“Good guess!”
“Not really—it’s just that I’ve been a poor man.” He winked at her.
Libby grabbed milk from the fridge and measured it out, then looked in Sam’s cabinet. “I can’t believe you have vanilla extract. You have nothing else, but you have that. Why?”
He laughed. “Who knows?”
“It’s curious, Mr. Winters. You know so much about me now, and yet I don’t know anything about you. Hardly seems fair.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it. You’ve made it my job to know about you. I’m being paid to know about you and to keep you from adding to the tale.”
“Semantics. I think you are trying to avoid talking about you right now.” She pointed a measuring spoon at him. “If we’re going to be friends, I should get some details.”
“Are we going to be friends?” he asked.
He was looking at her in a way that made Libby’s pulse flutter. “Friends” sounded too soft for what she was feeling. She said, “It depends.”
His smile was slow and easy, and Libby felt another shiver course through her. “There’s nothing to know,” he said. “Life is pretty boring up here.”
“Come on,” she said, measuring vanilla now. “We’re stuck here. What else are we going to do? If you don’t talk, then I guess I can keep talking about me and where my relationship with Ryan went wrong—”
“God no,” he said, throwing up a hand and laughing. “Honestly, Libby, I’m not being coy. I go to work and I come home.”
“Well. What do you do when you come home?”
He frowned a little as if he was thinking about it. “Putter,” he said.
“That’s so lame!” Libby said laughingly. “You’re not playing the game correctly. Start at the beginning. Where did you go to school? When did you get married?”
She could see his entire body tense.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her attention back to the ice cream. “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”
“You didn’t strike a nerve,” he said, but it was clear she had. He again tried to brush it off by saying, “It was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” she said. “You were married when you started at the sheriff’s office.”
“Yep,” he said, and pushed away from the counter. “I’m going to go tend the fire.”
Libby listened to him rummage in the wood caddy, more curious than ever. She finished making the ice cream and put it into two small bowls. With a pair of mismatched spoons, she followed him into the living room and handed him one. “Thanks,” he said.
“Welcome.” She crossed her legs and lowered herself to the ground, sitting before the fire. Sam sat on the edge of the couch.
Libby’s gaze flicked over him as she tasted the ice cream.
“What?” he asked, smiling uncertainly.
“Nothing.”
“It’s never nothing,” he said.
“You’re right. I was wondering what it is you don’t want to talk about.”
Sam groaned. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“Probably not. I’m curious.”
He sighed.
“Here’s a simple question, yes or no,” she said. “Have you ever been in a situation where you hoped too hard?”
“That is not a simple question,” he said. “But for the sake of peace, I probably did, yeah. Nevertheless, it was a long time ago, and I’d really rather not drag it all up again if it’s all the same to you. I’m going to enjoy my poor man’s ice cream.”
“Sure,” she said, and turned her attention to her ice cream. “Mind if I ask you something else?”
“About hope?” he asked suspiciously.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed. “Against my better judgment, okay. Ask.”
“What’s it like, being in recovery?”
This time, Sam clanked his spoon into the bowl. “Wow. Talk about skipping the salad and going right for the meat.” He put aside his bowl. He leaned forward, rested his hands on his thighs. “Libby . . . if I give you the Sam Winters rundown, will you stop asking so many questions?”
Libby thought about that a moment. “I don’t know if I can make that promise for all of eternity . . . but I could probably stop for the night.” She winked.
“I’ll take what I can get. So move over,” he said, nudging her with his foot, then dipped down, settling in front of the couch, his legs long in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “You want to know the truth about me, huh? Okay, here goes. I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for three years and thirty-two days.”
“Congratulations,” Libby said, uncertain what else to say.
“Thanks.”
“That must have been really hard,” she said.
“To quit?” he asked, and Libby nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was the hardest thing I have ever done.”
“Is that why you . . . you know, split up with your wife?”