“I said that? Oh, last week? When you were steaming toward a deadline and said you couldn’t be disturbed?”

Rich heard her choking on a laugh in the next room.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost six. Jeez. He’d been sleeping all day.

He shuffled into the living room in his T-shirt, sling, boxers.

The table was set and champagne was open, standing in a flowerpot full of ice. Cindy bent over the table and lit some candles.

“Sit here, honey,” she said, patting the back of the chair. He did what she told him to do, then watched her pour champagne into the two flutes they had gotten at a flea market six months ago.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked.

“It’s a new tradition,” Cindy told him.

Now he smelled the aroma of herbs and spices coming from the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours.

“What are we calling this tradition?” he asked. “It’s the first-day-of-the-month dinner, Richie. And I propose that we do this every month, no matter what. No matter what case. No matter what deadline. We need to shut everything off for an hour and just be together.”

“Sure, Cindy. It’s a good idea. Why do you look so sad?”

“I have to apologize.”

“For?”

“I’ve been straying in my mind.”

“Some other guy?”

“No, not that.”

Cindy explained to him that she’d been in a panic about committing to marriage and motherhood, had worried about losing her place as a journalist, being marginalized as a part-time writer.

“I’ve been keeping part of myself out of our relationship.”

“Okay, stop beating yourself up now.”

He got up from his seat and hugged Cindy with his good arm. “I want you to be happy, Cindy. I know you’re ambitious and I love that about you. Plus, I’m a boring guy without you.”

“I was so scared when you got shot.”

“I know.”

“It got me focused on the right stuff.”

“Did you make beef stew?”

“For instance, that you’re just the best man in the world.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, Richie. I do.”

“Did you make your deadline today?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Nope.”

“We won’t have babies until you say so. If you say so.”

“You still want to marry me?”

“Feed me our new traditional first-day-of-the-month dinner, Cindy. Please?”

“You betcha. I might have burned it though.”

“Kiss me.”

“Okay. Here. Here. And here.”

“After we eat, let’s go to bed.”

Chapter 117

Chapter 117

JACOBI AND I were having dinner at Aziza, a Moroccan restaurant; aromatic, homey, decorated in deep, earthy tones, and fragrant with all the spices of Arabia.

Jacobi’s color was good and he was wearing a blue sweater that made him look years younger than his age. Better than he’d looked in a long time.