Clare and Aidan went out of their way to avoid each other over the next few days. They said a polite hello in the morning and an equally polite good-bye in the evening. After three days, Clare couldn’t take it anymore.

“Aidan, I’m sorry about the other day.”

“Forget it,” he said as he measured an area over the kitchen sink.

“I can’t forget it. I know I said something that hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t all that nice to you, either. How you handle your kids is none of my business.”

“No, it’s not.” What was it about him that made her feel like she had to explain herself? “There’s more to the story than meets the eye. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” He clipped the tape measure onto his belt and held out a hand. “Truce?”

She studied his outstretched hand for a moment before she reached out to shake it. “Truce.”

“Have you picked out the cabinets and countertop yet?”

“I have an appointment tomorrow.” She walked around to look at what he had done so far. The walls were stripped bare where he had pulled out the old cabinets, and Spackle marked the places where he’d made repairs. The plywood floor was thick with dust and chunks of putty. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“You will when it’s done.”

“So what happened to all your toys?”

His brows knitted with confusion. “What toys?”

“The phones and the pager.”

“They’re history. I just kept one phone for emergencies.”

“What brought that on?”

“Call it a change in direction.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m getting used to the quiet.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m off to the bookstore.”

“Have a good day at the office. Tell Bea I said hi.”

“Thanks, I will.” She slipped on her parka for the walk into town and had reached the front door when he called out to her.

“Clare?”

It was the first time he had called her by name. “Yes?”

He came out of the kitchen and handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

“What’s this for?”

“Soup’s on me tonight.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

He turned back to the kitchen. “See you later,” he said over his shoulder.

“So then he hands me a twenty and says ‘soup’s on me tonight,’” Clare relayed to Bea when she got to the store. “What does that mean?”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Bea said with her trademark “I told you so” smirk.

“It is not. He barely speaks to me.”

“You had a big fight the other night. How can you say he barely speaks to you?”

“Fighting doesn’t count.”