Second Chance for Romance

“About trying to set you up with her friends.”

I felt a stab of irritation with Wren too, not only for the matchmaking, but also for discussing my private life.

Christy fidgeted with the hem of her pajama top. “She said you didn’t date anyone at all.”

That word again! “And?”

“And I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet. “What for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you sorry you called me a man-whore, or just sorry you were wrong?”

“I—!” Her eyes fell. “Both, I guess.”

My anger flared anew, and I bounded up the stairs. “What gives you the right to judge me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know. You’re right. I—”

“And why do you care who I ‘date’?” I made it sound like pious doublespeak, which it was. “It’s my business, not yours. Don’t apply your goody two shoes Catholic schoolgirl morals to me!”

I stormed inside and slammed the door for good measure.

I replayed the whole thing in my head while I stood under the shower.

When I finally calmed down, long after the hot water ran out, I felt a mixture of frustration and guilt. Christy had no right to judge me by her standards.

And I had no right to yell at her when she was only trying to apologize.

Worse, I had no idea why I’d gotten so upset.

I dressed and went to find her. She was sitting at the kitchen table, poking halfheartedly at a slice of cantaloupe.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It’s all right. You were right. I shouldn’t have judged you.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s enough blame to go around.”

She nodded glumly.

Wren entered the kitchen in her blue bathrobe. She yawned. “What was all the shouting and slamming about?”

“No clue,” I lied smoothly. “Must’ve been the neighbors.”

“Or crazy people,” Christy added.

“Definitely,” I agreed. “Crazy people.”

We shared a hesitant grin.

Wren filled Mr. Coffee and started him gurgling for Trip. “Well, I hope they’re gone now.”

“Me too.”

She grabbed a Coke and shuffled out of the kitchen.

Christy and I were silent. The tension had ebbed between us, but it wasn’t

completely gone.

“Want some cereal?”

“Yes, please.”

I set out two bowls.

She went to the refrigerator. She passed me the carton of milk and then poured two glasses of orange juice.

I opened the pantry. “Grape Nuts or Froot Loops?”

“Whichever you want.”

My hand wavered between them.

“On second thought, Froot Loops.”

I chuckled.

“What?”

“I’d just decided the same thing.”

“Oh. Good.”

We sat across from each other and ate in silence.

“I never realized…,” I said at last.

“What?”

“That bunnies eat Froot Loops.”

“They do.” She smiled into her bowl. “But only on special occasions.”

Chapter 2

By Monday we had the house more or less unpacked. Most of our matching furniture, courtesy of Wren’s mother, went in the main living room.

Trip had set up his expensive McIntosh stereo in the octagon room, along with a vintage console TV that took more than a minute to warm up. We filled the room with odds-and-ends furniture that didn’t fit anywhere else.

Christy and I claimed the two small bedrooms on the third floor. Their windows faced south, so they offered plenty of afternoon light. They’d originally been servants’ rooms, but we wanted to use them as studios.

She arranged a couch and a couple of beanbags in hers. They were castoffs from the Nixon-era decor that Trip’s stepmother had inherited when she married his father. She also added a small desk that had been mine when I was much younger.

My studio boasted a pair of mismatched cloth easy chairs and a large bookcase. I used an old writing desk in place of a drafting table I didn’t own yet, along with an ugly Naugahyde barstool that would do the job of a drafting stool until I found a proper one.

Christy didn’t have much to do in her studio, so she helped me unpack.

“I didn’t know you liked art so much,” she said as she arranged books on the bottom shelf.

“What do you think architecture is? It’s functional art. The best of it, at least.”

“I know. But I guess I never think of it that way. Art is sculpture and paintings.”

“Art is lots of things. I mean, most of the best Renaissance artists were

also architects. Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci. Heck, Brunelleschi is the guy who discovered linear perspective.”

“Who?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head.

I rummaged for a book and sat next to her on the floor. “He was the world’s worst loser.”

“Huh?”

“He lost a competition to Ghiberti—”

“I know him! The Gates of Paradise, right?”

“Right. Well, after Brunelleschi lost, he threw a huge temper tantrum.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” She said it with a grin but flinched when she saw my reaction. “Me! I was talking about me!”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Well, anyway, Brunelleschi went on to build the dome of the Florence Cathedral.” I paged through the book until I found what I was looking for. “See? He used a catenary arch, like the Gateway Arch in St.

Louis, along with chains that acted like barrel hoops…”