pointed out, and then smiled as a thought occurred to her. “And it’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Stephen.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand, but when she would have let go he held on, using it to draw her closer.
“You looked beautiful today, by the way.”
Her heart fluttered ridiculously at the compliment.
“It wasn’t a designer original this time.”
“It didn’t need to be.”
He leaned down, hovered for a moment as if in indecision. Finally, he kissed her cheek.
“Should you need anything, my room is the first one to the left of the stairs.”
“See you in the morning,” she said.
She closed the door and then stood there with her hand on the knob, wondering about the man she had just married. Wondering if they would be friends when their year ended and they went their separate ways. Wondering how she was going to explain her hasty nuptials to her family, and what the press would have to say. Wondering if she’d just made the mistake of a lifetime.
And wondering why, despite all of her concerns, she felt an undeniable shimmer of excitement.
Stephen was not home when Catherine awoke the following morning. It was barely half past nine, and yet when she followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen she found only a note.
I’ll contact the movers today. Coffee might be a little strong for your taste. There’s cream in the fridge and sugar in the cupboard next to the stove. S.
Hardly a love letter, she thought, bemused.
After her first eye-opening sip of coffee, she decided to take him up on the offer of cream. Then, leaning back against the cupboard, she glanced around the kitchen. It was a generously proportioned room, with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, dark cherry cabinets, and a built-in nook with bench seating. A large window over the sink looked out into a beautifully landscaped yard. The room was functional and yet somehow looked cozy. She decided she liked it best of any room in the house.
“You must be Catherine.”
Startled, she turned and found a woman of about sixty standing in the doorway. She wore a dark uniform dress that zipped up the front, and she held a couple of grocery bags, which she now set on the butcher-block island. Catherine had detected a lyrical cadence to her voice when she spoke and, based on her dark coloring, she decided the woman’s native tongue was Spanish.
“Yes, hello. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“I’m Rosaria. I let myself in. Stephen called this morning and asked if I would pick up some groceries. I try to keep the kitchen stocked with good food.” She winked. “Stephen, he likes…” She seemed to search for a word, then broke into a broad grin. “Junk.”
“Junk?”
“You know.” She pointed to the refrigerator. “Meals that come from a freezer. He says he doesn’t have time to fuss with dinner.”
Something seemed obscene about having a kitchen a gourmet would be proud to own and heating up precooked dinners in the microwave.
“You’re pretty.” She made a little humming noise. “And so thin.”
“Thank you,” Catherine replied, not sure how else to respond to what might not have been a compliment.
“You’re not Stephen’s usual type.”
“Oh?”
She motioned toward Catherine’s hair. “Blonde. I don’t know that I ever remember seeing him with a blonde woman before.”
“I see.” Which, of course, she didn’t.
“Of course, I didn’t think Stephen would ever marry. He used to say as much whenever I’d tell him that a woman would make good use of this kitchen and all the fancy appliances he had put in here. ‘Men can cook, too,’ he’d say. But he never bothered to. And no wonder. It’s no fun cooking for one.”
She put away the groceries as she spoke.
“You look hungry.”
“I am, yes,” Catherine agreed. “I was just trying to figure out what to make for breakfast.”
“Dishes are in the those cabinets.” Rosaria pointed. “I brought eggs, and a nice fresh loaf of bread. I could make you an omelet, if you’d like. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to leave.”
“I can do it, but thanks.”
“Well, I’ll be going, then. Nice to have met you, Catherine.” The woman stopped in the doorway. “It’s not my place, I know, but Stephen is a good man. He deserves happiness, and there hasn’t been a lot of it in his life. I hope you will make him happy.”
It wasn’t a lie when Catherine replied, “I hope we’ll both be happy.”
She spent the Sunday doing something she rarely did: puttering. She figured she would play it safe and stay out of sight for the day. Then she put away the belongings she had brought with her and walked around her new home, trying to picture spending all her evenings and weekends there with Stephen. Degas followed her every step.
“What does he do to unwind?” she asked the dog. The words seemed to echo from the vaulted ceilings. “Is he a night owl, a morning person? Does he work late? What does he do most weekends?”
The dog nuzzled her hand, looking for an ear-rub.
“You’re about as talkative as your master.”
There was a lot she didn’t know about her husband, and his house, tastefully decorated as it was, revealed little. At the top of the stairs she turned left instead of right. One room remained to be explored. One room that might shed light on Stephen’s personality.
Catherine hesitated only for a moment before turning the knob. This wasn’t like her at all, invading someone’s privacy, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from stepping over the threshold and into what was aptly named the master bedroom.
The walls were painted a vibrant red, set off by thick white trim at the windows and tall white baseboards. Other bits of color were splashed around the room, and she couldn’t help but think he had saved all of it for this room, for so much of the rest of the house was done in less vivid hues.
She spied a photo on his nightstand and, though she had intended to venture no farther inside the room, she found herself crossing to it. It was his parents. She would stake her life on it. She sat on the edge of Stephen’s unmade bed and studied the people in the picture. His father had certainly been handsome, with hair just a couple of shades darker than Catherine’s and eyes as blue as a summer sky. But it was from his mother that Stephen had inherited his striking looks: the dark eyes, the fuller lips, the prominent cheekbones and slightly flared nose. His mother’s eyes held secrets as well, but her smile was warm and inviting.
The dog whined from the doorway. She glanced over and her heart began to pound. Stephen stood there, his
