Jim was on his way over to see how things were going with the students who were taking their first stab at making hollandaise sauce, and I stopped him, a hand on his sleeve. Ever since the night I talked to Peter and he agreed to stop at Bellywasher’s to give us a poker lesson, I’d wondered how Jim felt about the whole thing. I practiced a thousand ways to explain and a thousand more to reassure him. None of which had ever come out quite right. Now, Peter would be there in less than an hour and I didn’t have time for long-winded explanations. Or for beating around the bush.

Sure, I was uncertain about what I’d say to Peter now that I knew his current marriage was drifting oh-so-near the rocks that destroyed ours.

Yes, I kept picturing myself in those early days when I learned about Mindy/Mandy, watched my whole world fall apart, and told myself I’d do anything-anything-if only I could get Peter back again.

Absolutely, I was having a giant case of mixed emotions, what with Peter’s sudden reappearance looking less accidental and more like he wanted to reconnect with the woman who would still be his woman if not for the woman he left her for.

But Jim didn’t have to know any of that.

I cared too much about him to let that happen.

And he cared too much about his class for me to keep him standing there when his students needed his help. That’s why I just blurted out, “You know this doesn’t mean anything to me, don’t you?”

“The hollandaise?” Jim is not one to be dense, and he sure isn’t dumb. The fact that he was pretending to be clueless was my first hint that the whole Peter-showing-up thing actually might bother him more than he was willing to admit.

“Not the hollandaise.” As if he needed me to point this out. “Peter. You know, Peter coming over here and-”

Jim was as matter-of-fact as he could be considering that he was keeping his voice down so our students wouldn’t overhear. “I know that in order to help Norman, you need to talk to that Victor Pasqual fellow. I know you’ll never be able to get close to Pasqual if you can’t play poker, though how you’re going to manage that even if you can play poker is a mystery to me and, I suspect, to you at this point. Nonetheless, I know you, and I know you want to be prepared. I know you don’t know how to play poker, and, as I am more than willing to admit, neither do I. What’s that Eve read in that tabloid newspaper she’s been carrying around with her? These days, Pasqual’s obsessed with Texas Hold’em. I don’t even know what that is. That means, if you’re going to learn to play cards, you need to ask the advice of someone who does know how. And since you’re acquainted with him, I know it also makes perfect sense for that someone to be Peter.”

“So…” OK, so it wasn’t exactly subtle. At this point, it made more sense just to lay things on the line than it did to dillydally. “It doesn’t bother you?”

When one of the hollandaise cooks screeched and pointed in a panic to the double boiler where the egg yolks, lemon juice, and water were supposed to be gently heating and instead were bubbling over like a volcano, Jim told her to turn off the stove, then held up one finger, asking for another moment before he turned his attention back to me. “When you first started investigating, I was opposed to it. You know that, Annie. I was worried for your safety. But now…” He grabbed a whisk to take over to the hollandaise makers, and continued:

“You’ve got a gift. And you’re using it to make the world a better place. You need to do what you have to do. You need to do what makes you happy.”

And with that, he was gone.

And I was left feeling more perplexed than ever.

I had to do what I had to do? I had to do what made me happy?

Was Jim telling me to get back together with Peter? Did he think I wanted to?

Would Jim be happier if I did?

He was already repairing the hollandaise disaster, so I had time to ponder all this. It was just as well that I heard a knock on the front door of the restaurant; all that pondering was getting me nowhere and making my head hurt, to boot.

Finding Peter at the front door didn’t help. He was dressed in nicely worn jeans and the raspberry-colored golf shirt I’d given him for his birthday just a couple months before he met Mindy/Mandy. With his dark hair and eyes, Peter had always looked good in vivid colors. Some things never change.

Maybe he knew what I was thinking because he smiled. “You look terrific,” he said with a quick glance at my yellow T-shirt, my black pants, and the white apron I wore over them both. “This cooking thing is good for you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you ever saw me in the kitchen.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” A tiny half smile playing around his lips, he cocked his head, and he looked so lost in some pleasant thought, I wondered if there had actually been a triumphant moment in my cooking life that I had blocked out.

Or not.

“We’re not here to talk about my cooking,” I reminded him. And myself. “We’re here to learn how to play poker.”

“And I’ve got everything you need. Right in here.” He held up a paper shopping bag at the same time he glanced at the clock that hung above the bar. “Looks like we’ve got a few minutes before your class is over. Can I buy you a beer?”

I wasn’t one for giving freebies but he was, after all, there to do us a favor. I poured a glass of the beer I knew was Peter’s favorite and brought it over to the table we’d set up for our game, and when he reached for his wallet, I refused to even think about it. He took a sip of the beer, smiled his approval, and sat down. I would have, too, if I wasn’t feeling as if my skin was crawling with electricity.

There was only one way to settle my nerves and I knew it.

I stood my ground and looked down at Peter. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”

“This?” He held the glass of beer up to the light and examined its amber color. “I’d say it’s all about wheat and hops and the magic that is yeast. It’s chemistry, you know. And that’s something I know a lot about. But something tells me that’s not what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not.” I dropped into the chair next to his. “This whole thing,” I said. “You showing up here. What’s it about, Peter?”

I suspected he looked at me the way he looked at the high school juniors who just didn’t get the latest homework assignment. “I’m teaching you how to play Texas Hold’em. You did ask me to come by and do a quick poker clinic, right?”

“Not that ‘this.’ The other ‘this.’ ” I shook my head, doing my best to order my thoughts. “You’ve been hanging around, Peter. Here and at Très Bonne Cuisine. And you and Mindy/Mandy are getting a-”

“You know about that, huh?” He didn’t look sorry, just a little embarrassed. I guess I would have, too, considering it was time for him to fess up: He’d left the woman who was supposed to be the love of his life for the woman who was the new love of his life, only as it turned out, she apparently wasn’t. “That’s how you found me, right? I never did have a chance to ask you when you called the other night. I should have known you talked to M-”

“Yes. And she told me you’re getting a divorce. I’m sorry.” I really was. It was the first I realized it, and something about admitting the emotion-to him and to myself-opened the floodgate of my questions. “I don’t want to know what went wrong. It’s none of my business. But you do owe me the truth, Peter. Does your divorce have anything to do with the fact that you’ve been coming around to see me? Are you looking to-”

“Get back together?” Big points for him. He didn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes and pretend this was the first he’d considered what I was thinking. But he did sound skeptical.

I was relieved.

And maybe a little disappointed.

And definitely confused.

“It’s not easy for me to admit I made a mistake.” Peter reached over and put one hand over mine. If he was a stranger, I would have told him to get lost and yanked it away. If he was a friend, I would have flipped my hand over so our fingers could entwine.