"Um, no."

"Because I heard he was looking for one."

She set the foil-wrapped offering on the counter. Big blue eyes skimmed over the stainless-steel appliances and the well-appointed family room. An avaricious gleam lit them.

"Do you have any idea how long he's going to be on the phone?"

"No."

The blonde looked down at her Rolex and pouted prettily; a look Brooke suspected she used to good effect and as often as possible. Brooke was tempted to warn her that if she kept it up she'd need those collagen injections more frequently.

The woman sighed in disappointment. "Tell him that Monica stopped by," she instructed in a tone that indicated that although Brooke might not be the housekeeper, she had 'employee' written all over her. "And that I'll try him again later." Without waiting for a response, she turned with a swirl of her tennis skirt and showed herself out.

Brooke, used to being summarily dismissed, jotted a few more notes on her pad and was debating whether to simply leave a note and go when Bruce appeared.

"Sorry," he said. His hair stood up on end as if he'd been running his hand through it. His smile was a bit crooked. "I just closed on a commercial building in Smyrna and there were a few details that needed to be clarified."

"No problem." Her eyes met his. There was something endearing about his rumpledness. "Oh, Monica came by to see you. She left a ca.s.serole." She watched him closely interested to see his reaction.

"Ah," he said, giving nothing away. "We didn't know many of our neighbors before Chloe got sick. But the neighborhood caring committee set up food delivery in those last months. Some of them still bring food." He opened the freezer. Rows of disposable ca.s.seroles like the one Monica had delivered were packed tightly inside. "I haven't had the heart to tell them that I've always been the primary cook in the family. They seem so eager to feed us."

That wasn't the only thing Monica was eager about.

"Truthfully, neither of us have been able to face a ca.s.serole since Chloe died. I'm afraid to throw them out in case someone sees them in the garbage." There was the smile again. "I'd be happy to send some home with you if you think the girls would like them."

"Oh." Brooke could just imagine Monica's reaction if she ever found out that the "help" had gone home with the cheeseburger ca.s.serole meant to win over the handsome widower. "Actually, that would be great. I'm a pretty utilitarian cook-you know, an a.s.sembler of ingredients-it would be nice to have a meal ready to pop in the oven. And a man who can cook? I think that belongs in the fantasy category for most women."

"Well, a little fantasy never hurt anyone." He smiled. "In fact, why don't you let me cook you a meal one night?" He must have seen her confusion because he added, "I was thinking something elegant. You know, adult. Just for the two of us."

"Oh." Surprise and pleasure sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She practically felt them turning scarlet, which was not a good look for any redhead. "I don't know. I haven't really been . . ." She stopped, horrified that she'd been about to tell him that she hadn't had a date-or even a real conversation with a man-since Zachary walked out on them.

"If you'd rather, we can make it a family dinner," he said. "Maybe next Sat.u.r.day?"

"Oh." Relief and disappointment coursed through her. "Sure. That would be great. Maybe I can bring a poster board and some magazines and Marissa and Ava can work on their room collages." She flushed, afraid that he'd think she was planning to bill him. Should she tell him that wasn't what she'd meant? But how exactly would she do that?

"That sounds perfect," he said wiping out her worry with the warmth of his smile. "Shall we plan on six o'clock?"

She stammered her agreement and let him walk her to the door. It was only after she'd settled the two ca.s.seroles he'd insisted she take on the floor of the Volvo and backed out of his driveway that she realized that Bruce Dalton-the man who could have, and possibly had had the perfect Monica-had offered to cook for her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING-OR IN CLAIRE'S CASE not writing-on a full-time basis was that the work never went away. Even on a beautiful Sat.u.r.day like this one, it sat there waiting for you, haunting you, far too insistent to ignore. She knew writers who, like Nora, met a page count each writing day and then mentally clocked out until the next. Perhaps if she were being at all productive, she, too, might learn to do that. At the moment no matter what she was doing or where she went, she was hyperaware that she had not yet produced pages that she could send to her agent. But no matter how insistently her computer's blank screen haunted her or how much of the dining room table she littered with scribbled thoughts and notes, she couldn't fool herself into believing she was actually doing something. You could force a writer's b.u.t.t into a chair, but you couldn't make her think.

Claire stared out the French doors of her apartment trying to understand how her greatest escape had become the thing she most wanted to escape from. The balcony beckoned, but she'd already spent close to an hour out there this morning catching up her journal and it was easy to get distracted outside. For the next twenty minutes she debated whether to carry her laptop out onto the balcony before finally deciding against it. But though she managed to keep her b.u.t.t in the chair, she couldn't resist calling Hailey.

"Hi, Mom. How's it going?" The sound of Hailey's voice was like a gift from the G.o.ds. And if she strung out the conversation long enough, she could have a break from pretending to work.

"Great. It's really going great."

"How many pages did you write today?" Hailey asked.

Claire hesitated. The few times she'd lied to her daughter it had been to protect or spare Hailey, not to make herself look better.

"That bad, huh?" her daughter asked. "Maybe you need to go out and take a walk to clear your head?"

"That's a good idea, Hailey," she said. Unfortunately, she'd already done that first thing in the morning when she'd been certain she'd come back energized and ready to get down to work. It was such a glorious day-all bright blue sky and pulled white clouds-that she'd barely been able to force herself back inside. "But what I really want to do is hear about you."

As she'd hoped, Hailey was diverted and chatted happily for at least fifteen minutes about her cla.s.ses, her job in the library, which was apparently still a bit "lame," and the boy she'd met in her creative writing cla.s.s, who wasn't. Claire hung on each word, asking a new question anytime she sensed Hailey bringing the conversation to a close.

"Sorry, Mom," Hailey finally said. "I know I'm cutting into your writing time. I'll let you get back to work."

Claire barely resisted begging her daughter not to hang up. "Okay, Hailey. Take care of yourself."

"I will, Mom."

"And keep me posted."

"Good luck with the proposal. I know it'll be great." Hailey hung up.

Claire looked at the blinking cursor. All alone in the top left corner of the great big blank screen. Her brow furrowed. Was that an SOS it was blinking out?

She pulled up Facebook mostly just to fill the screen, posted something cheerily vague to her author page, then clicked through her personal page.

Standing, she paced the apartment first in one direction and then the other. She stood for a few minutes with her nose pressed against the gla.s.s of the French door. But she was very careful not to step outside.

She was trying to force herself back to the computer when she saw a message arrive.

Are you working? Karen's message asked.

Yes! she typed back, exclamation point and all.

Don't lie to me. I can tell. Karen had been writing two books a year for the last four years, each one better than the last. As her body of work grew, so did her readership. Claire was really excited about her longtime critique partner's success, but her productivity level left Claire feeling like a slug in comparison.

Not lying, Claire lied. Writing up a storm. My fingers are practically falling off.

Then why are you answering messages?

Only yours, Claire replied. I seem to remember a blood oath never to ignore communication from my critique partners.

Karen ignored this. c.r.a.p can be fixed, blank page can't. Get to work.

Okay, Claire typed. Will vomit heart and soul onto many pages ASAP.

Too messy, Karen typed back. Use fingers. Easier to read.

Ha, Claire typed back, getting into the conversation. Now you tell me!

Claire waited for a response, but Karen was gone. Undoubtedly to finish the day's chapter. Or possibly the second.

Susie's message arrived about ten minutes later. She knew this because she'd been staring at the screen watching the minutes elapse. Susie tended to lean toward positive motivation rather than tough love, and she had a penchant for inspirational quotations.

Waiting for pages to critique, Susie typed. How's it going?

I'm too busy staring at screen to write, Claire typed quickly. Hoping for inspiration.

Jack London says not to wait for inspiration. Advises you go after it with a club.

Are Jack and club available? Claire replied.

Ha!

She was considering adding an LOL, but Susie was gone almost as quickly as Karen. Undoubtedly to write a chapter that Claire would wish she'd written when she read it.

Claire groaned aloud just so she'd feel like something was happening. She emitted a primal scream, but kept it quiet so she didn't bother any neighbor who might be taking a late-afternoon nap. This thought had her eyeing her bed. Which would be the perfect place for a person who felt as slug-like as she did right now. She could just lie there for a little bit reading one of the Downton Abbey books. Surely that would inspire her.

Her cell phone rang and she practically leapt on it. "h.e.l.lo?"

It was Brooke. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No," Claire said too quickly. "Not at all. What's going on?"

"You won't believe this," Brooke said almost as quickly. "Because I don't. But Zachary just showed up out of the blue an hour ago and asked if he could take the girls for the weekend. The whole weekend."

"But why?" For the first time that day Claire's brain seemed fully engaged.

"I don't know. But he was apologizing all over himself for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up and forgetting to pick them up on Wednesday. He claimed he wanted to make it up to them. And me. I think they're going up to the mountains."

"Seriously?" Claire asked.

"Yes. And then he told me to be sure to let my friend Samantha know. Probably still trying to kiss her a.s.s. But it's weird, huh?"

"It is, but in a good way."

"So, all the sudden I have all this free time," Brooke continued. "And I'm kind of going through Downton Abbey withdrawal."

Claire laughed, her mood lifting. "I know what you mean."

"So I was thinking it might be fun to borrow the season one video from Edward and maybe order pizza for dinner." There was a pause. "Unless you're going out. Or really busy working. I mean I know this is last minute and everything."

Claire was almost embarra.s.sed by how wonderful this sounded and how eager she was to have a reason to stop pretending to work. Pretending to work was even more exhausting than the real thing. "I'm in," she said. "And I've got a bottle of white wine I can bring. Did you call Samantha?"

"Gosh, no," Brooke said. "I mean it's Sat.u.r.day. I figured she and her husband probably had plans."

This, of course, was what single women always a.s.sumed about married ones, but that didn't make it true. "They might," Claire agreed. "But let's at least invite her. I can call if you want while you get the video."

They worked out the details and agreed to five thirty at Brooke's. Claire jumped up from the computer with a new sense of purpose. Picking up the phone, she dialed Samantha Davis's number and put a second bottle of wine in the refrigerator to chill.

SAMANTHA COULDN'T BELIEVE HOW GRATEFUL SHE was to get Claire Walker's call. No, not grateful. Even thinking the word made her stomach knot up. Glad was better. She was glad and relieved to have something to do instead of sitting in her apartment worrying about why she hadn't yet heard from Jonathan. Last time she'd had a weekend to herself she'd reveled in the experience. This time she felt abandoned and frightened. A good dose of Downton Abbey and lady friends might never appear on a prescription, but at the moment it felt like just what the doctor ordered.

She raided the wine supply for two nice bottles of red and pulled a bakery box of Giancarlo's chocolate chip cannolis from the freezer. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of Brooke's door, a bottle of wine tucked under each armpit and the bakery box in her hands. She had to poke her elbow into the doorbell to ring it.

"Hi. Can you take the box?" Samantha said when Brooke opened the door. "I think one of the bottles may be starting to slip."

"Oh, my gosh!" Brooke took the box while Samantha clamped her arms more tightly against her sides.

"I'm not sure direct body heat does good things for a wine, but I never can seem to find those carriers I know we have somewhere," Samantha said.

"It won't bother me," Brooke said. "Zachary spent long amounts of time reading and discussing wine with anyone who would hold still long enough. But I'm not a picky drinker. Or eater, for that matter."

"Ditto," Samantha said when they reached the kitchen.

"I'm glad to hear it because I ordered an extra-large pizza. I think it's called everything but the kitchen sink." Brooke smiled.

The doorbell rang and Brooke went to let Claire in. Samantha opened a bottle of the red and looked around the kitchen, which was all sharp angles and shiny surfaces. The appliances were top-of-the-line and custom fitted. The s.p.a.ce was expertly done, but it wasn't at all what Samantha would have expected from a woman who exuded such a st.u.r.dy earthiness.

"Hey." Claire set two bottles of white wine next to the reds. "I see great minds think alike. At least we won't have to make a liquor run."

"Well, if we do it's only a matter of floors," Samantha said. "Jonathan has a wine closet outfitted with a backup generator." The minute she brought up his name, she regretted it. Even thinking of Jonathan caused the strangest twinge in her chest. She turned as if considering the kitchen for the first time. "This is really state-of-the-art," she said motioning to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and Wolf ovens. "Do you like to cook?" Samantha's thoughts turned to all the meals she'd pretended to cook for Jonathan over the years and she felt a stab of regret that she'd never really learned.

Brooke's nose wrinkled. "Not really. I mean I put food on the table on a regular basis, but this is not the kitchen I would have chosen to do it in. Zach hired an interior designer to do the whole apartment. He wanted the best of everything and he got it. But none of it is exactly kid a or user-friendly." She hesitated briefly. "I was in Bruce Dalton's kitchen yesterday-he's asked me to help Marissa do over her bedroom. Now that's a kitchen meant for a family to live in. And he cooks. He invited the girls and me over for dinner next Sat.u.r.day." She blushed with what looked like pleasure.

"Grab him," Claire said. "I'd be all over a man who can cook."

"I think the women in his neighborhood are already all over him. They keep bringing him food. And they don't wear a lot of clothes when they deliver it."

"Well, he invited you for dinner," Samantha said.

"I think a man cooking is s.e.xy," Claire said. "Who needs Fifty Shades of Grey? Give me a guy in a chef's toque any day. Add some vacuuming and dusting and it's downright o.r.g.a.s.mic."

Samantha laughed while Claire began to open the wine. Brooke pulled winegla.s.ses out of the cupboard.

"Did you know that Zach took the girls for the whole weekend?" Brooke asked Samantha.

"No."

"And he wanted me to make sure you knew it." Brooke was watching Samantha's face.

"Really?" Samantha asked casually.