A martini for Shelby and half a glass of wine for him while good jazz played soft in the background—Macklin’s CD choice this time, Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue. Crab salad, leftover sourdough, half a bottle of chardonnay. One of the DVDs from Ben’s collection, his choice again—a farcical boy-meets-girl comedy that was watchable if not particularly funny. Quiet time again, more wood on the fire, the last of the wine from dinner in Shelby’s glass. The combination of heat and music and food had relaxed him for the first time in days. Again he watched the firelight play over the smooth contours of Shelby’s face, the familiar curves of her body. Tenderness welled in him. And, inevitably, desire. He said, “Remember that trip to Big Sur right after we were married? The cabin in the woods?” “What made you think of that?” “Sitting in front of the fire like this.” She was silent. “That’s not all we did in front of the fire,” he said. Still silent. “There’s plenty of room in front of this one, too.
