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Pete’s death, she still couldn’t figure out whether she’d been a seriously flawed wife and he’d been the doting husband everyone took him for, or whether he’d turned into an abuser once they were married, and she’d been too weak, too stupid to leave him. Neither was good; both reflected badly on her.
    â€œI promise you,” Ben said, “a beer or two won’t make me do anything foolish.” There was a teasing gleam in his chestnut eyes, eyes the same color as the bottle in her hand. “And one’s not going to hurt you. Or half a one. A couple swallows. Come on,” he said in an exaggerated wheedling tone, “you know you wanna.”
    She’d have been annoyed—if his tone wasn’t so funny, and if he hadn’t been right. Slowly, she put the bottle down on the table beside her place mat. A swallow or two wasn’t going to make her lose her mind. It wouldn’t make her flirt with Ben. As for him, she remembered him as a guy who didn’t drink to excess, or get out of control when he drank.
    By the time she’d stored the beer carton in the fridge, Ben had opened both bottles and taken the lids off the takeout containers. “I’m starving,” he said. “Driving back smelling the meat loaf made me crazy.” He handed her a serving spoon and took one himself.
    She put a napkin on her lap and then dished out coleslaw as Ben served himself some meat loaf. “It’s nice of you to do this,” she told him. Pete had never bought takeout. He’d had groceries delivered once a week and had expected her to cook. That was a wife’s job, he’d said. He had, however, typically brought home a bouquet on the rare occasions when he went into town. To show her how much he loved his pretty wife, he’d said. Carnations, usually, but red roses after he’d hit her. Red roses to accompany an apology, even though the tearful expression of regret was framed as “but you shouldn’t have made me do it.”
    She shivered, then shoved those thoughts away. She refused to let memories of Pete ruin this dinner with an old friend. Deliberately, she picked up her beer bottle and took a sip.
    â€œYou’re smiling,” Ben said. “You like it.”
    â€œI do,” she admitted, taking a larger sip. Hoppy, slightly bitter, it hit her tongue like . . . like an old friend, she thought, this time keeping her smile to herself. Relaxed and hungry, she served herself some mashed potatoes and meat loaf, and dug in.
    Oh my, this was good. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to taste food that had taken more than five minutes to prepare—much less to have someone else do the preparing. Her idea of luxury was having Dave toss burgers on the barbecue when he, Cassidy, and Robin came to help out and stayed to eat. “This is delicious. Thank you so much for bringing it.”
    â€œMy pleasure.”
    They both ate enthusiastically, in silence, for a few minutes, though Ben made occasional mmm-mmm noises. Simple sounds of appreciation, but they struck her as sensual, and somehow increased her own enjoyment of the food. When she and Ben had taken the edge off their appetites, she said, “Please tell me about Penny. And did she say anything about our parents?”
    He put his fork down and took a long pull from his beer bottle. “You’re curious about your family, yet Penny says you’ve been out of touch with them for years.”
    Sally lowered her gaze. “Mom and Dad didn’t like me marrying Pete and moving away.”
    â€œThat’s no excuse for cutting their daughter out of their lives,” he said firmly.
    Her parents had let her know they disapproved. They’d given advice or, as Pete put it, poked and pried into her and Pete’s business. Sally’d felt caught in the middle, although she did agree with Pete that her first loyalty lay with him. In the end, her