“Thanks, but I’m fine. That’s what moving companies are for. Call me next week, okay?”

She could do that. He sounded worried about her, and that was a nice thing to have. “I will.”

“Good. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Sara hung up and glanced over at Gabriel. He didn’t seem to be listening, but would he think it was odd for her to say she loved her mother’s boyfriend? But she did, in a truly platonic sense, because Rafe had made her mother happy. He had loved her mother, calmly and consistently, and that wasn’t an easy feat for anyone. Her mother had been volatile and difficult to live with. But Rafe had been a calming influence on her.

No one would even think twice about it if Rafe had been sixty to her mother’s forty-six. But because he had only been thirty-one, everyone had doubted the legitimacy of their relationship. Doubted that any man could love an older woman without an ulterior motive.

Gabriel was spoon tapping again. He seemed to have a spoon collection, though they weren’t souvenir spoons. She wasn’t sure what they were exactly, but he had at least twelve of them, lined up on the wall, hanging from nails that he hooked through the holes in the bowl part of the utensil. He had a different one in his hand than he’d had the other day, and he flicked it on the desk to the rhythm he was obviously hearing through his headphones. He was musically talented, judging by the ease with which he held the rhythm, while reading his computer screen. Which wasn’t surprising, given that he played the piano. Or had played the piano.

She wondered if he associated the piano with alcohol.

That would be a good reason to distance himself from music. If not, she thought it was terribly tragic that he didn’t hear music anymore.

Adjusting her laptop computer on her legs on the couch, Sara checked her e-mail. She’d been surprised that Gabriel had wireless access in his apartment since his building was so old and lacking in other amenities, but he really did need it to do his job. It wasn’t vital in her field, and she’d been off of work anyway, but she did like to check her mail occasionally. She had a lot of spam, and some forwarded jokes from her friend Jocelyn, as well as a personal e-mail from her inquiring how her sightseeing trip was going. Sara felt a little guilty for misleading Jocelyn as well, but she hadn’t been able to tell her why she was coming to New Orleans. It had just seemed too odd, too desperate, for anyone else to understand.

Sara dashed off a brief reply that said a whole lot of nothing. Clicking through the rest of messages in her inbox, she paused at one.