With rain still falling, they'd spent a strangely domestic afternoon reading several Denver papers that Celeste received weekly through the U.S. mail. Then, while Celeste prepared an evening meal of pea soup and biscuits, Fox had read a book he'd brought with him. It was not unlike many evenings Celeste had shared with John after he became ill and she'd moved in with him. But there was one distinct difference. John's presence had been comforting, like the feel of a worn pair of bed slippers on a chilly night. With Fox, there was a tension in the air, an electricity as undeniable as the bolts of lightning that lit the shadows of the parlor. Each time a casual comment passed between them, she sensed the tension with every fabric of her being. She knew he felt it, too. Celeste understood that Fox was angry with her for not telling him who she was the first evening he'd set foot on her doorstep. But she also realized that a part of him was disappointed in her. It was that disappointment that hurt.
