Tough Customer

home. In fact, it's several notches above my place in Atlanta.'

She dipped a wooden spoon into the spaghetti sauce, blew on it, sipped a sample, then laid the spoon in a ceramic holder near the burner and replaced the lid on the simmering pot. Going to the small breakfast table, she sat down and motioned Dodge into the chair across from her. He sat.

'Mr. Mitchell doesn't pay you well?'

'Very well. A hell of a lot more than I'm worth.' He paused, then added, 'But not nearly as much as you make selling houses.'

'I've been fortunate.'

'You work your butt off.'

She conceded the point with a small smile. 'I've put in some long days. But I love the work.'

'It's made you rich. In Houston. Then here.'

She folded her arms across her middle and eyed him shrewdly. 'Who'd you talk to? No, wait. Where did you go for your beer?'

'A place on Bowie Street.'

'Chat and Chill?'

He coughed behind his fist, saying evasively, 'I think that was it.'

'Grace. You got your information from Grace.' She held his gaze and asked softly, 'What did it cost you?'

'Two beers and two cigarettes.'

She smiled again, but this time it was a sad expression. 'Nothing's changed.'

'Everything's changed, Caroline. Thirty years ago we were making love while the spaghetti sauce simmered.'

He saw from her expression that she remembered it as well as he did. They'd decided to fool around and had forgotten all about what was on the stove until the smell of scorched tomatoes had alerted them to the potential hazard. He'd told her to hold on and somehow had got them off the bed while still joined. Then he'd carried her into the kitchen, and, as soon as he'd turned off the burner beneath the pot, they'd resumed right there.

Her face became flushed, and she couldn't look him in the eye. 'We were young.'

'And a little crazy. Crazy in love.'

'Don't, Dodge.' Her whisper had a desperately pleading undertone.

'Don't what? Don't talk about it? Don't remember? I can't help remembering. That day the spaghetti sauce burned was one of our more rollicking fucks.' It had been a combination of laughter and lust. He got hard now just thinking about it.

For Caroline's part, she set her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. He didn't know if she was hiding her shame or her delight. Tears, maybe. But when she finally lowered her hands, there were no tears in her eyes and her expression was impassive, giving him no clue as to her emotions.

She said, 'If this lawyer pays you so well, why do you live in a place less appealing than your room at the Cypress Lodge?'

'Because a rathole comes with no responsibilities, and because I've got expenses that keep me on a tight budget despite hefty paychecks and bonuses.' She gave him a questioning look, and he felt his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, wishing he dared light up. 'Alimony. Times two.'

'You were married twice?'

'The first time to prove to myself that I could.'

'Could what?'

'Forget you. The second divorce proved I couldn't.'

She held his gaze for a long moment, then got up quickly and crossed the room to the sink, where she turned on the faucet, then immediately turned it off. 'Stop saying things like that.'

'Sue me.'

She spun around, anger flashing in her eyes. 'Don't be cute, Dodge. You can't flip off this crisis with one of your catchphrases. This situation--'

'Sucks,' he said, coming to his feet and advancing on her. 'That's what this situation does. Are you ashamed?'

'Ashamed?'

'Why haven't you told Berry who I am?'

'Why haven't you?'

That stopped him in his tracks. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a comeback.

'Shit.'

A long, taut silence stretched between them. Eventually she said quietly, 'I shouldn't have called you. You should never have sent me your phone number.'

Several years ago, on a night when he was particularly drunk, lonely, remorseful, and maudlin, he'd written his cell phone number on a postcard along with two words.

Sue me. His catchphrase, she'd called it. He supposed it was, because he'd known that, when she read those two words, she would know immediately whose phone number it was. The postcard had a picture of Margaret Mitchell's house on it, so she would also know that it had come from Atlanta.

It did his old, thudding heart good to know that she hadn't fed the postcard into the office shredder, or torn it into tiny bits and flung them to the four winds. 'Nobody forced you to keep my phone number, Caroline. I didn't even know that you'd received it until you called last night. When I mailed you the card, I didn't know if you still worked at that company. I addressed it to Caroline King, but I didn't know if you went by your name or his.'

'I kept mine.'

'Why?'

'Professional reasons.'

'What did he think about that?'

'He didn't object.'

Dodge's heart felt like it was in a goddamn vise, but he had to ask, had to know. 'Why'd you marry him?'

'Dodge--'

'Tell me. Why?'

'Because I wanted to!'

'To spite me?'

'Don't flatter yourself.'

'Did you love him?'

'Yes.'

'You loved him.'

'Yes.'

'After me, after us, was it that easy--'

He broke off when suddenly her eyes darted to a point behind him. He whipped