“This right here makes me think it.” Nimec raised the spatula and wobbled it in the air between them. It was a proffer of evidence, his smoking gun, courtroom exhibits A through Z rolled into one.

Still looking somewhat preoccupied, Annie regarded him without comment as a bright, warm, daisy yellow torrent of east Texas sunshine washed through the window of her kitchen, where they were at the electric range fixing breakfast, Annie with her blond hair spilling mussily over the collar of her bathrobe, Nimec already dressed in Levi’s and a T-shirt, Annie’s kids in their pajamas at the opposite end of the house, just stirring under their bedcovers, this being Sunday morning after all.

“You’d better flip that thing,” Annie said finally. She nodded toward the sizzling dollop of pancake batter she’d ladled onto the hot skillet in front of him.

“You sure?”

“Unless, of course, you have some reason for wanting to serve Chris and Linda burned pancakes—”

“Ah-hah. Got you. There it is,” he said.

“There what is?”

“More proof that you’re upset with me.” Nimec gave the implement in his hand another little shake. “I’m using a metal spatula right here. And the skillet’s your expensive nonstick. Means I’m supposed to use a Teflon-coated spatula or screw up the finish, right?”

Annie looked at the blade of the spatula with surprised recognition.

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

“Ah-hah,” Nimec repeated, and gave her a look that meant his case was closed, open and shut.

He reached past Annie, slipped the spatula into a wall-holder jammed with cooking utensils, pulled a coated spatula from it, and immediately turned the pancake onto its unbrowned side.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “If you know you aren’t supposed to use my metal one—”

“It was a test,” he said before she could finish her question.

“A test?”

“Right,” he said. “I grabbed it to see if you’d notice, and then remind me which spatula I am supposed to use.”

“Oh,” she said.

“But you didn’t,” he said. “Notice or remind me, that is.”

“No, I didn’t . . .”

“And you always do,” Nimec said. “From the very first time I stayed over. Except once when we had a fight, and you got quiet like you’ve been all morning.”

Annie watched him transfer the finished pancake to a serving tray and then motion for another ladleful of batter. She dipped into the mixing bowl and poured some onto the pan.

“Okay, that’s plenty, or the middle won’t get done,” he said. “Now how about you tell me why you’re mad.”

“I’m not—”

“You are—”

Annie’s sharp look abruptly silenced him.

“That was you and not a Pete Nimec look alike in my bed when I awoke, oh, forty minutes, an hour ago, wasn’t it?” she said.

“What’s that got to do—?”

“Did the actions I initiated at the time seem angry?”