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what Alyssa had said about her brother—how he blames his father for their mother’s death—and how it worried her a little about her mother. If Burton drove his first wife to drink—at least, in the opinion of his youngest child—what might he do to Melanie’s mother?
    “Do you know what he accuses his father of?”
    “Yes. And I realize why he feels that way, but Burton did the best he could by his wife. He put her in rehab fourteen times…did you know that?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “It was a bad situation, Melanie. And Burton handled it the best way he knew how at the time.”
    Melanie sat on the edge of the couch, her eyes falling to her open laptop where it sat on the coffee table. She had been up most of the night talking to Nash. It was the second time in a week they talked all night, the ninth time they’d talked since the first exchange of emails nearly two weeks ago. She found herself wondering what he would think if she told him about her new, dysfunctional family. So far they had managed to keep their conversations away from parents and siblings…She wondered how much longer that would last.
    “I’m sure Burton’s a saint.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic.”
    “I’m not.” Melanie stood up again, turning to her galley kitchen and a cold glass of orange juice she had poured just as her phone rang. “If you love him, he can’t be all that bad.”
    “Thank you.” Her mother sighed. “I really want everyone to get along, Melanie. You and Burton, you and Alyssa and Burt…I want to be a proper family.”
    “You’re a psychologist. You should know there is no such thing as a proper family.”
    “True,” her mother said, laughing softly. But then she grew a little more somber. “I never imagined I would get married. After your father died, I was so wrapped up in surviving that by the time I lifted my head, I thought that part of my life—the part where I had a chance to find love and settle down with a good man—had passed me by. Now…I just want this to work.”
    “I know, Mom. And I want you to be happy, so if there is anything I can do…”
    “Thank you, baby.”
    Her mother hung up a few minutes later, but not before promising to send an email with a list of things Melanie could do from a distance to help with the party. Just what she needed, more stuff to do.
    Melanie tossed the phone onto the soft couch cushions and proceeded to straighten up the kitchen from her rare meal preparations the night before. She had just finished putting the last dish in the dishwasher when her computer beeped at her. She wandered over, still drying her hands with a dishtowel, and felt her heart skip a beat as she realized it was an email from Nash.
    “I’m going out of town for a few days and will have limited access to a computer—all day meetings and that sort of thing. I didn’t want you to wonder why I wasn’t responding to your messages or anything.”
    “Thanks for letting me know,” Melanie answered. “I’ll miss our superhero debates.”
    Nash didn’t answer right away. Melanie assumed he had signed off, so she went back into the kitchen to finish up. Just as she hung the dishtowel over the oven handle, her computer beeped again.
    “This might be a little forward,” Nash’s message said, “but I don’t suppose it would be possible to get your cellphone number? Maybe we could exchange a few texts or something.”
    Melanie’s heart jumped into her chest. She liked the idea of having his number, of texting him whenever a thought crossed her mind. There were half a dozen times in just the past four hours when she thought of things—comebacks, mostly—she wanted to say to him in response to something they had discussed the night before. But the act of turning on her computer and composing an email or messenger comment just seemed to take the spontaneity out of the moment. But to have the quick, easy access of a text message…she would seriously have to work on her filtering