Public Secrets

but not so close that she felt afraid. As she scrubbed a green pepper she realized she wasn’t afraid around him. Uneasy perhaps, but not afraid.
“You’re good at this.”
“I took top honors in vegetable chopping five years running.” She brushed him away. “Go start the grill.”

Later, she carried the salad out to a round wooden table beside a pathetic bed of petunias. A critical glance told her he was handling the steaks well enough, so she went back in. Emma wasn’t sure what to make of the giant package of paper plates in the cupboard. A further search unearthed a trio of empty beer bottles, a drawer full of ketchup and mustard packets, and a mother lode of Chef Boyardee pasta meals in a can. She checked the dishwasher, discovered that was where he stored his laundry, and wondered if he had a clothes hamper somewhere full of dishes and flatware.
She found them in the microwave—two pretty china plates with baby roses painted around the edges, matching bowls, and a pair of steak knives and forks.
By the time he’d grilled the steaks, she had the table set as best she could.
“I couldn’t find any salad dressing,” she told him.
“Salad dressing. Right.” He set the steaks down. Now that she was here, looking so right, so simply right smiling at him with one hand resting on the dog’s head, he thought it was foolish to try to pretend he knew what he was doing with the meal.
If they were to get to know each other, really get to know each other this time around, she might as well see what she was getting into from the first.
“Make sure Conroy doesn’t get any idea about these,” he said, then walked to the chain-link fence and swung over. He was back in a few moments with a bottle of Wishbone and a fat blue candle. “Mrs. Petrowski says hello.”
With a laugh, Emma glanced over and saw a woman leaning out of the back door of the house next door. Because it seemed natural, she waved before she turned back to Michael.
“Her dishes?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re very nice.”
“I wanted to do better than a burger on the beach this time around.”
Cautious, she passed him the salad. “I’m glad you asked me to come. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk when you came to New York. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to show you around.”
“Next time,” he said and cut into his steak.

They lingered over the meal until twilight. She’d forgotten what it was like to talk about unimportant things, to laugh over dinner with music in the background and a candle flickering. The dog, sated with half of Emma’s steak, snored by her feet. Nerves, strung tight for months, smoothed out.
He could see the change. It was a gradual, almost a muscle-by-muscle relaxation. She never spoke of her marriage, or the separation. He found it odd. He had friends, both male and female, who had gone through divorces. During the process, and long afterward, it had been their favorite topic of conversation.
When Rosemary Clooney’s seductive voice drifted from the radio, he rose and pulled Emma to her feet. “The old ones are the best to dance to,” he said when she took a step in retreat.
“I really don’t—”
“And it’d give Mrs. Petrowski such a thrill.” Gently, drew her closer, forcing himself to keep the embrace friendly and undemanding.
Emma moved with him automatically as Clooney crooned out “Tenderly.” Closing her eyes, she concentrated on staying relaxed, on ignoring the emotions that were creeping into her. She didn’t want to feel anything, unless it was peace.
There was only a flutter of a breeze now as they danced across the grass. The shadows were long. When she opened her eyes on a long, careful breath, she could see the sky in the west glowing in sunset.
“When I was waiting for you to come, I figured out that we’ve known each other about eighteen years.” He brushed a finger over the back of her hand. She didn’t jerk away this time, but there was a moment of stillness. “Eighteen years,” he repeated. “Even though I can count the days I’ve spent with you on one hand.”
“You didn’t pay any attention to me the first time we met.” She forgot to be nervous when she smiled up at him. “You were too busy being dazzled by Devastation.”
“Eleven-year-old boys can’t notice girls. Those particular optic nerves don’t develop until the age of thirteen, twelve in some precocious cases.”
Chuckling, she didn’t object when he brought her a few inches closer. “I