But she couldn’t deny, too, that she felt herself drawn to JJ like a passerby to a car wreck. Yesterday, after she’d taken the decanter from him, the look he’d given her made her skin crawl—yet, when he’d told her, “Come back tomorrow,” she had said, “Yes, all right.” She supposed she was foolish not to run from him. Maybe she had read too many Nancy Drew stories, after all, imagining she could descend into the mystery of the Mickelson house and emerge unscathed.

On the other hand, this was the first excitement she’d had since arriving in Pine Rapids. She wasn’t about to shrink from it.

On her way to the Mickelson house, she stopped at the bungalow to pick up a plate she’d made up of last night’s leftovers: salmon patties, parsley-buttered potatoes, and creamed peas. When she’d asked Byron how he’d liked it, he’d said, “Just fine, Doll,” which meant he didn’t like it at all. She’d been about to throw the extra two patties in the trash when she thought of JJ. There was no point in letting good food go to waste when there was a wifeless man across town.

Retrieving the plate from the refrigerator now, she decided to heat it in her oven—she liked excitement, but she was a little nervous about returning to the house, too. Last night, she had tossed and turned for hours, worrying about the mess she’d gotten herself into. The harder she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to stop thinking about it, the more images of JJ Mickelson flooded her mind. His flinty eyes, his chapped lips, his stubbled chin. The way he’d looked at her when she’d taken the decanter from him. She couldn’t help but imagine him sitting alone in that big house on the hill with his liquor, bent on the obliteration of consciousness that sleep would not provide him, for she was sure she had seen nightmares in his eyes. Was he getting drunk with the intention of doing something awful to the house? Or to himself? Would she be the one to discover his destruction?

As Dolly’s mind raced, the heat of Byron’s body and the contented sounds of his sleep had been well nigh unbearable. His every breath seemed to accuse her of a kind of unfaithfulness, saying, It’s our house you should care for. What about our house? What about me?

All she had wanted was to do her best for Byron, and look where it had gotten her. She was neglecting the cleaning at the bungalow, repeating last year’s menus—what was next, allowing plants to go unwatered, socks undarned, shirts unstarched?

Well, there was nothing to be done about her shortcomings just now. She pulled the warm plate from the oven, covered it, and set out.