There was a huge bronze-framed oval mirror on one wall. Its glass needed resilvering. A three-foot sculpture in cool white marble dominated one corner. It reminded Zack of a mermaid rising up out of the sea. There were smaller sculptures, as well, all of them passionate, some of them bordering on the ferocious. A timber wolf rearing out of a slab of oak, twisted fingers of bronze and copper that looked like a fire just out of control, a smooth and sinuous malachite cobra ready to strike.

There were shelves of books, and dozens of framed photographs—and there was the unmistakable scent of woman.

Zack felt uncharacteristically awkward and clumsy, and completely out of place. He stuck his hands in his pockets, certain he’d knock over one of those slender tapers. His mother had liked candles, he remembered. Candles and flowers and blue china bowls.

“I’ll make coffee.” Rachel tossed her purse aside and walked into the adjoining kitchen.

“Yeah. Good.” Restless, Zack roamed the room, checked out the view through the cheerful striped curtains, frowned over the photographs that were obviously of her family, paced back to the sofa. “I don’t know what I’m doing. What makes me think I can play daddy to a kid Nick’s age? I wasn’t around for half his life. He hates me. He’s got a right.”

“You’ve been doing fine,” Rachel countered, taking out cups and saucers. “You’re not playing daddy, you’re being his brother. If you weren’t around for half his life, it’s because you had a life of your own. And he doesn’t hate you. He’s angry and full of resentment which is a long way from hate—which he wouldn’t have any right to. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, and get out the milk.”

“Is that how you cross-examine?” Not sure whether he was amused or annoyed, Zack opened the refrigerator.

“No, I’m much tougher than that in court.”

“I bet.” He shook his head at the contents of her refrigerator. Yogurt, a package of bologna, another of cheese, several diet soft drinks, a jug of white wine, two eggs, and half a stick of butter. “You’re out of milk.”

She swore, then sighed. “So we drink it black. Did you and Nick have a fight?”

“No— I mean no more than usual. He snarls, I snarl back. He swears, I swear louder. But we actually had what could pass for a conversation last night, then watched an old movie on the tube after the bar closed.”

“Ah, progress…” She handed him his coffee in a dainty cup and saucer that felt like a child’s tea set in his hands.