And she liked it.

“You know, Carter, this is so good I’ve stopped feeling guilty about the fact you’ve eaten this exact meal twice this week.”

“You could consider it upscale leftovers. Leftovers are a major part of the menu around here, usually.” He glanced over at the cat who sat beside his chair, staring up with unblinking yellow eyes.

“I guess your pal’s waiting for his.”

“He’s not used to seeing me eat at the table. It’s usually counter food, so I guess he’s confused. Do you want me to put him out?”

“No. I like cats. In fact, I’ve been married to cats several times.”

“I didn’t know that. I take it things didn’t work out.”

“That depends on your point of view. I have very fond memories of those marriages, however fleeting. When we were kids, the four of us used to play Wedding Day. A lot.” She laughed over her wine. “I guess we began as we meant to go on, even if we didn’t know it. We had costumes and props, each took different roles. We married each other, pets, Del if Parker could blackmail him into it.”

“The photograph in your studio. With the butterfly.”

“The camera was a gift from my father that was probably age inappropriate. My grandmother used the gift to bitch about him. Again. A hot summer day when I wanted to go swimming instead of playing the game. Parker placating my mood by declaring me official wedding photographer instead of the MOH.”

“Sorry?”

“MOH. Maid of honor. I didn’t want to put on the dress, so Parker deemed me official wedding photographer.”

“Portentous.”

“I guess so. Add the serendipitous flight of that butterfly and elements coalesced into a personal epiphany. I realized not only that I could preserve a memory, a moment, an image, but I wanted to.”

She ate another bite of chicken. “I bet you made Sherry play Classroom.”

“Maybe. Now and then. She could be bribed with stickers.”

“Who can’t? I don’t know if it makes us lucky or boring that we knew what we wanted to do when we were still so young.”

“Actually, I thought I’d impart my wisdom in the halls of the rarified air of Yale while I wrote the great American novel.”

“Really? Why haven’t you? Or didn’t you?”

“I realized I like playing Classroom.”

Yes, she thought, he did. She’d seen that for herself. “Did you write the book?”

“Oh, I’ve got a novel in progress like any self-respecting English professor. And it’ll likely be in progress for the considerable part of ever.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about two hundred pages so far.”

“No.” She poked his shoulder. “What’s the story?”

“It’s about great love, loss, sacrifice, betrayal, and courage. You know, the usual. I’ve been thinking it needs a three-legged cat, possibly a potted palm.”

“Who’s the main character?”

“You can’t possibly want to hear about this.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Who is he, what does he do?”

“The protagonist is—and you’ll be shocked to hear this—a teacher.” He smiled as he topped off her wine. He could always drive her home. “He’s betrayed, by a woman, of course.”

“Of course.”

“His life is shattered, along with his career, his soul. Damaged, he has to start again, has to find the courage to fix what’s broken in him. To learn to trust again, to love again. It really needs the potted palm.”

“Why did she betray him?”

“Because he loved her but didn’t see her. She ruined him so he would. I think.”

“So the three-legged cat could be a metaphor for his wounded soul, and his determination to live with the scars.”

“That’s good. You’d get an A.”

“Now, for the important question.” She leaned toward him. “Is there sex, violence, and adult language?”

“There is.”

“Sold. You need to finish it. Isn’t there that publish-or-perish business in your world?”

“It doesn’t have to be a book. I’ve got articles, papers, short stories published to keep that wolf from the door.”

“Short stories? Seriously?”

“Just small press. The sort of thing that doesn’t move out of academia. You should publish your photography. An art book.”

“I play around with it sometimes. I guess it’s like the novel. When it’s not what you actually do, it gets shuffled back. Parker’s idea is for us to put together coffee table books. Wedding flowers, wedding cakes, wedding photography. The best of our best kind of thing.”

“It’s a good idea.”

“Parker rarely has any other kind. It’s a matter of carving out the time to put it all together in a way that could be pitched to whoever publishes that kind of thing. Meanwhile we’ve got three events in three days, with our Saturday job a very thorny rose. You should come.”

“To . . . to someone’s wedding. I couldn’t. I wasn’t invited.”

“You’ll be staff,” Mac decided on the spot. “God knows we could use another man with a brain in his head for this one. I use a photographer’s assistant for some events—when I have to. For the most part I like not to. But I was going to for this one due to holding all that sweating dy***ite. The couple of people I usually tap aren’t available. You’re hired.”

“I don’t know anything about photography.”

“I do. You’ll hand me what I ask for, do stand-ins, and play pack mule when necessary. Do you have a dark suit? That isn’t tweed?”

“I—yes, but—”

She gave him a slow, seductive smile. “There’ll be cake.”

“Oh, in that case.”

“Jack’s pinch-hitting as escort for the MOH, due to CBBM.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maid of Honor, Cheating Bastard Best Man. And Del’s helping out because Jack’s making him. You know them. You know us.” She ate another bite of potato. “And you’ll have cake.”

None of which turned the tide for him. But the idea of being with her instead of just thinking about being with her did. “All right, if you’re sure.”