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  “I can’t remember,” Cal said. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s a very shifty cat. You know, this furniture is not you, that clock is not you, and you don’t seem like the snow globe type.”

  “I know it’s not me,” Min said, looking around at it. “But it’s good furniture, so it doesn’t make sense to buy new. Besides, it reminds me of my grandmother. And the snow globe thing started by accident.” She turned back to him. “At least let me pay for half of dinner.”

  “No.” Cal picked up a massive piece that had a globe with Lady and the Tramp sitting on top of a detailed Italian restaurant. “What kind of accident?”

  “My Grandma Min had a Mickey and Minnie Mouse snow globe. They were dancing and Minnie was wearing a long pink dress and Mickey was dipping her.” Min’s voice softened as she spoke. “My grandpa gave it to her for a wedding anniversary, but I loved it so much that she gave it to me when I was twelve.”

  Cal scanned the mantel. Christine and the Phantom, Jessica and Roger Rabbit, Blondie and Dagwood, Sleeping Beauty and the Prince, Cinderella and her prince in front of a castle with white doves suspended in air, even Donald and Daisy were there, but no Mickey and Minnie. “Where is it?”

  “I lost it,” Min said. “In one of the moves when I was in college. You know how it is, you move every year and stuff disappears. I was upset about it so people started giving me other ones on my birthday and for Christmas to make up for it. I tried to tell them I didn’t want any more, you know, ‘Thank you, it’s lovely, but you shouldn’t have,’ but by then it had taken on a life of its own.” She looked at the mantel and sighed. “I have boxes of them in the basement. These are just my favorites. Never collect anything. People never let you quit.”

  Cal looked over the assortment again. There was one big, dark one at the end of the mantel that looked like monsters. “What’s this?” he said, picking it up.

  “Disney villains,” Min said. “Liza and Bonnie each got me one for Christmas two years ago.”

  “Liza got you that one,” Cal said, putting it back.

  “How do you know it wasn’t Bonnie?” Min said.

  “Because that’s not Bonnie.” He pointed to the Cinderella globe with the doves. “She got you that one.”

  “Yes,” Min said. “I still don’t see—”

  “Bonnie wants the fairy tale,” Cal said. “Liza’s a realist, she sees the bad guys. Also Bonnie wouldn’t have missed the important part. She got you a couple.”

  “A couple of what?” Min said.

  “A couple,” Cal said. “Twosome. These are all couples. Look. Lady and the Tramp, Christine and the Phantom, Jessica Rabbit and Roger . . . except for Liza’s, they’re all couples.”

  “I wouldn’t call Rocky and Bullwinkle a couple exactly,” Min said, looking at them doubtfully. “And Chip and Dale. I mean, I know there have been rumors, but—”

  “C’mon, Minnie,” Cal said. “You started with a couple.”

  “Don’t call me Minnie,” Min said, her eyes flashing at him.

  “You can call me Mickey,” Cal said, grinning at her, wanting that flash again.

  “I’m going to call you a cab if you don’t stop annoying me,” Min said. “Can we just eat?”

  Cal gave up and went back to the table to unpack Emilio’s bag, detouring around the cat in case it decided to go rogue and start on him. “That guy really did a number on you.”

  “What guy?”

  “The one who dumped you the night I picked you up. You must have loved him a lot.”

  “Oh.” Min blinked. “Him? No. Not at all.”

  Good, Cal thought, even though it didn’t make any difference. “Do you have plates?”

  She went around the table and into an alcove that anybody else would call a closet, but that her landlord evidently thought was a kitchen.

  “Get wineglasses, too,” Cal said as he opened the box with the bread in it.

  “What?” Min said, leaning out of the alcove.

  “Glasses,” Cal said. “For the wine.”

  Min came out of the alcove with two wineglasses and set the table while he pulled the cork from the wine and poured, trying not to look at her sweats. It was nice of her to dress so badly. If she’d been wearing that red sweater again, he might have had a problem. Then she opened the carton with the salad in it, and tried to plate it using a tablespoon. “Damn,” she said, as the dressing spilled onto the table.

  “You don’t cook, do you, Minerva?” Cal said.

  “Oh, and you do?” Min said.

  “Sure.” He took the spoon from her. “I worked in a restaurant while I was in college. You need a big spoon, Minnie. This one is for eating.”

  “Or I could just jab you with it,” Min said.

  He shook his head and went around her into the kitchenette to look for a larger spoon and instead found a frying pan with something horrible in it.

  “What is this?” he said when she came in for a paper towel.

  “None of your business,” Min said. He raised his eyebrows at her and she said, “I thought I could make it on my own. I got the recipe. But it didn’t—”

  Light dawned. “This is chicken marsala?”

  “No,” Min said. “That is a mess, which is why I called Emilio’s.”

  “What did you do?” Cal said.

  “Why?” Min said. “So you can make snarky comments?”

  “Do you want to know how to make chicken marsala or not?” Cal said, exasperated. She was such a pain in the ass.

  She scowled up at him. “Yes.”

  “What’s the first thing you did?” Cal said.

  “Sprayed the pan with olive oil,” Min said.

  “Sprayed?” Cal said. “No. Pour. A couple of tablespoons.”

  “Too much fat,” Min said.

  “It’s good fat,” Cal said. “Olive oil is good for you.”

  “Not for my waistline,” Min said.

  “You’re going to have to pour, Minnie,” Cal said. “It’s part of the flavor.”

  “Okay,” Min said, but she looked mutinous. “Then I browned the chicken.”

  “Too fast,” Cal said. “Pound the chicken breasts first. Use a can if you don’t have a mallet, put them in a plastic bag, and pound them thin. Then dredge them in flour mixed with ground black pepper and kosher salt.”

  “You’re kidding,” Min said. “Flour just adds calories.”

  “And seals the chicken,” Cal said. “So it doesn’t get . . .” He picked up a fork, jabbed one of the petrified slabs in the pan, and held it up. “. . . dry. Then what did you do?”

  Min folded her arms. “When they were browned, I put the mushrooms in and poured the wine over and let it reduce.”

  “No butter?”

  “No butter,” Min said. “Are you insane?”

  “No,” Cal said, dropping the chicken back in the pan. “But anybody who makes chicken marsala without olive oil, butter, or flour may be. If you wanted broiled chicken, you should have made broiled chicken.” He dipped his finger in the sauce and tasted it. It was so vile he lost his breath, and Min ran him a glass of water and handed it to him.

  “I don’t know why that part didn’t work,” she said.

  “What marsala did you use?” Cal said when he’d gotten the taste out of his mouth, and she handed him a bottle of cooking wine. “No, no, no,” he said and then relented when she winced. “Look, honey, when you make wine sauce, you’re cooking the wine down, concentrating it. You have to use good wine or it’ll taste like . . .” He looked down at the pan. “. . . this. It’s a wonder the cat’s not dead.”

  “Ouch,” Min said. “Could you write that down for me?”

  “No,” Cal said, and then they heard a crash from another room. He looked around. “Your cat’s gone, Minnie. You leave a window open anywhere?”

  “I have one of those cheapo sliding screens in the bedroom,” Min said and went through a doorway beside the mantel to look. “Oh, this is good,” she said when she was inside, and