It didn’t occur to her to label it love at first sight. In her mind love at first sight was something that happened to Cinderella and Fred Astaire. Love at first sight was when two strangers locked eyes across a crowded ballroom, and the whole rest of the world faded away. Singing and dancing were necessary elements to love at first sight. The feeling she had for Dave was more like locking wire carts at the supermarket. Some humor, some annoyance, and an inability to separate the damn things.

The truth was, she didn’t want to unlock her cart from Dave’s just yet. She felt drawn to him. But more important, under the restless energy of sexual attraction was security, comfort, and satisfaction. How she could derive those stable emotions from an unemployed bum, she couldn’t begin to guess.

From the corner of her eye she watched the rise and fall of his chest, studied the set of his mouth, and happily concluded he was going through similar agonies. He wanted to touch her, just as she wanted to touch him. She was almost sure of it. And she didn’t mind acting on assumptions, since he looked as if he was not going to make a move. “Dave?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you going to kiss me, or what?”

He grinned at her. “I didn’t want to be pushy. I was afraid you might go home.”

“Not a chance. You’re stuck with me. I’m no Chicken Little, but I’m not unnecessarily brave either. I have a very strong sense of survival.”

“And you’ve decided I’m less dangerous than Pistol-Packin’ Elsie?”

“Something like that.”

Their eyes held and measured. “I’m not sure my male ego can handle that.” But he was secretly flattered.

Kate laughed. “Your male ego seems pretty healthy to me.” She sank farther into the couch. “Anyway, it’s not just Elsie that has me spooked. It’s the house. It’s always felt empty, even when it was filled with furniture. When Anatole and I lived there, our furniture was all very sterile and very modern—just like our marriage. Anatole liked it that way, but I never felt comfortable. Now that I’m alone the house still feels”—she searched for a word—“stern. There’s no whimsy to it. It doesn’t feel friendly. Maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten around to furnishing it. It’s a terrific house, but not for me. Now that it has a hole in the roof, it feels downright creepy.”

She looked at Dave’s sitting room walls, which were lined with old photographs and bookshelves filled to brimming, and she smiled with lazy contentment.

“Your house feels good. Warm and cluttered with life.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Your house feels safe because you’ve made it a home, a haven. My house is just a tall, narrow building that attracts disaster.”