Free Promise Me A Rainbow by Cheryl Reavi Page B

so dense.
    She opened the envelope and reread the invitation, running her fingers over the lettering as she did so. Engraved, not printed. But then, Jonathan could afford that. She wondered, too, what the Jessup woman had been told about the breakup of her fiancé’s former marriage. Jonathan’s behavior yesterday indicated that the reason was now clear in his mind at least, and that by some quirk of logic Catherine’s infertility had had little to do with it. He wanted it to be something else—some other catchall phrase for discarded wives, such as “irreconcilable differences.”
    But there really hadn’t been differences. Sadly, he still wanted to be her friend, and he actually thought it was possible, not only to do that but also to have the friendship encompass his new wife.
    People think whatever they need to think.
    Jonathan. Pat Bauer. Sasha and Beatrice and the rest of them. Even Joe D’Amaro.
    Even me .
    Perhaps she hadn’t recovered so well from losing Jonathan after all. Perhaps there had been more wrong than she—
    She jumped because someone pecked on the glass window. Joe D’Amaro stood on the other side of the door. He didn’t look angry any longer, but she still hesitated before she opened it, staring at him gravely through the glass.
    She took a deep breath and stuffed the invitation into her pocket, bracing herself for another confrontation. She did care about Fritz, and she opened the door.
    “It’s not you,” he said immediately, and she perceived it as a kind of shorthand apology and likely the best she would get.
    “No, I didn’t think it was,” she answered. “If I had, I wouldn’t have opened the door.”
    “So can we try this again? I . . . thought it over. I figure you must know something, and I’d need to hear it.”
    She couldn’t keep from smiling at his heavy-handed appraisal of her expertise.
    “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you work with kids with problems. You’ve got to know . . .”
    “Something,” Catherine finished for him when he realized his amendment wasn’t going to be an improvement.
    “Well, yeah.”
    The washing machine was going into the rinse cycle, and Catherine put in the fabric softener. “Did Mrs. Donovan send you down here?”
    “The lady with the screen door? Yeah. She sent me through the garage here so you could see me before you let me in—in case you wanted to tell me to take a hike. Nice old woman. Smart.”
    Catherine glanced at him. He was being serious, not sarcastic, and he was looking at the ceiling again—or rather the building supports.
    “Have you changed your mind?” she asked.
    “What?”
    “The building. You still think it’s built to last?”
    “Oh, hell, yes. The only thing that’ll bring this place down is some greedy developer with a wrecking ball. About Fritz. I guess you know I didn’t like her talking to you the way she did. It . . . hurt my feelings more than anything. She doesn’t know you.”
    “That’s probably why she did it—because I’m a stranger. Children sometimes do that—pick a grown-up who they think might help but not one that might be hurt. My knowing she’s worried couldn’t hurt me the way it might hurt you.”
    “You mean you’ve got kids spilling their guts to you all the time.”
    Now he was being sarcastic.
    “No, I mean Fritz isn’t the first.”
    He was standing in the patch of sunlight from the glass window, and he was on the verge of being angry again. She could feel the effort he was putting into staying civil.
    Blue eyes, she thought suddenly. Not brown. Why had she thought his eyes were brown?
    And he was still wary. “Suppose you tell me what it is you are, professionally speaking,” he said, and she wasn’t offended by the question. It was only prudent that he should want to know how credible her opinion might be.
    “I have a degree in nursing. I have half a degree in education. Aside from that, I’m not entirely stupid, and I listen to what people