“Tough.” He’d set the mysterious tote on the coffee table. “You probably know all this,” he said gruffly, taking out a fat folder, “but I wasn’t sure how far your denial extended, so I thought I’d pass it on.”
She put down her brush and returned to the living area, curious. He handed her the folder. Inside, she found pages and pages of information—about Alzheimer’s. Organized into sections, with neatly printed tab tops dividing them: Stages…Treatments…Theories…Caretaker Support…
“That’s all from reputable sites,” he told her. “There’s a lot of information out there, but not all of it is reliable.”
“This must have taken hours,” she murmured, paging through the printouts.
“I wanted to know about your aunt’s condition, and you weren’t talking. Which brings us to another question.”
She looked up. “Us?”
“All right, me. It brings me to another question.” He moved restlessly, paused to frown at her visual therapy, then looked back at her. “Why aren’t you talking about it?” he demanded.
“Just because I didn’t talk to you—”
“You haven’t unloaded on Mercedes, either.”
“I told her about Aunt Jody,” she protested.
“Yeah, and that’s all. You haven’t…you know.” He waved vaguely. “Talked about your feelings.”
“Ah…” Deep inside, a laugh was trying to climb out. “Let me get this straight. You are nagging me to talk about my feelings?”
“Bottling everything up—that’s my deal. I’m used to that. Comfortable with it. You aren’t.” He sat on her couch without waiting for an invitation and began pulling more things out of his tote and putting them on the pine coffee table.
A bottle of wine. Two glasses. A box of chocolates. Nail polish. Peppermint-scented foot lotion. Cotton balls. Polish remover.
She sank down on the other end of the couch. The laugh was getting closer to the top. She waved weakly at the objects on the coffee table. “Cole? You want to clue me in here?”
“Just call me Sheila. I’m a stand-in.”
“For?” A smile started.
“This is one of those female parties. The kind where you women get together to do each other’s hair or nails and end up telling each other the damnedest things.” He shook his head, marveling.
Oh. Oh. He was giving her every signal he could, even playing surrogate female, to tell her he was here as a friend, and nothing more. Because he was worried about her. Dixie’s eye’s filled. She stood, took two quick steps, bent and kissed him on the cheek. “This is about the sweetest thing…thank you.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She laughed. And if it came out a bit watery, tough. “I’m not making any promises. Are you going to paint your nails or mine?”
“I’m going to drink the wine.” He inserted the bottle opener and twisted. He had strong hands, and they made quick work of the cork. “But you’re welcome to join me.”
“Does cabernet sauvignon go with chocolate?” She sat down and opened the box of candy. “Mmm. Dark chocolate at that.”
“Mercedes seemed to think chocolate was essential.”
She slid him a look. “You talked about this with Merry?”
“Yeah.” He poured wine into one of the glasses, and its heady perfume drifted her way. “For some reason she thinks you’re fine.”
“Maybe because I am.” She selected one she thought might have caramel. She loved caramel.
“Glad to hear it. So what do you talk about at these female shindigs?”
“Pretty much anything—men, work, hair, men, family, movies, men, books, politics…did I mention men?”
“The rat bastards,” he said promptly, handing her a glass of wine. Hulk jumped up beside him and pointed out that no one was petting him by bumping his head against Cole’s arm. Wine sloshed in the glass without spilling. Absently he began scratching the side of Hulk’s face. “They never call.”
Dixie shook her head sadly. “Or remember your birthday.”
“And if they do, they forget the card. Would it kill them to spend some time picking out a card?”
“So true. And they only want one thing.”
“Damn straight. Uh-oh. Sorry—I slid out of character there for a moment.”
“Watch it.” She took a sip, trying to keep a straight face. “Hey, this is good.”
“Ninety-eight was one of our better years.” He swirled the wine in his glass to release the scent, held it up and inhaled, his eyes half-closed. For a moment she glimpsed the closet sybarite in the pure, sensual pleasure on his face. Cole was a deeply sensual man. He mostly didn’t let it show. “It’s aging well,” he observed, and took a sip.
“So what were you doing in ninety-eight?” She leaned back and nibbled at her chocolate. She liked to eat them slowly, let the taste melt into her tongue. “Note that I don’t ask who you were doing.”
“I’d get in trouble if I put it that way.” He continued to send Hulk into a stupor of delight with those elegant fingers.
Quit staring at his hands, she told herself. “Women can say things to each other that men can’t get away with.”
“So you talk about sex at these things?”
“Sure. It’s a subheading under men. For most of us,” she added. “I had a couple of lesbian friends in New York—my downstairs neighbors. We mostly did not talk about sex, out of consideration for my comfort level.”
He chuckled. “My comfort level, on the other hand—”
“Don’t go there, Sheila.” She reconsidered. “On the other hand, I’ve always wondered why men get excited by—”
“You were right the first time,” he said. There was a spark of amusement—and something else, something warmer—in his eyes as he took another sip of wine. “We’d better skip the sex talk.”
She met his eyes as she took another sip, letting the wine sit on her tongue for a moment to develop the secondary flavors the way he’d taught her.
Not a good idea, enjoying her own sensual side while looking at Cole. “A hint of blackberry,” she said hastily, looking away. “See how well I know the lingo? Should be nice with chocolate.” She took another nibble of that. “Want to argue about politics?”
“Not the effect I’m going for tonight.”
“You probably voted for the governor,” she said darkly. “All right, all right—I won’t get into that. So we’re left discussing work or hair. I vote for hair.” She tilted her head. “Who does yours?”
“Carmen at The Mane Place. She has magic fingers. I like your hair.” The warmth in his voice did not belong to anyone named Sheila, unless Sheila had been of the same persuasion as Dixie’s New York neighbors. “You left out a couple choices. Movies, books…family.”
She took a healthy swallow of wine. “Read any good books lately?”
“No. How’s your mom?”
She huffed out an impatient sigh. “Your male side is showing, Sheila.”
So he asked again, but in an absurd falsetto, “How’s your mom?”
Dixie