“Here.” Pete thrust a glass toward me. “It’s loaded with vitamins.”
“You sound like Anita Bryant.” Accepting the OJ.
“She was right.” Pete took a sip. Clarified. “About oranges. Cheers.”
Pete tapped his brim to mine. We both knocked back our juice.
“Where’s Bird?” I set my glass in the sink.
“Sleeping off the pâté.”
“You gave him pâté?”
“Relax. It was chicken liver, not goose.”
“The vet has him on a diet.”
“He didn’t mention that.”
My eyes were still rolling when the cat strolled in. Pete picked him up.
Birdie purred like a Ducati cruising at eighty. He likes my ex. Always has.
“Did you know you’ve been robbed?”
“What?” My eyes flew around the kitchen.
“Your refrigerator’s been stripped.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Seriously. It’s empty.”
“I’ve had a busy couple of days.”
“The hit and run?”
“Mm. That why you’re here? To make sure I’m eating?”
“Madam.” Sweeping an arm toward the door. “Shall we adjourn for coffee and tarts?”
“I will not get sucked into your wedding drama.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
We both filled mugs, added cream, then moved to the dining room. Pete took the chair opposite mine at the table.
“Butter and jam?” I cocked a questioning brow.
“You never know.”
“Yes. With donuts, you do.”
I helped myself to a chocolate glazed with sprinkles.
Pete took no pastry. Didn’t touch his coffee.
“Snooze you lose,” I said brightly. “Should have bought more chocolate.”
“They’re all for you.”
“What, no flowers?”
It was an old joke between us. Pete didn’t laugh.
Alrighty, then.
As I waited for my ex to get to the point, another possibility entered my mind.
“Is there a problem with the divorce? Did I do something wrong on one of the form—”
“Everything’s in order.”
“Have you filed—”
“I will.”
“The wedding is still on track?”
Jesus, Brennan. Why bring it up?
“There are some glitches. Nothing Summer can’t handle.”
Summer can’t handle stirring yogurt without instruction. I didn’t say it.
Birdie jumped onto the chair beside Pete. He ran a hand down the cat’s back. Stared at the motion, distracted. Avoiding?
My gut clenched.
“You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t about Katy, right?”
“Only peripherally.”
Heat flamed my cheeks.
“You said—”
“She’s fine.”
“Have you heard from her today?”
“No.”
“Then you have no idea how fine she is.” Sharp.
Pete continued stroking the cat. Continued watching his hand do it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.
Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“There’s a way you can see Katy.”
“We were supposed to Skype—”
“In person.”
“What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”
“No.”
“Has she been hospitalized?”
“No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.
I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.
Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?
“What’s going on, Pete?”
He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.
“You can go to her.”
“Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.
“To Bagram.”
“Bagram. Afghanistan?”
“Right.”
This was not making sense.
“I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”
Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.
Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.
“I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”
Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.
“Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.
Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.
“Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”
I shook my head.
“The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”
At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”