“Better go home or you’ll be in as much trouble as I am,” Montoya advised the dog. Apollo cocked his head, then took off like a bullet, leaped over the shrubbery effortlessly, and galloped onto the porch to his waiting owner.

“What do you think you’re doing, leaving the yard?” the neighbor reprimanded, chuckling as she gently scolded the dog and held the screen door open. Apollo shot inside as the woman waved at Montoya. Then she shoved her cigarette into one of the potted plants positioned around a porch swing and shut the door firmly behind her.

Time to face the music.

Montoya’s house was dark, not even the porch light left burning for him.

Not a good sign.

He opened the door and caught the thin smell of smoke from candles recently extinguished, hovering over the aromas of cheese, garlic, and fish.

He snapped on the overhead light and saw that the small dining table was still set for two. Shiny white plates sat empty and waiting upon gold chargers and bold, striped place mats. Beside a small glass bowl of rose petals, three once-tall white candles, their wicks blackened, trailed wax that was still warm.

No doubt he was in deep trouble.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

He set the keys, bottle of merlot, and loaf of bread on the counter, then headed toward the back of the house. It was double sized, as Montoya had bought the property next door and combined the two buildings. Of course, he’d had to gut and renovate the place after Hurricane Katrina, but he was happy with the result.

A line of flickering illumination was visible under their bedroom door. The television.

The dog whined and scratched.

Great. More trouble.

He opened the door slowly, and Hershey burst through, a tornado of clicking paws, brown fur, and wet tongue. The dog sniffed wildly, probably smelling Apollo’s lingering odor. “Hey, hey, hey,” Montoya said, giving the dog some attention before poking his head into the bedroom.

“A little late,” Abby said from their bed. Propped by several pillows, she didn’t take her eyes off the television. Yep, she was ticked off. Her hair was piled onto her head, and she was wearing an oversized T-shirt. Her cat, Ansel, was curled into a ball near her head. On Montoya’s pillow. Abby hit the PAUSE button and finally glanced his way.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” she said sharply. Man, was she burned. “Tell it to your son the next time you see him, hopefully in this millennium.”

“It’s work.”

“It’s always work.”