my breakfast skills consist of opening a carton of yogurt, I don’t want to annoy the cook.”

“Good decision. Right this way.” The living area opened into an expanded and renovated kitchen. “Have a seat.” Eric gestured to a row of stools at an island.

He pulled out eggs, bagels, butter, and other ingredients, setting to work with confidence.

“Is this what’s known as a chef’s kitchen?” she asked.

“No idea. Pauline was in charge of what had to be in this kitchen. I think hers downstairs is considered even better. As long as the kitchen has the necessities for scrambled eggs and toasting bagels, I’m good.

The reason I’m so good at scrambled eggs is it’s the only thing I cook.

That’s the trick. Don’t spread your skills too thin. ”

“Ah. That makes sense. Did you hire out the remodeling?”

“No way. Not all of it anyway. Experts did the plumbing, backstopped me on electrical. But when I moved here, I wanted someplace I could dig into, make my own.”

“Moved from Chicago,” she said. “I’ve heard it’s a great city.”

Almost as if he’d heard her remembered amusement at using a similar line with Cully and Tal, he turned toward her.

But he couldn’t have picked that up in her flat tone.

“It is.”

Then why leave? He’d divorced, sure but lots of divorced people stayed in the same city, especially one as large as Chicago. Why come to Wyoming?

“Fresh start,” he said, as if he’d heard her question. He handed her a plate of toasted bagels, the butter dish, and a kitchen knife. She started buttering. “Loved the city. Didn’t like the high-rise. Or…”

“Or?” The question came as a reflex. No need to push this. His real divorce did not factor into their fictional history, except for any bits and pieces they chose to keep for the reality Tal and Cully touted.

If he sidestepped, she’d drop—

“The homelife. Or lack thereof,” he said.

She blinked, surprised at his openness.

“The condo wasn’t my style. It was what Hilary wanted.”

Although his ex and their marriage weren’t a direct part of their cover story, knowing about it could add to her understanding of him, which should help their role-playing.

Whether K.D. would have asked about it became moot in the next breath, when Pauline arrived.

“Give me your questionnaires. I’ll copy them, and we’ll get started. And don’t drink too much coffee, Eric.”

“Good morning to you, too, Pauline,” he said with a glint in his eyes, dishing up eggs, including a third plate for her.

“You don’t have time for a good morning,” his redoubtable assistant replied. “You’ll run out of time before you know it and regret not using every minute. Eat those eggs fast.”