It might. I had eighteen years of history with David in this house, including the conversation when he told me about Jacquie and how young and nubile and accommodating she was. And that was before the family room caught on fire, and before Heidi Newsome tried to kill me in the living room, and before the red paint spattered against the door.
I switched the cheese and crackers to one hand so I could unlock the kitchen door with the other, and Edwina went straight for her food and water bowls.
“Just a minute,” I told her. “Let me put this down and I’ll feed you.”
Rachel headed for the kitchen island. “I’ll deal with this if you’ll deal with Edwina.” She put the two bottles down and looked around. “Corkscrew?”
“Still in the same drawer. It isn’t that long since you stayed her.”
She shrugged and got busy. By the time I had scooped food into Edwina’s bowl and the dog was chowing down, Rachel had opened one of the wine bottles and was pouring us each a generous measure.
“To surviving Monday,” she said, raising her glass.
“To surviving Tuesday, as well,” I corrected, and we clinked glasses.
The cheese plate came together quickly—brie, aged cheddar, some grapes, crackers, a few slices of salami. I carried it into the living room, and we settled onto the sofa. Edwina finished her food and came to join us.
I kicked off my shoes and curled my legs up under me. For a few minutes we just sat, sipping wine and not talking about murder or vandalism or money laundering. It was nice. Almost normal.
“So,” Rachel said eventually, in that tone that meant she was about to broach a delicate subject. “Greg called you today.”
I nodded.
“And you turned him down for dinner.”
I picked up a cracker and added a piece of brie to it. Not trying to avoid her eyes at all. No, ma’am. “I needed a quiet night.”
“You had a quiet night on Saturday,” Rachel pointed out.
“That wasn’t a quiet night. That was recovery.”
I popped the cracker in my mouth and chewed. When I had swallowed, I added, “Besides, I couldn’t have gone anywhere with Greg on Saturday anyway. He spent the night with his mother. And with Tara and Cressie.”
Rachel nodded. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Gina…”
“Oh, sure.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like you’re not full of opinions about Daniel?”
Of course I was. But— “That’s different. Daniel is—was—my brother-in-law. I know Daniel. You don’t know anything about Greg.”
“I know enough,” Rachel said. She set down her wine glass and turned to face me. “He comes to Nashville to visit his mother regularly, so he cares about the things that matter. He doesn’t have any ex-wives or children you have to worry about. He’s successful, with an interesting job and multiple homes. He travels, and wants you to go with him. Why do you keep him at a distance?”
“I’m not keeping him at a distance,” I protested, even as a dimple and a wicked grin floated across my inner vision. “We’ve had dinner twice in the past four days. That’s hardly arm’s length.”
“But you’re not letting yourself fall for him,” Rachel said. “I can see it. You’re holding back.”
And there it was. Because yes, that was what I was doing.
It wasn’t just the dimple, though. Or just Mendoza, I should say. I knew very well who that dimple belonged to, and I also knew better than to imagine that anything would happen with him. He flirted with me, yes. But he flirted with everyone, and I was practically old enough to be his mother. He had an ex-wife and a young son, as well as a demanding job that surely didn’t pay what it should for the risks it involved. And did I mention that he’s thirty-three with a history of infidelity?
But for all that, it wasn’t just Mendoza. I stared into my wine glass, watching the light play off the pale gold liquid. “David’s only been dead for a few months, Rachel. And we weren’t even properly divorced when he died. Don’t you think it’s too soon to be thinking about another husband?”
“Who said anything about a husband?” Rachel asked. “I’m talking about dating. Having fun. Letting yourself feel something for someone who actually deserves you, instead of the cheating bastard you were married to.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” I took a long sip of wine. “Unfortunately, that’s not what Greg wants. He hasn’t proposed?—”
“I should hope not,” Rachel muttered. “You’ve known him how long? A month? And half that time he’s been in Italy?”
