“But it’s raining. Pouring buckets, in fact.”

“Yeah, but…”

“And you for sure were planning to be back tomorrow afternoon anyway,” Carmela said. “For Monsters & Old Masters.” She hesitated. Should she? Why not. “And Glory’s big award,” she added.

“Well… yeah,” came his answer. “Of course.”

“You could still drive up early tomorrow,” she suggested.

“I might miss the cannon salute.”

Carmela hung on the phone, not saying a word. Feeling guilty about imposing on him. Feeling even more guilty about the surprise invitation she’d just received from the Click! Gallery. Mustn’t let Shamus know about that.

“Well, if you’re really scared…,” Shamus finally offered.

“I’m really scared,” Carmela told him.

Ten minutes later, Shamus Allan Meechum, Carmela’s estranged husband, was wandering barefoot around her kitchen, scratching his stomach and peering into cupboards. “Got anything to eat?” Shamus asked. He flipped open one cupboard after another, poking his head in. When he’d rifled through everything and still hadn’t found anything that appealed to him, he turned to the cluster of canisters and cookie jars that sat on Carmela’s kitchen counter just to the left of her stove.

Popping open a ceramic cookie jar, Shamus dug his fist in and helped himself to a dark brown cracker. He munched thoughtfully, then reached in to grab a few more. “Say, these are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Got any cheese to put on ’em?” Shamus whipped open the refrigerator door and insinuated his entire head in the refrigerator’s cool interior.

“You probably don’t want to eat those,” Carmela called to him from where she was flaked out, watching TV. “Those are mackerel morsels.”

Still surveying the interior of Carmela’s refrigerator, Shamus found a half-eaten wedge of cheddar cheese. Greedily, he grabbed a knife and sliced at the cheese, piling it on top of the crackers. Popping them into his mouth, he chewed appreciatively. “Mm-hm, they sure are mackerel flavored. And they’re good. Especially with cheese.”

“Shamus, listen to me,” said Carmela, starting to laugh. “You’re slathering cheese on dog treats.”

“What?” came Shamus’s strangled cry. He stopped chewing, then suddenly leaned over the sink and turned on both faucets full force. For the next couple minutes, a cacophony of sputtering, splashing, and gargling ensued.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me those were dog cookies?” he asked, emerging from the kitchen red-faced and angry. His normally wavy hair stuck up in unruly tufts as Shamus stared accusingly from Carmela to Boo. Boo, as usual, feigned complete innocence. “Who keeps dog cookies in a cookie jar?” he groused.

“You know darn well that ceramic doggie is Boo’s treat jar,” said Carmela. Boo’s curlicue tail gave a quick wave as she looked on in mute support.

“Besides,” said Carmela, “I had no idea you were going to ransack my kitchen and start chowing down on dog cookies. I’m not exactly psychic.”

“No, you’re a sadistic prankster,” accused Shamus.

“Holy mackerel, Shamus,” said Carmela, starting to giggle again. Since the cookies were homemade and wholesome, she knew they were perfectly fine to eat.

Shamus held up a finger. “That’s not funny. And damn it, I’m still hungry. You surely can’t expect a man to go to bed on an empty stomach. He gazed at her meaningfully.

Carmela fixed him with a level gaze. “There’s chowder in the freezer, Shamus. Pop a carton in the microwave and it’ll be defrosted in six, maybe seven minutes.”

The chowder sounded appealing, but Shamus still wasn’t convinced.

“What about biscuits?” he asked. “You got any biscuits? Or how about a loaf of nice chewy bread?”

“Nope.” Shamus was a carbo freak of the first magnitude. Carmela was, too, but she tried to do without.

“Then I’ll bake some bread,” said Shamus. “Chowder’s no good if you don’t have something to dunk in it.”

Shamus proceeded to busy himself in the kitchen, pulling out a mixing bowl and then dumping in flour, sugar, and… a bottle of beer?

“What are you doing?” asked Carmela, deciding this had to be the weirdest recipe ever concocted. Unless Shamus was just making it up as he went along. To jerk her chain.

“I’m making my famous game day beer bread,” he replied.

“You’re not serious,” said Carmela. “You never made anything before. And I have certainly never heard you utter a single word about game day beer bread. Please tell me this is some sort of fantasy you read about in a men’s magazine. Soldier of Fortune or Penthouse.”

“They don’t put recipes in those magazines,” Shamus snorted. “Besides, your nose is just out of joint because you think I can’t cook.” Shamus’s voice was heavy with reproach. “And you are so wrong.”

“I know I’m not an ardent Julia Child disciple,” said Carmela, “or even a Martha fan. But popping open a bottle of beer? Please. That does not constitute cooking.”

Yet, a little while later, when Shamus’s bread came out of the oven, all hot and steamy and yeasty smelling, Carmela got the surprise of her life.

“This is good,” she said, slathering on butter and munching a piece. Yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a carbo freak, too. Hard to keep a lid on it.

“You sound surprised.” Shamus sounded hurt.

“Actually, I’m astonished,” said Carmela. “I had no idea you could cook, let alone bake.”

“Well, I did reside in a frat house for three years.”

“Sure, but you had a housemother. Mrs… what was her name… Warlock.”

“Murdock,” amended Shamus. “Mother Murdock.”

“Right,” said Carmela, deciding that poor Mother Murdock probably should have been canonized for putting up with all those stinky socks and stinky jocks.

“Honey, I’ll have you know that at Tri Delt we had a housemother, two maids, and a handyman.”

Carmela shook her head, thinking back to her own college days. It had been your basic four girls crammed into a one-bedroom apartment experience. Endlessly jockeying for the phone and the bathroom, someone always using the last tampon or bit of toilet paper but never owning up to it.

CARMELA’S GOOD HUMOR WAS ONCE AGAIN PUT to the test when it was time to turn in.

“Jammies?” asked Carmela, eyeing Shamus’s hastily packed overnight bag.

“Pardon?” said Shamus, not understanding. Or pretending not to.

“Pajamas,” said Carmela. “Did you bring them?”

“Well… yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” said Carmela, ducking into the bathroom. “You change while I take off my makeup and brush my teeth.”

Somewhere between the toning and the cleansing routine Carmela heard the phone ring. She tossed her tissue into the trash can and listened, heard Shamus talking in low tones. Had he given out her number? she wondered. She straightened up and stared at her bare face in the harsh fluorescent light, thinking, If this doesn’t scare him off, nothing will. And knowing in her heart that installers of bathroom lighting surely must harbor intense feelings of hostility toward women.

“Some guy named Quigg called,” Shamus snorted when she emerged from the bathroom clad in a modest floor-length nightie. “Said you could call him back tomorrow. Quigg.” He gave a second disdainful snort. “Sounds like somebody’s coonhound. Hey there, Quigg, old buddy, sniff around by that cypress tree and see what you come up with.”

Carmela climbed into bed, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be productive.

“Say, do you have a date or something with that guy Quigg?” asked Shamus. “Is that why you don’t want to, or can’t, sit at our table?”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela.

“Not exactly,” repeated Shamus, suddenly looking very wounded.

Carmela stared at Shamus in wide-eyed amazement, wondering about the green-eyed monster that was suddenly crouched on Shamus’s back. She surely hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him. Maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. But certainly not out-and-out jealousy. Hmm.