He has no business getting so . . . so cozy with her, especially considering that they haven’t been alone together since the moment fourteen years ago when they were jerked back to their senses courtesy of the blasting smoke alarm.
“Rick.” She clenches her hands in her lap. “About the package . . .”
He just looks at her, waiting. Not a hint of recognition in his eyes.
If he were responsible, there would at least be a telltale flicker, right?
But if he didn’t send it, and Vanessa is dead, then who else could it have been?
“You sent it. I know you did.”
He blinks. “Sent what?”
“The box.”
“What box?”
“Come on, stop playing stupid. I know that you—-”
“All righty, here we are.” The waitress is back to turn over Rowan’s cup and fill it with steaming black coffee.
“Cream?”
“Please.”
They gaze at each other in uncomfortable silence as the waitress briefly steps away and returns with a small silver cream dispenser.
“More hot water?” she asks Rick, gesturing at the little teapot in front of him.
“Please. Although I think I’m in hot water,” he replies, “and I’m not sure exactly why.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll tell you,” Bernice returns with a sly grin, probably assuming this is one of those typical men--from--Mars, women--from--Venus conversations.
After she’s gone, Rick tells Rowan, “I’m not playing stupid, I swear. Apparently, I just am stupid, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t send the package.”
“To you? No. What kind of package?”
“Come on, Rick. Please. It had to be you.”
He frowns, shaking his head. “As much as I’d love to take credit or blame for whatever was or wasn’t in it . . . I can’t.”
She wants desperately to believe him. Oh hell, maybe she does believe him.
Now who’s stupid?
“What happened, exactly? Someone sent you something? What made you think it was from me?”
She hedges, unwilling to go there just yet. Or ever again.
“It was just a guess. I’m sorry. I honestly thought it was you.”
“But why? What was it?”
There’s no way around it. The only way to explain the situation is to acknowledge that—-despite all her self--denial—-something did happen between them that snowy day. Yes, it could have been much worse, and yes, she nipped it in the bud, but the uncomfortable reality can never be erased.
Clearing her throat, folding and unfolding the corner of her paper placemat, she begins, “Do you remember . . .”
She trails off.
Maybe he doesn’t remember.
No, of course he remembers. He must.
Unless she was just one in a long line of extramarital conquests that eventually led to the demise of his marriage to Vanessa . . .
“I have a pretty good memory,” he prompts, and there’s a gentle undercurrent in his tone that causes her to look up sharply.
He’s thinking of that day. She can tell by the look on his face.
She shouldn’t have come here; shouldn’t have hunted him down or lied to Jake or snuck away to the city on a weekend afternoon when she should be home taking care of her husband and son, who can’t even find their clean socks or the grape jelly when she’s gone, dammit, dammit . . .
Off she goes on the emotional roller coaster again, but when it careens back around to the starting point—-the anonymous package—-she knows she couldn’t have done this any other way.
You don’t ignore something like that, and you don’t share it with your husband.
Whoever sent it was counting on her to act, and she’s acting.
“Who else knows?” she asks abruptly. “About what happened that day?”
He doesn’t even pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “The snow day?”
“The snow day. Yes.”
“No one. I never told anyone. Did you?”
She hesitates.
“Did you tell Jake?”
“Jake? No!” She shakes her head vehemently. “Did you tell Vanessa?”
“Are you kidding? No way.” He rubs his temples briefly. “Why are we here, Rowan?”
“Because someone sent me a box of thirteen burnt cookies wrapped in an old newspaper from that exact day fourteen years ago.”