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long day.” She opened the fridge, which was covered with photos: friends’ weddings and children, her with various friends, her on holiday in exciting places. About to pull out a beer for herself, she changed her mind. Dr. Jones had said it was best to avoid alcohol. She made a mental note to buy some fruit drinks and decaf coffee and tea.
    She grasped the milk jug. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.” The drink was soothing and homey, which appealed to her right now. If there was a little caffeine in the cocoa powder, surely it was negligible.
    â€œThat sounds great, if you’re offering.”
    As she took cocoa and sugar from the cupboard, she felt his gaze on her. Unsettling. Yes, that was the right word for Mo Kincaid. She flicked on the radio, wanting something else familiar to ease her nerves. Vince Vance & the Valiants were singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
    â€œI wish they wouldn’t start with Christmas music until December,” Maribeth complained as she stirred warm milk in a pot on the stove.
    â€œYeah? Why?”
    â€œSo it doesn’t get overdone. Like, every year, come December first, it should be this special treat. And it should last through Christmas, and then be put away again for a year.”
    â€œHuh. And turkey’s only for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and you should only eat hot cross buns at Easter?”
    â€œPretty much.” She shrugged. “Anything wrong with that?”
    â€œYou know what you like. Nothing wrong with that, not at all.”
    She finished up the cocoa and poured it into two large mugs. Though she’d have liked a puffy marshmallow on top, she wasn’t giving Mo any special treats. When she sat down across from him, he said, “How come you’re not married?”
    She blew out a puff of air. “Never met the right man. Why?”
    â€œJust”—he shrugged—“you seem like you should be. Pretty woman. Smart. Nice cozy house with a big kitchen. I’d picture you with a husband and two or three rug rats.”
    So would I . But she wasn’t about to share that bit of personal information with him. “Maybe one day. Now, you wanted to talk about Brooke and Evan.”
    He blew on his cocoa, took a sip. “This is good. Thanks. Hmm, I’m not sure where to start.”
    â€œCall me conventional, but I like stories that start at the beginning.”
    â€œYou won’t like this one.” Another sip. “Like I said, I was a shit. A rebellious teenager, pissed off at the world. Brooke was a few years younger. So pretty and sweet, like a blond princess.”
    Maribeth knew that Brooke was in her midforties, so Mo had to be approaching fifty. Ten years older than Maribeth. Like his ex, he didn’t look his age.
    â€œI was like a boy staring in the window of a candy store,” he said. “And I guess she was dumb enough to fall for the bad boy on the motorbike. We probably wouldn’t have lasted long, except that she got pregnant. There was parental pressure on both sides. We got married.” He raked a well-shaped hand through his almost-dry hair, dragging curls back from his face. “We were both immature and we had lots of problems.”
    Maribeth sipped her cocoa, trying to focus on his words rather than on how good he looked. “Go on.”
    â€œI’m not even sure why we stayed together. I guess in some muddled way, we thought it was the right thing to do. There was Evan, and both of us cared about him even if we did a piss-poor job of showing it. We were both really unhappy. We drank; we fought. Sometimes it, uh, got physical.”
    Maribeth caught her breath. She’d guessed this, as much from what Brooke hadn’t said as from what she had, but it still set her pulse racing. “Physical?” she asked quietly.
    â€œSometimes I hit her. Not really hard, but enough to bruise.”
    She swallowed. It hurt to ask this