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again.
    When she’d picked up her car at Red’s Garage, she’d asked Ruby’s father if he knew where Riley Merrick lived. Five minutes later she’d driven away with his address, driving directions and a description of Riley’s house. Red O’Toole hadn’t been exaggerating. Riley’s house was a sprawling single story that blended into the surrounding hills. It had a low-pitched roof, deep eaves and wide porches. It wasn’t so large that he wouldn’t have had ample time to answer the door by now if he was inside.
    What now?
    She supposed she could have left his jacket on the railing, but she preferred to return it in person. Wondering if he might be down by the lake, she followed an old flagstone path around the house.
    The property was amazing, the lawn a gradual slope that leveled off just before it reached the water. Shading her eyes with one hand, she watched a catamaran drift slowly by, its bright orange sail rippling halfheartedly on the melancholy breeze. Several fishing boats trolled back and forth on the horizon, and sea gulls bickered in the foamy shallows.
    Riley wasn’t back here, either.
    Disappointed, she turned and slowly retraced her footsteps. She reached the flagstone path only to stop abruptly.
    Riley and a large brown dog were running toward her. Wearing a black T-shirt and loose athletic pants, he stopped twenty feet away and unhooked the dog’s leash. While the dog raced to the water’s edge to scatter the squawking seagulls, Riley let his hands settle on his hips in a stance she was coming to recognize.
    â€œI rang your doorbell,” she said quickly. “And I tried knocking. I wanted to return your jacket before I go.”
    Breathing heavily but not excessively, he wiped his face with the front of his shirt, giving her a glimpse of a washboard stomach before he said, “The desk clerk said you’d already gone.”
    â€œYou went to my room?” she asked. “Why?”
    â€œIt’s a cardinal rule. A guy gets a girl drunk, he buys her breakfast.”
    She felt a smile coming on and wondered how he did that. “You didn’t get me drunk.”
    â€œThen I’ll fix you breakfast instead.”
    â€œDo you cook?” she asked.
    â€œThat depends. Are you accepting?”
    She handed him his jacket and saw no reason not to follow in the direction he was indicating, up the porch steps and through his back door. The dog camein, too, and immediately started drinking from a bowl on the floor.
    Madeline looked around the kitchen. With the exception of the stainless steel coffeemaker, the appliances looked as if they’d been new in the sixties. The house seemed even larger from the inside, and had beamed ceilings and hardwood floors and wide arch-ways.
    â€œIt’s called prairie style,” Riley said from a few steps behind her. “It’s an original Frank Lloyd Wright house. His open-concept design was way ahead of its time.”
    She walked as far as the first archway and what appeared to be the living room. She saw richly stained wood, well-crafted built-ins, mullioned windows and a good deal of furniture covered with sheets. “When did you move in?”
    â€œA year and a half ago.”
    She turned around slowly. The fact that he chose that moment to take a frying pan from a low cabinet and a carton of eggs from the refrigerator might have been a coincidence. But she doubted it.
    On the verge of understanding something meaningful about him, she said, “Before or after your heart transplant?”
    â€œMoving into this house was the first constructive thing I did after I left the hospital. I use the kitchen,one bedroom and bathroom. I haven’t gotten around to doing much with the rest.”
    She stored the information, because surely there was something prosaic about the time frame. Watching him crack eggs into a bowl, she said, “Where did you learn to cook?”
    â€œI