Tempted. Megan Hart

      “I’ll make sure to stock up on white bread and bologna,” I said, the prospect of Alex staying in our house suddenly not as daunting as it had been before.

      “Anne,” Alex said after a pause, “you are a goddess among women.”

      “So I’m told.”

      “Seriously. Tell me what you want me to bring you from Europe.”

      The shift in conversation surprised me. “I don’t want anything!”

      “Chocolate? Sausage? Treacle? What? I might have a hard time smuggling heroin or pot or prostitutes from Amsterdam, though. You’d better keep it legal.”

      “Really, Alex, you don’t have to bring me anything.”

      “Of course I do. If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll just ask Jamie.”

      “I’d say treacle,” I told him. “But I’m not sure what it is … does it come from a well?”

      He chuckled. “It’s molasses. It comes in a jar.”

      “Bring me that.”

      “Ah, a woman who likes to live on the wild side. No wonder Jamie married you.”

      “There’s more than one reason,” I said.

      I realized I’d been standing still, chatting, for several minutes. Alex had so engaged me I hadn’t felt the need to multitask. I looked again to the kitchen, but James had disappeared. I heard the mumble of television from the den.

      “I was sorry I couldn’t make the wedding. I heard it was a blast.”

      “Did you? From James?”

      A silly question. From who else would he have heard it? Except James had never mentioned he’d been in touch with Alex. James had spoken frequently about his best friend from junior high school, though on the subject of their falling-out he’d been rather more vague. He had other friends … but we were getting married, and I have a habit of trying to make things better. I’d been the one to add Alex’s name to the guest list, uncertain even if the address I found in James’s outdated address book was the right one. I figured whatever had happened between them might be repaired with a little outreach. When he’d sent regrets, I wasn’t surprised, but at least we’d made the attempt. Apparently it had worked better than I’d known.

      “Yeah.”

      “It was a very nice wedding,” I said. “It was too bad you couldn’t make it, but now you’ll get to come for a long visit, instead.”

      “He sent me pictures. You both look very happy.”

      “He sent you … pictures? Of our wedding?” I looked at the fireplace mantel, where a framed photo of us still rested even after six years. I always wondered how long it was acceptable to display wedding photos. I guessed at least until baby photos came along to replace them.

      “Yeah.”

      That surprised me, too. I’d sent photos to a few of my friends who hadn’t been able to attend, but … well, we were women. Chicks did stuff like that, giggled over pictures and sent chatty e-mails.

      “Well ….” I trailed off, awkward. “When are you coming in?”

      “I have a few details to work out with the airline. I’ll let Jamie know.”

      “Sure. Do you want me to get him for you?”

      “I’ll e-mail him.”

      “Okay. I’ll tell him.”

      “Well, Anne, it’s almost two in the morning here. I’m going to go to bed. I’ll talk to you soon.”

      “Goodbye, Alex—” He’d already disconnected, leaving me to stare at the phone, a bit taken aback.

      There was nothing odd, not really, about his being in touch with James. Men’s friendships were different from women’s. My husband never told me about talking to Alex, but that didn’t mean he was keeping it a secret. It just meant he hadn’t thought enough of it to share. In fact, I should be happy they’d resolved their differences. It would be nice to meet James’s dear friend, Alex, the rascal. The ragged one who ran round and round the rugged rock. The one who promised me treats from Wonderland. The one who called my husband, Jamie, not James.

      The one James had only ever spoken of in past tense.

      Mary’s phone beeped for the fourth time in half an hour, but this time she only glanced at it before shoving it deep into her purse. “So how long is he staying?”

      “I don’t know.” I lifted a crystal picture frame from a shelf laden with them. “How about this one?”

      My sister made a face. “No.”

      I put it back and looked around the store. “They’re all like that in here. We’re not going to find anything.”

      “Whose bright idea was it to get a fancy picture frame, anyway? Oh, right,” Mary said sarcastically. “Patricia’s. So why are we suckered into trying to find one?”

      “Because Patricia can’t come to places like this with the kids.” I scanned the shelves but all the frames were similar. Overpriced and glittering with ugliness.

      “Right. And I don’t suppose Sean can watch the rugrats in the evening?”

      I shrugged, but something in Mary’s tone made me look up. “I don’t know. Why? Did she say something about it?”

      Sisters also share a nonverbal language. Mary’s posture and expression said it all, but in case I missed what she was trying to say, she said it anyway. “He’s a jerk.”

      “Oh, c’mon, Mare.”

      “Haven’t you noticed how she doesn’t talk about him anymore? And it used to be all, Sean this, Sean that, Sean says, Sean thinks. Tell me you haven’t noticed we’ve been spared the Gospel of Sean lately. And she’s been an even bigger priss than usual. Something’s going on.”

      “Like what?” We abandoned the frou-frou shop and headed out into the bright June sunshine.

      “Well, I don’t know.” Mary rolled her eyes.

      “Maybe you should ask her.”

      My sister gave me another look. “You could ask her.”

      The sight of a familiar shock of black hair and a wardrobe that had dangerously malfunctioned made us both pause.

      “Oh, brother,” Mary said under her breath. “Goth vomited all over her.”

      I laughed. “Is that what that is?”

      “I think you used to call it punk back in the day. Holy cow. She never quits. I thought she was seeing that guy who worked at the record store.” Mary sounded awed. “Who’s that guy?”

      Claire was grinning and flirting with a very tall, very lanky young man with enough metal in his face to set off an airport security alarm. She wore a set of black-and-white striped stockings, a black lace skirt with a jagged hem and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a punk rock band that had swirled down the drain of drug overdoses before she’d been born.

      “She definitely marches to the beat of her own drum,” I said.

      “Yeah, that and an electric guitar, two French horns and a synthesizer.”

      Claire looked up and waved from across the parking lot, said her adieu to her new suitor and headed toward us. “Ladies. Good morning.”

      “It’s afternoon,” Mary pointed out.

      “Depends on what time you got up,” countered Claire with an unashamed grin. “So what’s the happs?”

      “Anne can’t decide on a frame.”

      “Hey!”