Two Little Secrets. Linda Randall Wisdom

      She used her chopsticks to corral a piece of ginger chicken. “Don’t worry, my brothers wouldn’t be able to do it, either. They’re happy as clams on a football or baseball field and can do their worst on a basketball court. Anything to do with water is way out of their scope. Even Denny could beat them at water polo,” she muttered, choosing a water chestnut next.

      “Denny?”

      Ginna grimaced. “My ex-husband,” she explained. “I usually refer to him as the scum formerly known as Denny. Even if it’s because of him I was able to take this trip.”

      “He wanted you out of the state and sent you here?” Zach asked.

      “If he wanted me out of the state, he’d send me to the Amazon jungle, since he knows how much I hate bugs and snakes,” she said. “About a month before we got divorced, he cleaned out a bank account that was in my name only. He claimed the money was his. I took him to court. One of my clients works on one of the TV court shows. When she heard I was planning to sue, she suggested I apply to the show. As a result, we ended up on camera. He looked like a total idiot, which wasn’t too difficult. The judge saw what an idiot he was, awarded me not only the money he took but punitive damages, since he kept saying he had the right to take the money.” She looked embarrassed. “Not one of the finer points in my life. So what about you? Any ex-wives?”

      Zach shook his head. “I was married for six years, but my wife died four years ago,” he said in a low voice. “Complications from surgery.”

      The way it was explained to him was that she basically bled to death. They couldn’t control the hemorrhaging even when they performed a hysterectomy in hopes of stopping the heavy flow. But it was too late. Cathy only saw her babies for a few seconds after they were born. She didn’t even have a chance to discuss their ideas for names. In the end he took the names that were at the top of the list. Names written in Cathy’s delicate script.

      Ginna’s expression softened. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

      “I am so sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine what you went through. I bet she was special.”

      “She was,” he said. “She was an artist. She liked to work in pastels. Chalks. She’d create these incredible landscapes and seascapes that seemed to leap out at you. I wouldn’t have thought someone working with chalk could come up with anything so powerful, but she managed to do it.”

      “Denny’s talent was that he could burp ‘Jingle Bells’ and crush a beer can against his forehead,” she told him. “I’d say you definitely had the better deal. I was really into my stupid period when I met him. He seemed adorable in a Neanderthal way. I was blind to his faults, and by the time I realized what a major mistake I’d made, we were married. Since I was brought up to face my mistakes, I decided to make the best of it. Which didn’t work out at all. My parents wanted to throw a party the day I told them I filed for divorce. My dad declared I’d finally come to my senses.”

      “But it was still hard on you,” Zach guessed. “Because you saw it as a failure.”

      “I wanted a marriage like my parents,” she conceded. “But that meant meeting someone who had the same ideals I did. And Denny didn’t have them. He wanted things that weren’t possible.” For a moment pain flashed across her face. “And when he couldn’t get them, he blamed me.” Her words ended on a bare whisper.

      “Because it was easier than blaming himself.” Now he was offering the comfort. “We guys are pretty bad about things like that. If he screwed things up between you, it wasn’t because of you. It was all him.”

      “I don’t think his new wife would say that.” She laughed softly. “But thank you.”

      “I bet you wished you’d given him a lousy haircut,” he said in hopes of lightening the atmosphere.

      “I was tempted to offer to give him a haircut, then shave something on the back of his head. ‘Kick me’ seemed like a good idea.”

      “Oh, come on, with a little thought you could have come up with something better,” he teased.

      “Only if I could have insured he’d be arrested the minute he stepped outside.” She trapped another piece of chicken with her chopsticks. “Wow, how did we fall into such a heavy subject?”

      “It wasn’t easy, but we somehow accomplished it.”

      “You never did say what type of column you write,” she pressed. “Do I get a hint?”

      “A men’s column,” he replied.

      Ginna nodded. “Sports? Tools? Cars?”

      “Single men in today’s world.” He opted to give her an edited answer.

      “Isn’t it pretty simple what single guys do in today’s world? They hang out in sports bars where they talk about sports, tools and cars,” Ginna said. “Not to mention they talk about women, but that’s a given.”

      “Just as women get together and talk about men,” he countered.

      She inclined her head in silent agreement. “We do have that nasty habit of dissecting the male gender. But you men stand around moaning and groaning all the time that you don’t understand us. When all it would take to understand us is to sit there and listen to what we have to say.” She stabbed the air with her chopsticks for emphasis.

      “But do you always give us the four-one-one we need to understand you?” he argued, using the slang term for information.

      Ginna rolled her eyes. “Hello!” she sang out. “Let me give you an excellent example.” She closed her eyes in thought, her chin resting in her cupped hand. Her eyes popped open. “Denny’s and my sixth-month anniversary. I spent the day at the spa getting gorgeous because we were going to go out for dinner. Wore the slinky dress and everything. Denny comes home from work and asks why I’m so dressed up. Oh, sure, it’s our sixth-month anniversary, and yeah, we’re going out to dinner. But his idea of dinner was a hot dog at a hockey game.”

      “Wow, I’m impressed,” Zach said with mock reverence. “Not many guys would consider feeding you first.”

      She shot him a fierce glare that experience had taught him only a woman can give.

      “What about your sixth-month anniversary?”

      Zach got an edgy hunted look.

      “I thought we were talking about you,” he muttered, refusing to meet her eyes.

      “And now we’re focusing on you. So give.” Her brilliant blue eyes turned steely.

      Zach looked away, mumbled something, then quickly returned to his food. He stabbed at a piece of beef with his fork.

      “Zach, tell me.”

      He mumbled again.

      “Excuse me?”

      He blew out a breath. “Fine.” He snapped off the word like an icicle. “I bought her a new washer.”

      “A washer,” Ginna repeated. “As in optional second rinse, dual agitator, heavy-duty-load capacity washer?”

      “Yes,” he grudgingly admitted.

      “And I thought my night at the hockey game was bad,” she mused. “At least Denny bought me a T-shirt.”

      “It was a top-of-the-line washer,” Zach huffily informed her.

      “Which means the salesperson suckered you in to buying more than you needed,” she translated. “And what did she say about her oh-so-romantic gift?”

      Zach looked as if he wished he was anywhere but there. “I thought she was hinting for a new washer because she kept talking about my clothes. What she was saying was that if I didn’t start picking up my dirty clothing and tossing it in the hamper where it belonged, she’d throw it in a bucket and add bleach.