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  “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 Cal followed her in.

  Her sliding screen was gone from the dormer window, which was now open to the night air. Cal went over and looked out. The screen was halfway down the roof, and the cat was sitting in a tree branch that tapped the shingles, washing its paws. Its left eye was closed.

  “It does switch eyes,” Cal said, pulling his head back in. “Maybe it’s conserving . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw Min’s bedroom.

  Most of it was filled with the most elaborate brass bed he’d ever seen, a huge thing covered with a watery lavender-blue satin comforter and lavender satin pillows that were piled against a headboard that curved and twined, erupting in brass rosettes and finials, until he grew dizzy just looking at it. “How do you keep from falling out of bed?”

  “I just hold on and try not to look at the headboard,” Min said. “I love it. I bought it last month even though it was completely impractical. . . .”

  She went on, but Cal had stopped listening when she said, “I just hold on,” imagining her lying back on the soft blue satin comforter, her soft gold-tipped curls spread out on the pillows, her soft lips open as she smiled at him, her soft hands gripping the headboard, her soft body—

  “Cal?” Min said.

  “It smells good in here,” Cal said, trying to find a thought that didn’t have “soft” in it. Or “hard,” for that matter.

  “Lavender pillows,” Min said. “My grandmother always put lavender in her pillowcases. Or maybe it’s the cinnamon candles.”

  Cal cleared his throat. “Well, it’s . . . nice. It’s the first thing I’ve seen in this apartment that looks like you.” The thought of tipping her onto that blue comforter was entirely too plausible, so he said, “We should go eat. Now.”

  “Okay,” Min said and started for the door.

  “You want the window closed?” Cal said.

  “Then how will the cat get back in?” Min said.

  “Good point,” Cal said, thinking, Oh, Christ, I gave her a feral cat, and followed her out.

  When they were eating Emilio’s salad, Min said, “So chicken marsala is not heart smart or weight friendly.”

  “Heart smart?” Cal said, picking up his tumbler of wine. “Does that mean good for your heart? Because it is. I told you, olive oil is good for you. And a little bit of flour and butter won’t kill you.”

  “Tell that to my mother.” Min tasted her salad again. “This is so good. You know, the lesson here is, I shouldn’t be cooking.”

  “Why?” Cal said. “It was the first time you tried. Everybody makes mistakes.” He picked up the chicken carton and filled the two plates, managing it so that nothing spilled.

  “Except you,” Min said, watching him. “You do everything well.”

  “Okay,” Cal said, putting the carton down. “You just got dumped, I get that, but you didn’t care about the guy, so why are you still so mad and taking it out on me?”

  Min cut into her chicken. “He was sort of the last straw.” She put the chicken in her mouth and chewed, and got the same blissful look she always got when eating good food.

  “You should never diet.” Cal picked up his fork and began to eat. “So what did he do that you can’t get over?”

  “Well.” Min stabbed a mushroom with more antagonism than it deserved. “It was mostly my weight.”

  “He criticized your weight?” Cal shook his head. “This guy has the brains of a brick.”

  “He didn’t criticize, exactly,” Min said. “He just suggested that I should go on a diet. And then he left because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”

  “He told you to go on a diet and then asked you to bed?” Cal said. “I take it back. Bricks are smarter than this dipwad.”

  “Yes, but he has a point,” Min said. “I mean, about my weight.” She looked at him, defiant. “Right?”

  “There is no way I can answer that without getting all that rage put back on me,” Cal said. “Keep it on the loser who dumped you. I’m the good guy.”

  Min stabbed another mushroom, and then put the fork down. “Okay, I’ll give you a free pass on this one. No matter what you say, I won’t get mad.”

  Cal looked at her stormy face and laughed. “How are you going to work that?”

  Min nodded. “Okay, I’ll get mad, but I’ll play fair. The thing is, you’re the only man I trust enough to tell me the truth.”

  “You trust me?” Cal said, surprised and flattered. “I thought I was a beast.”

  “You are,” Min said. “But you do tend to tell me the truth. On most things.”

  Cal stopped eating. “On all things. I’ve never lied to you.”

  “Yeah,” Min said dismissively. “So what am I supposed to do about my weight?”

  Cal put his fork down. “All right. Here’s the truth. You’re never going to be thin. You’re a round woman. You have wide hips and a round stomach and full breasts. You’re . . .”

  “Healthy,” Min said bitterly.

  “Lush,” Cal said, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breasts under her sweatshirt.

  “Generous,” Min snarled.

  “Opulent,” Cal said, remembering the soft curve of her under his hand.

  “Zaftig,” Min said.

  “Soft and round and hot, and I’m turning myself on,” Cal said, starting to feel dizzy. “Do you have anything on under that sweatshirt?”

  “Of course,” Min said, taken aback.

  “Oh,” Cal said, ditching that fantasy. “Good. We should be eating. What were we talking about?”

  “My weight?” Min said.

  “Right,” Cal said, picking up his fork again. “The reason you can’t lose weight is that you’re not supposed to lose weight, you’re not built that way, and if you did manage through some stupid diet to take the weight off, you’d be like that chicken mess you just made. Some things are supposed to be made with butter. You’re one of them.”

  “So I’m doomed,” Min said.

  “Another problem is that you don’t listen. You want to be sexy, be sexy. You have assets that skinny women will never have, and you should be enjoying them and dressing like you enjoy them. Or at least dressing so that others can enjoy them. That suit you were wearing the night I picked you up made you look like a prison warden.” He remembered looking down the front of her red sweater and added, “Your underwear’s good, though.”

  “There are no clothes that look good on me,” Min said.

  “Of course there are,” Cal said, still making his way through dinner. “Although you’re the kind of woman who looks better naked than dressed.” His treacherous mind tried to imagine that and he blocked it. “I’m assuming. Eat, please. Hunger makes you cranky.”

  “I look better naked?” Min said, picking up her fork again. “No. Listen—”

  “You asked, I told you,” Cal said. “You just don’t want to hear it. The truth is, most guys would rather go to bed with you than with a clothes hanger, you’re a lot more fun to touch, but most women don’t believe that. You keep trying to lose weight for each other.”

  Min rolled her eyes. “So I’ve been sexy all these years? Why hasn’t anybody