“But surely it can wait till after dinner! It’s your birthday! There’ll be a cake—”

“It’ll have to keep, Allison. I’ve got to go now. Tell our friends I said to enjoy my birthday party. They’ll understand.”

“But will your wife?” The words burst out before Allison could stop them, gushing like blood from a ruptured artery. “When you proposed, you talked about all the good times we’d have together. But all you seem to think about is that blasted theater business of yours! Lately I feel as if I don’t even exist for you!” She blinked away a scalding tear. “Damn it, Burke, sometimes you don’t even remember to call me by the right name!”

He stepped backward, his mouth a grim, flat line. “I don’t have time for this, Allison. Not now.”

“So when will you have time?” she demanded, catching the sleeve of his dinner jacket. “Tomorrow? Next month? How about never?”

“Don’t be a child.” Jerking loose, he turned and walked away. As he opened the door, the lush piano notes of “The Second Time Around” drifted into the twilight.

For an instant Burke seemed to hesitate. Then he strode across the threshold and closed the door with a click, leaving her alone.

Allison’s stomach clenched as she heard the garage door opening and, seconds later, the growl of Burke’s 1988 Porsche Carrera backing down the driveway onto Peaceful Lane. He drove that old car like a testosterone-charged teenager, especially when he was upset; and that twisting highway between here and downtown Branson could be dangerous at night, especially in bad weather.

She should have told him to be careful. But then, what difference would it have made? Burke never paid any heed to her concerns. She could only pray he wouldn’t slide off the road or cut too close around a blind curve and meet a truck coming the other way.

Smoothing her hair, she turned back toward the lighted French doors. She had no choice except to go back inside and put on a cheerful face for Burke’s friends. But she knew there’d be talk, especially after the way he’d gone roaring off.

Burke had said they’d understand, and maybe they would. He’d worked for decades, first as a theatrical agent, scouting the country for talent, and then as CEO of a company that included the agency, some real estate holdings, and the American Heartland Theater, which had earned a solid reputation in Branson, a town whose lifeblood was wholesome family entertainment. Guarding that reputation was all-important to him. But would it have killed the man to wait an hour before racing to defuse a crisis—especially when his presence at dinner meant so much to her?