Free Keeping the Peace by Linda Cunningham Page A

Homemade bread and apple pie.”
    “I’ll stay,” Strand said, smiling at Melanie. “Can I do anything?”
    “Actually, yes, you can,” John answered quickly, handing him a bottle of Chianti. “You can open this—” he took three wine glasses down from the cabinet “—and pour us all a glass of wine.”

Chapter Eight
    O VER T HE Y EARS , Melanie had slowly come to realize the effect she had on men and, in turn, the toll it took on her husband. In the early days of their love, she had been unaware that he might be jealous or insecure. He came home every weekend from college, and when she started college the next year, he had traveled to see her. She had expected it; she enjoyed it. Young and naïve, she hadn’t been aware of his fear—fear that she would meet somebody else and leave him. It was Becky that first brought it up to her bluntly. “John’s crazy about you. You’ve got to stop flirting in front of him.”
    “I don’t flirt,” Melanie had insisted.
    “You just have to look at a guy, and they’re mush,” Becky had exclaimed. “You’re too pretty and, and, too something , to smile at guys. It’s just your manner, I guess, but guys take it as an invitation.”
    Sometimes, through the years, there was gossip to contend with, but John had seemed to settle his demons. She knew he trusted her, and he’d seemed to have come to the conclusion that there were things about his wife he would just have to accept. For her part, she made a conscious effort to let him know how much she truly loved him.
    Suddenly, the realization washed over her, even as she listened to Gabriel Strand while he answered John. That was what had been missing lately: that conscious renewal of their love every day. When had it weakened? What had dulled the delicious sharpness of the leap of her stomach each evening he returned home? When had he ceased to slide his hand up under her clothes, under her bra, to cup her breast? And worse, why hadn’t she noticed it before this? She felt the young musician’s eyes on her chest. It felt good to be noticed. She turned toward him and met his eyes.
    “I can handle that,” the mesmerized man replied. “Corkscrew?”
    Peter rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers and handed the smiling singer a corkscrew.
    “And your name is?” asked Strand.
    “I’m Peter.” Then, in a burst of civility, he added, “And this is my brother Michael.”
    The three shook hands around.
    Strand uncorked the bottle and poured the wine, handing a glass first to Melanie and then to John. The girls had not moved. They stood rooted beside the couch, their cheeks pink.
    Melanie said, “Girls, come put these flowers in a couple of vases.”
    At her words, the two seemed to find their sensibilities. They took the flowers and went about the task.
    “Let me propose a toast,” said the guest. “A toast to the fact that everyone’s in one piece, in spite of my California driving.”
    The glasses clinked, and everyone laughed.
    “What are you driving now?” John asked, stirring the sizzling sausage in the pan with onions and garlic. The spicy aroma filled the room. “That’s not your Mercedes.”
    “No, it isn’t,” said Strand, grimacing. “The Mercedes wasn’t mine, either. It was a rental. Anyway, Bruce—Bruce Blake; he’s one of the promoters—had this local girl cornered in the bar at the inn. She’s a hostess there, I guess. She was coming on to him, and it looked like a hook-up to me, so I told her I wanted to see you, and she let me borrow her car. I think they wanted to get rid of me.”
    “Must be nice to be a rock star,” John muttered, only loud enough for Melanie’s ears. He added the crushed tomatoes and the cheese with another grumble. “Have a perfect stranger lend you their car. It’d be hard enough for me to commandeer one.” He finished the preparations, his little rant seemingly over, and said more vocally, “This is ready to go into the oven.”
    Melanie stepped up and