Her Second-Chance Man

A voice inside him did not pick up the sarcastic note. It said exactly.

There she was again, Jessica making her presence known in his life, even though she was thirty miles away. She was just a bit of a thing. How did she manage to exude so much power?

Hocus-pocus, he reminded himself. Well, he wasn’t falling under her spell.

Okay, so his kitchen needed some color. Something over the window—a valance, he thought it was called—some cushions on the chairs, place mats on the table. That’s why Sears had their whole-home plan, so guys like him could pick out some matching stuff without the complication of the little woman.

He stepped in the dog’s water dish, something that was part of his morning routine, and wondered if he should get rid of it, just in case the dog did not return. O’Henry was painted on it in pink nail polish, the handwriting ridiculously curly, childish and feminine at the same time.

Had O’Henry made it through the night? The answering machine wasn’t blinking, not that he was at all certain Michelle would call him to report a life tragedy. Brian glanced at the clock. Just now seven o’clock. Way too early for him to phone there.

Not that calling seemed like the right thing to do for a man who wanted to keep things tidy and impersonal. What was he going to say? Good morning? Did the dog die?

He wanted to hear her voice. Was Jessica casting a spell on him?

Annoyed with himself, he picked up the dish and emptied it, thought about it for a minute, and then tucked it into the cupboard under the sink, behind the garbage can, where it wouldn’t be a reminder in case the dog was not coming home. He would not have been so sensitive a few months ago.

He looked at the clock again. He should sleep, but a different plan was formulating. If he showered, he could pick up some breakfast for all of them and be out there by eight-thirty That seemed more diplomatic than phoning and asking if the dog had died.