With This Ring. Lee McKenzie

      The sudden sharpness in his voice surprised her. “They were a gift from Gerald,” she said, holding it in her palm, still a little reluctant to touch it after seeing where it had been. “I’m going to give them back.”

      “Then it’s a good thing you didn’t lose it.”

      That was true. “Nothing is going right today. I’m usually not this much trouble.”

      His eyes seemed to soften. “Leslie, you’re no trouble. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to clean out the trap once in a while.”

      “Is it called that because it traps things that fall down the drain?”

      “Afraid not. Every time you turn on the tap, most of the water runs through the system but some of it always stays behind in this bend. That water closes off the pipe so gas from the sewer doesn’t come up into the house.”

      “That is really disgusting.”

      He laughed. “Not as disgusting as a house full of sewer gas.”

      That was true. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation like this.”

      “And I’ve never had to fish diamonds out of a drainpipe. I guess that makes us even.”

      “Actually, I owe you for this. For everything.”

      “Next time I need something, I’ll know who to ask.”

      For the first time that day he sounded like the guy she’d known in high school, always quick with a comeback and a double meaning. It had bugged her in those days, but right now she didn’t mind playing along. “You can ask, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get what you want.”

      “I’m well aware of that, but sometimes persistence pays off.”

      His gaze held hers like a magnet. She couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried, and the walls of the tiny bathroom seemed to close in on them. She might have been tempted to continue the game if he hadn’t just let on that her being here had something to do with his persistence. She had assumed his driving by the church had been a coincidence, but what if it wasn’t? If that was the case, it definitely wouldn’t be right to lead him on, and she always did the right thing.

      Brent lightly touched her shoulder and urged her toward the door, then bent to pick up the tools. “Dinner’s getting cold,” he said softly. “I’ll put the plumbing back together while you serve it. Plates are in the cupboard next to the fridge.”

      It was as if he’d sensed her confusion and was giving her an easy way out. She took it.

      Chapter Four

      Leslie set out two plates, the take-out boxes and the chopsticks. She was putting away the groceries when Brent came into the kitchen. He set the bucket and tools on the porch and closed the French doors. When he turned around and looked at her, the kitchen suddenly felt as small as the bathroom.

      “Um, I guess we’re ready to eat,” she said.

      “Would you like a glass of wine with dinner?” he asked. “I bought white. I hope that’s okay.”

      “Thanks. I’d love some. Do you mind if I use your phone to check my messages?”

      “You can use the phone anytime you like.” He opened and closed one drawer, then another, and finally produced a corkscrew. “I knew I had one of these somewhere. You expecting an important call?”

      “Not really. I just wondered if people are still looking for me.”

      “I think it’s safe to say they are. Do you plan to return the calls?”

      She shook her head.

      “Then why don’t you leave the messages till you’re ready to deal with them?”

      Good question. “In case you’re wondering, I’m not checking to see if Gerald called.”

      “You think he would?” Brent uncorked the bottle and took a wineglass out of a cupboard.

      She shrugged. “Someone called earlier, twice, and hung up.”

      He glanced up at her.

      “I checked my messages while you were out. I’m sure it wasn’t him, though.”

      “Right.” He gestured toward the phone. “Be my guest.”

      “Thanks.” But as soon as she heard the eight new messages and deleted them, she wished she hadn’t checked. For one thing, she knew Brent could probably hear them, too. Four were from Allison, who said she’d sent her husband to Leslie’s place three times to see if she was there. She might never go home if it meant having to deal with people calling incessantly and showing up at her door.

      As she deleted the last message, she watched Brent pour wine into the glass. After she hung up, he handed it to her.

      “Aren’t you having any?” she asked.

      “Not a big fan.” He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, twisted off the cap and touched the rim to her wineglass. He opened a drawer and took out a fork and then, almost as an afterthought, grabbed a beer glass from the same cupboard the wineglass had been in.