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“We’ve got a couple hours before dinner. I made reservations for six at the hotel restaurant. They’ve got a five-star Michelin chef. I thought we’d take a walk around town after we unpack, since I didn’t really have time after I first got here.”

“I could use a walk,” she said, the tension easing from her shoulders.

He wasn’t trying to get in her pants, but since his cologne and his nearness were starting to do funny things to her tummy, it was best they leave and stay out of this suite as long as possible.

They turned to their respective luggage, deciding who would get which closet and which set of drawers.

Santino had brought a suit, she saw with a raised eyebrow.

She guessed that meant they’d have at least one dinner worthy of formal attire.

Unfortunately, once Scott was out of the picture, she’d left the nice dress she’d planned to wear at home, thinking she’d eat out casually at the venues and leave the fine dining to the royal couple.

“All you brought were sundresses and shorts?” Santino asked, appearing at her left shoulder. She whirled, her hand flying up to her throat to keep his warm breath off that damned spot that kept causing so much trouble.

“What’s wrong with this? It’s nice enough for dinner,” she said, touching the hot pink dress she currently wore.

“That’s nice for tonight for sure. But we’ve gotta get fancier, baby.

We might end up at a nice party or two.” Santino smiled down into her face, his beautiful eyes taking in her features.

She realized how close they were, and she abruptly stepped further back before that smile could make her tummy flip even more.

“Anyway, I’m finished with my stuff. Whenever you’re ready. ”

In a rush to get them away from that big, luxurious-looking bed as quickly as possible, Vanessa declared, “I’m done. Let’s go.”

She’d never been to Montreal before, but she’d studied the city extensively when she was planning the trip several months ago.

Fortunately, the gold sandals she wore were comfortable enough for walking.

They set off in no particular direction, passing throngs of people out enjoying the afternoon.

As before, music drifted in and out of hearing from the open-air performances.

It was getting a little cooler as the humidity dropped but not so cool that she regretted not bringing a sweater. It was a perfect day, weather-wise.

Santino didn’t make a move to hold her hand, something he used to do everywhere they went.

She would have resisted if he had. He also didn’t talk.

The expression on his face was thoughtful.

He seemed different somehow than when they’d been together.

There was a deeper stillness to him. Not worse, not better. Just different.

At twenty-eight, he was only a year younger than she’d been when they first met. A seven-year difference had felt so much bigger back then. Maybe what she was seeing now was maturity, life experience. Maybe if they’d both been older when they met, things would have turned out differently.

Before she could trick herself into thinking that somehow meant he was right and they belonged together, she pushed the thought away. His maturity, growth, whatever it was, didn’t erase their history. Coulda woulda shoulda didn’t mean shit could be different now.

“That place looks cool,” he remarked, breaking into her reverie.

They were passing a row of quaint shops on a cobble-stoned street.

One of them was on a corner. The wall on the other side of the shop entrance had a huge mural of a Native American couple, a man wearing a cap with feathers sprouting from the top and a smiling woman with a beaded cloth headband that reminded her of a crown.

Painted above them in graffiti lettering were the words “Kanien'kehá:ka Love.”

There were dreamcatchers and pearl inlay shells with sage bundles lining the windowsill. Between their expected companions and Santino himself, she might need three bundles of that sage to get through this fucking week.

“Let’s go in,” Santino suggested.

The interior of the shop was as cool as the outside mural.

Yes, there were the ubiquitous dreamcatchers that were a tourists’ delight but there was also silver and turquoise jewelry, racks with colorful wool blankets in geometric designs, and baskets full of loose stones, each with a sign explaining the medicinal or spiritual benefits of the rocks.

Ugh. Time to salivate and somehow keep those heavy Canadian loonies and toonies in her change purse. Lightly, she touched rocks of various colors, marveling at their shapes and textures, some rough, some smooth as glass.

But she resisted picking any of them up and crossed the room.

While she was checking out the bookcase full of paperbacks and picture books featuring First Nations authors, Santino had greeted the shopkeeper who’d emerged from the back, a short, roundish, nut-brown woman with friendly dark eyes and a big smile.

Vanessa listened in as she drew closer, still examining the velvety skirts hanging on a clothing rack next to an array of ribbon shirts. Santino had apparently already given the woman his life story and was asking questions.

“…. Yes , Kanien'kehá:ka is Mohawk. The feathered hat on the mural is a gustoweh . We didn’t have headdresses. That’s a Plains thing,” she said with a laugh. “I’m from Kahnawake, which is the closest reserve. Quebec was originally Haudenosaunee territory.”

Santino tried his hand at pronouncing the word but didn’t quite get it right. The lady was cool about it.

“It is a long word. We’re usually known as Iroquois. My husband is Mohawk from Akwesasne, which is half and half this side and the US side. You know, the Mexican Americans always have this joke that they didn’t cross the border, the border crossed them? Same with us.”

Santino laughed with her. “I’ve heard that phrase. This is a great store. How long you been in business?”

They moved on as the woman winked at Vanessa and showed him more of their wares, including a basket of purple beads on a strand with a sign marking them as “wampum” and another basket full of feathers with white quills.

Santino seemed particularly interested in those and, he picked one up as though he intended to buy it.

He wandered back over to where she was, noting the books in her hands.

He grinned, shaking his head. “I should’ve guessed you’d be parked over in front of the books. Any good ones?”

“Too many,” she said ruefully. She gave herself a little shake. “Ugh, no more books, Vanessa. I’ve got too many and I don’t even have the time to read half of them.”

“The first step in getting over a problem is admitting you have one,” he said wisely, and she gave him a dirty look. “But get ‘em anyway. And those rocks you were checking out.”

“I have too many already.”

He made a scoffing noise and took the stack out of her hands to carry it to the counter, where his new friend was watching with a grin.

Before she could insist she didn’t need anything, Santino pulled out his card and stacked them next to the register along with the feather and several of the stones she’d been lusting over, including the strings of wampum.

She wondered what he had planned for that feather, and her core involuntarily squeezed.

Vanessa grabbed a shell and one of those sage bundles for good measure and set them down too.

“What’s the sage for?” he asked.

“For all of this ,” she said, waving her hand over him in a circle.

The lady laughed. “Oh yeah. I’ve got a lot of it at home, too, but my hubby hasn’t disappeared yet, so it might not be that good. How long have you been married?”

Vanessa cracked a smile. “We’re actually divorced. But those three years felt like a long time.”

Santino pursed his lips and shook his head, suddenly looking less jovial. The lady laughed at his expression, rang them up, and handed Santino the cotton bag that was heavy with his purchases.

“You’re carrying that,” Vanessa said once they said goodbye to the woman and headed outside into the late afternoon.

“I know,” he said. They walked without speaking for a little bit, but it was anything but silent as the strains of jazz and hip hop fused together skipped past them.

Santino was the one to break their personal bubble of quiet.

“Okay, new rule. Stop telling people we’re divorced.

We’re still married. I’ve still got my ring on.

” He held it up to show her the gold band.

“Where’s yours? Don’t tell me you sold it as a ‘fuck you’ to me. ”

He only seemed half-kidding about that. “No, I have it at home. It’s good jewelry. I was going to pawn it, but I thought, why not keep it ‘cause it’s pretty? That’s all,” she retorted.

“Regardless, we’re still married. And your last name is still Donahue.

I don’t care if you go by Watson for work, but everywhere else, you’re a Donahue.

” Santino’s lips were set in a determined line.

After they’d lapsed into another awkward pause, he asked, “Was it really that bad being married to me? I know we had our squabbles, but was it really more bad than good for you?”

That one question shocked her more than anything that had happened so far that day. Santino had never been the introspective type before. She glanced at his profile. He was serious.

“Are you asking because of my joke back there?” When he nodded, she expelled a breath. “Here we go. Fight number one.”