The kind I’d been saving for.

The kind I’d had ripped out from under me when Peter left and took half our bank account (and half the down payment we’d saved over the years) with him.

It was the house Peter and Mindy/Mandy bought after they’d married.

I did my best to set aside the anger that assailed me when I considered this. After all, it wasn’t why I was there.

I reminded myself of the fact as I rang the bell, then stepped back and waited.

Peter was the only person I knew who played poker.

I needed to learn to play poker.

So-

“Hi!” When the door was opened by a trim blonde in white shorts and a purple tank top, I tried to be as friendly as possible. As much as I’d heard about Mindy/Mandy (and believe me, I’d heard plenty) we’d never actually met face-to-face.

She was shorter than me. She was slimmer. And younger. Her hips weren’t as round, her hair was cut short, and there wasn’t an unruly curl in sight. She had a ring in her belly button.

“I’ m Annie,” I said, and I knew exactly when the pieces fell into place and she realized which Annie, exactly, I was. That would have been when she looked a little as if she’d bitten into a lemon. I looked past her into the house with its sleek, modern furniture and walls that were painted an especially appealing tone of beige (though truth be told, the shade was a little dark for my tastes).

“I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if I could talk to Peter for a minute.”

Mindy/Mandy stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

“You don’t know.”

My blank expression said it all.

Mindy/Mandy shrugged. Her tank top gaped and, like it or not, I saw that her breasts were round and firm and perky. As much as I hated to even think about it, I could see why Peter had been attracted. I wondered what she wore behind the counter at the dry cleaner’s, and if the day Peter had first walked in there and been smitten on the spot, she was displaying her pierced belly button for the world to see.

“Peter, he said he’d seen you.”

Mindy/Mandy’s words snapped me out of my thoughts, and it was just as well.

“He stopped in,” I said automatically. “To the restaurant where I work. And the gourmet shop where I work and…” No doubt that sounded as weird to her as it did to me so I simply added, “He just stopped in to say hello. To talk. That’s all. I don’t want you to think-”

Her laugh stopped me cold and Mindy/Mandy opened the door and stepped back inside. “I’m sorry I can’t help. Peter isn’t here. He doesn’t live here anymore. In fact, we’re getting a divorce.”

WAS I SURPRISED?

Not really.

Not by Mindy/Mandy, or by anything she’d told me.

Suddenly, the whole thing about Peter showing up again in my life was starting to make a whole lot of sense.

The real question was how I felt about it.

And the real answer to that question?

The next Monday night, I told myself I’d better figure it out, and I’d better figure it out fast. Peter was on his way over to Bellywasher’s, and before our cooking students left and he showed up, I needed to have a plan.

As to how I’d found Peter in the first place after striking out at Mindy/Mandy’s… well, like I said, these days, you don’t need to be a great detective to track people down. Of course it helped that his soon-to-be-second ex-missus knew which extended-stay hotel Peter was staying at and didn’t mind giving me the number.

Contacting Peter and asking him to give me some poker pointers was a better plan than dwelling on the fact that he was soon to be a free man, and I was the free woman who’d once dreamed that he’d see the light, walk away from Mindy/Mandy, and come crawling back to me.

It was also way better than brooding, and brooding was exactly what I did when I thought about how divorces worked. I certainly didn’t know the ins and outs of Peter’s relationship with his current wife, nor did I want to. But I guessed that Mindy/Mandy was soon to be the sole owner of the house that should have been mine.

“Annie!”

I shook myself out of my thoughts and found Jim watching me. A couple seconds ticked by before I realized where I was-in front of the cooking class-and what I was supposed to be doing-showing them how to use a variety of citrus juicers.

Considering that at the beginning of the evening I’d demonstrated a kitchen torch-with less than successful results-I had to give Jim a lot of credit. At least he was willing to give me a second chance. Apparently, he didn’t hold a couple of singed aprons and a siren blast from the smoke alarm against me.

“Citrus juicers!” I beamed a smile at the students gathered around me and, call me paranoid, but I saw the way they backed away from the table when they realized I’d be the one doing the show-and-tell.

“You’re safe. This one doesn’t even plug in.” I held up the brightly colored heavy die-cast aluminum juicer for the class to see. Because I couldn’t decide, I’d brought them in all three colors: orange, yellow, and green. “You put a half of a citrus fruit in here.” I demonstrated with a lime, setting it into the rounded end of the bright green juicer. “Squeeze the two handles together.” I did. “And the halved fruit is turned inside out.” I showed them, along with the nice bit of juice I squeezed into a glass.

“For bigger jobs…” I moved on to the electric juicer on the table. “This one even has a filter that separates juice and seeds.” I had a halved orange nearby and made a glass of juice, lickety-split.

“Very nice. Thank you.” Jim gave me a smile before he turned his attention back to the class. “Just a couple of the gadgets that can make your cooking life easier. I think Annie’s got a few more she brought with her…” He glanced my way and I nodded. “So when we’re done with this next bit of cooking, she’ll show you how to make the perfect cup of coffee.”

The next item on the menu was eggs Sardou and while our students got to work and with nothing to do for the moment, I stepped back and simply watched.

I don’t know where Jim got the notion to do breakfast foods rather than more traditional pub fare for the night’s class. It might have been because of those memorable waffles Norman had served us a couple of mornings before. Wherever the idea came from, our students were eating it up.

Literally.

They’d already made heart-shaped pancakes on the special griddle I’d brought from Très Bonne Cuisine, as well as soft-boiled eggs. I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself as far as the eggs were concerned. Without any help at all from Raymond, I’d searched the shelves at the shop and found adorable egg cups made of wire and complete with little legs and chicken feet. As long as I was having a fit of culinary brilliance, I’d also brought along an ingenious little device that fits over the tops of the eggs and cuts off the rounded part of the shell, scissors-style.

Thanks to Raymond’s patient tutoring, I was actually able to demonstrate without too much of a mess.

“You’re doing fine.” After he’d demonstrated that mind-boggling, one-handed method he uses to crack eggs, Jim zipped by and gave me a quick smile. “Everything ready for later?”

I knew he wasn’t referring to the other gadgets I’d brought to demonstrate. “Eve’s coming,” I told him. “And Marc and Damien said that as long as we’re going to play cards, they want to sit in, too. But, Jim-”

We heard a groan as a student cracked an egg and ended up with a mess of white, yolk, and shell. She called Jim over for advice.

And I cooled my heels, waiting for him to finish.

When he was done and while part of the class was busy slicing artichoke hearts and another part was making creamed spinach, I tried again.