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needed to be at his desk, and this was her free morning—which meant they had enough time to start the dance of forgiveness and apology they seemed to do all too often.
    It rang twice, three times, and a shuffling sound came through the line as she picked up.
    “Hello? Miranda’s phone,” a male voice said.
    Evan’s blood pressure spiked painfully. “This is Miranda’s father. Please put her on the phone,” he managed, using his best interrogation voice.
    A flurry of whispering and the sound of the phone being passed over—Evan counted to fifty, one hand on the phone and the other gripping the steering wheel.
    It was 8:20. This was Miranda’s free morning. He doubted Kent stopped by for breakfast.
    “Yes?” Miranda asked. “Sorry about that. We were still sleeping, and Kent was closer to the phone.”
    The baiting comment actually lessened Evan’s anger. It reminded him in how many ways Miranda was still immature and how much of her behavior was designed to push his buttons.
    And this so did—he just wasn’t going to tell her that.
    “I’m sorry to call so early in that case,” Evan said, brisk and efficient. “I was really just calling to let you know that we’re definitely on for Thanksgiving. You can go ahead and give Kent’s parents my cell number if they need directions or anything.”
    The silence on the other end made him feel immature. And successful.
    “Oh. Okay.”
    “Great. Please let me know if there are any food allergies.”
    “Su-sure.”
    Evan needed a moustache. To twirl.
    “We have the extra rooms if they want to stay over…. Hmmm. I think that’s it.”
    More silence, but Evan could hear Miranda’s breathing through the line. “Anything you can think of?”
    “No.” Her voice became cool again. “That should be fine. We’ll be there around three.”
    “Hope so. Dinner’s on the table by four.” That was a lie.
    “Fine.”
    “Great, then. Talk to you soon. Love you.” Evan hung up the phone, then tossed it onto the seat next to him. The steering wheel felt great against his forehead as he smacked himself repeatedly.
    Thanksgiving was going to be a nightmare.

Chapter 5

     
    M ATT SHOOK out the heavy linen napkin and laid it across his lap. The jaunt to the Hamptons to look at real estate lasted all morning, ending with lunch at a seaside restaurant with a million-dollar view.
    The staff had clearly been prepared for their arrival. A long table was set near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the breakers, with wine and beer already chilling in buckets. No menus because “the chef took it upon himself to create something special.”
    Matt figured he could always hit a drive-through on the way home if need be.
    “Don’t worry, Matthew—the chef knows you’re a meat-and-potatoes guy,” Daisy said sweetly, ushered into her seat like she was made of porcelain and dynamite—she was going to either break or explode. Her long red hair and fairy-princess features made her an instant attention getter no matter where they went, and that was even before people realized she was the Daisy Ames, former box-office queen, now respected Broadway actress.
    Matt appreciated her reinvention. He could relate, having gone through several incarnations of himself over the years. Now he was nearly fifty, with a cushy part-time consulting job and a full-time position as househusband, with kids and a mortgage and the whole nine yards. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisioned this during his workaholic everything-for-the-job days on the NYPD.
    Sometimes he missed it. Then he remembered what it was like to get shot at, and decided that picturesque views and eighty-dollar steak could be just as fulfilling.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Ames,” Matt said, serious as a heart attack. “Does he know I like cheesecake?”
    “I will make sure he does.” Daisy laughed as she adjusted herself in the chair, her basketball-sized stomach keeping her just far enough from the table to be awkward.