“I’ll take my chances with your cooking. Seven all right?”

“Fine.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“An open mind.”

His brow wrinkled, but the smile was back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Wade felt slightly sheepish as he knocked on Christy-Lynn’s door with a bouquet of daisies in his fist, like a tongue-tied teen on a first date. He straightened awkwardly when the door opened. “My mother taught me to never show up for dinner empty-handed. And since you don’t do wine . . .”

“Thank you. They’re sweet.”

She had changed since he last saw her. She wore a breezy floral skirt now and a tank top that showed off tawny arms and lots of shoulder. There was a dish towel tucked into the waist of her skirt, and she was barefoot, a silver chain winking at her ankle. She reminded him of a gypsy, beautiful and just a little untamed. He cleared his throat, determined to shake the thought. The last thing he needed was a crush on Stephen Ludlow’s wife.

“Come on in. Dinner’s on the stove.”

He whistled softly as he stepped into the living room, surprised by the transformation since his last visit. “The place looks great. You really did a nice job.”

“Thanks,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “I need to finish the sauce. Can you take care of the flowers? There should be a vase under the sink.”

When he had finished with the daisies, he stepped to the stove, inspecting the preparations over Christy-Lynn’s shoulder. “Smells amazing. Is that Alfredo?”

“I hope that’s okay. There’s salad too.”

Moments later, the pasta was on the table, and they were ready to eat. They sat at opposite ends, the vase of daisies between them. Wade experienced a pang of déjà vu as they sat silently picking at their salads. They had done this before, eaten in awkward silence in her kitchen, only the food had been takeout last time, and he had invited himself.

Tonight she had invited him. For advice of all things. Curiosity prickled along the back of his neck. The old reporter instinct, he told himself, like the tingle of a phantom limb—the need to get at her story. But the truth was he didn’t just want to know Christy-Lynn’s story. He wanted to know her. To know what went on behind those pensive hazel eyes when she thought no one was looking.

Stephen’s betrayal had knocked her for a loop, not that he was surprised. It was Stephen’s way to leave a trail of destruction in his wake. But there was something else going on, something she was holding back. He’d spent half a lifetime combing through the ruins of lives rocked by tragedy, chronicling the survivors, their losses, and their heartaches, and Christy-Lynn was a textbook survivor, tough, guarded, and behind the aloof and sometimes thorny facade, achingly fragile.

Off in the distance, a rumble of thunder sounded, a low growl that seemed to roll in over the hills. He glanced out the sliding glass doors. A bank of bruised clouds crouched against the western horizon, and a stiff breeze had kicked up, rocking the treetops and turning them silver. There was a storm brewing.

Christy-Lynn seemed not to notice, preoccupied with twirling pasta around her fork. As usual, she wasn’t actually eating much.

“This is delicious,” Wade said, hoping to spark some sort of conversation. “Family recipe?”

“No. There was a place back in Clear Harbor—Zia Rosa’s. The best Alfredo I’ve ever tasted. Rosa gave me her recipe.”

“She gave it to you?”

“People were always doing things like that for Stephen. They loved him.”

“You mean they loved having a celebrity as a customer. I’m guessing there are signed photos of Stephen Ludlow tacked up on restaurant walls all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

“And LA,” she added drily. “Don’t forget LA.”

“Did you mind it? The fame I mean.”

Christy-Lynn pretended to go back to her pasta. “I didn’t care as long as I didn’t have to participate. Stephen loved the attention. He never got tired of being recognized. I, on the other hand, preferred to remain hunkered down with my laptop. Which is why Stephen traveled by himself most of the time—or so I thought. Turns out I had that part wrong.”

Wade put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds trite, but I really am.”

“Everyone is.” Her eyes slid from his as she reached for her water glass and took a deep swallow. “I don’t blame them. There really isn’t anything else to say. But I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. Frankly, I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. You were right. It’s time to move on, to take charge of what’s happened instead of wallowing in it.”

The remark surprised him, but he was glad to hear her say it. “I think you’re right. In fact, I know you are. You’ve done an amazing job with the store. The whole town’s talking about it. And I really think . . .” He never finished the sentence, distracted when an orange-and-white cat sauntered into the kitchen and made straight for his legs.

“Who’s this?” he asked, reaching down to give the cat a pet.

“His name is Tolstoy—because he insisted on curling up on a copy of Anna Karenina one night while I was reading.”

“A Russian cat. And literary. I like it.”