Monday Mourning

I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. The theme never varied. The guy was a player.

Often he suggested playing with me.

I have a steadfast rule against amour in the workplace.

But Ryan’s thinking is often at odds with mine. And he likes a challenge.

He persisted, I stood firm. Moving force. Resisting object. I’d been separated two years, knew I wouldn’t be returning to my husband, Pete. I liked Ryan. He was intelligent, sensitive, and sexy as hell.

Four months back. Guatemala. An emotionally battering time for us both. I decided to reassess.

I invited Ryan to North Carolina. I bought the mother lode of skimpies and a man-eater black dress. I took the plunge.

Ryan and I spent a week at the beach and hardly saw the ocean. Or the black dress.

My stomach did that flip thing it does when I think of Ryan. And that beach week.

Add another item to the list of positives. Canadian or not, the guy is Captain America in bed.

We’d been, if not “a couple,” at least “an item” since August. A secret item. We kept it to ourselves.

Our times together looked like the clichéd sequences in romantic comedies. Walking hand in hand. Cuddling by fires. Romping in leaves. Romping in bed.

So why the feeling that something is wrong?

Turning right onto Guy, I gave the question some thought.

There’d been long, late-night conversations following Ryan’s return to Montreal from North Carolina. Recently, the frequency of those calls had diminished.

Big deal. You’re in Montreal every month.

True. But Ryan had been less available on my last trip. Slammed at work, he claimed. I wondered.

I’d been so happy. Had I missed or misread some signals? Was Ryan distancing himself from me?

Was I imagining the whole thing, mooning like the heroine in a pulp fiction romance?

For distraction, I clicked on the radio.

Daniel Bélanger sang “Séche Tes Pleurs.” “Dry Your Tears.”

Good advice, Daniel.

The snow was coming faster now. I turned on the wipers and focused on my driving.

Whether we eat at his place or mine, Ryan usually prepares the meal. Tonight I’d volunteered.

I cook well, but not instinctively. I need recipes.

Arriving home at six, I spent a few minutes recapping my day for Birdie, then took out the folder in which I stuff menus clipped from the Gazette.

A five-minute search produced a winner. Grilled chicken breast with melon salsa. Wild rice. Tortilla and arugula salad.

The list of ingredients was relatively short. How hard could it be?

I threw on my parka and walked to Le Faubourg Ste-Catherine.

Poultry, greens, rice, no problem.

Ever try scoring a Crenshaw melon in December in the arctic?

A discussion with the stock boy resolved the crisis. I substituted cantaloupe.

By seven-fifteen I had the salsa marinating, the rice boiling, the chicken baking, and the salad mixed. Sinatra was flowing from a CD, and I reeked of Chanel No. 5.

I was ready. Belly-sucking size-four Christmas-red jeans. Hair tucked behind my ears and disheveled Meg Ryan style in back. Fluffed bangs. Orchid and lavender lids. Katy’s idea. Hazel eyes—lavender shadow. Dazzling!

Ryan arrived at seven-thirty with a six-pack of Moosehead, a baguette, and a small white box from a patisserie. His face was flushed from the cold, and fresh snow sparkled on his hair and shoulders.

Bending, he kissed me on the mouth then wrapped me in his arms.

“You look good.” Ryan pressed me to him. I smelled Irish Spring and aftershave mingled with leather.

“Thanks.”

Releasing me, Ryan slipped off his bomber jacket and tossed it on the sofa.

Birdie rocketed to the rug and shot down the hall.

“Sorry. Didn’t see the little guy.”

“He’ll cope.”

“You look really good.” Ryan caressed my cheek with his knuckles.

My stomach did jumping jacks.

“You’re not half bad, yourself, Detective.”

It’s true. Ryan is tall and lanky, with sandy hair, and impossibly blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a Galway sweater.

I come from generations of Irish farmers and fishermen. Blame DNA. Blue eyes and cable knit knock me out.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

“Surprise for the chef.”

Ryan detached a beer and placed the rest in the fridge.

“Something smells good.” He lifted the cover on the salsa bowl.

“Melon salsa. Crenshaws are tough to find in December.” I left it at that.

“Buy you a beer or mixed drink, cupcake?” Ryan flashed his brows and flicked an imaginary cigar.

“My usual.”

I checked the rice. Ryan dug a Diet Coke from the fridge. His lips twitched at the corners as he offered the can.

“Who’s calling most?”

“Sorry?” I was lost.

“Agents or talent scouts?”

My hand froze in midair. I knew what was coming.

“Where?”

“Le Journal de Montréal.”

“Today?”

Ryan nodded. “Above the fold.”

“Front page?” I was dismayed.

“Fourteen back. Color photo. You’ll love the angle.”

“Pictures?”

An image flashed across my mind. A skinny black man in a knee-length sweater. A trapdoor. A camera.

The little turd at the pizza parlor had sold his snapshots.