Page 32 of Sucker For You

“No, I said I. . . I’m fine. I will be. Because applying for a spousal visa means we’ll need to pass an interview with the immigration authorities. Our evidence of a valid relationship has to be convincing.”

7

Baby lurched back into residential Monterey along Surf Way, her gears grinding with a grisly combination of sand and age. Wes grimaced when the shift stick shuddered under his fist as he rolled her to a stop in front of the bungalow; a trio of gulls perched on the hedge took alarmed and indignant flight at a final cough from the engine.

“Maybe I should’ve waited for Erin to fix you? But it doesn’t matter. We got back in one piece.” He craned past the headrest to check the Grocery Outlet bags behind his seat. Nothing seemed to be leaking. “If we’re lucky, maybe our eggs are all right, too. Let’s get the produce inside.”

“Yes.” Isabel slung paper handles over her forearms. “And. . . after that?”

“Lunch.” He lugged his own share of groceries up to the porch. “I had a pretty light breakfast.”

The driftwood gatethwackedclosed behind his new fiancée with a mute, sarcastic exclamation point—infinitely better than her silence at the beach—as he kicked off his sandals, shouldered open the door, then shuffled into the kitchen. He grinned. Whistling some Bobby Darin tunes, he unpacked their market haul onto the bungalow’s speckled Formica counters. He stuck his head into the refrigerator to shunt aside Erin’s champagne, and replaced the bottle with leafy greens, discounted cantaloupes and bell peppers, frozen strawberries (cheaper than fresh andalmost as good, after they’d defrosted), plus a few perishable condiments, the eggs, and a packet of pre-sliced provolone at its sell-by date. Cans of beans and chickpeas disappeared into the cupboards, along with the cereal, pasta, and herbal tea. Day-old seed bread went onto a cutting board.

“Are the onions, pickles, and dried cranberries in your bags?” he called over his shoulder to Isabel. She’d paused in the living room with her own grocery load to evaluate the coral-and-oyster aquarium. He couldn’t see her doing it. But he knew she was. “If so, that’s the last of the lunch ingredients. Can you grab a mixing bowl and a couple plates? I saw some utensils in a drawer by the stove. There’s probably a frying pan in another drawer under the oven. Also, how’s the tank?”

Paper rustled. A pickle jar clicked onto the counter. “How did you know I’d—”

“There’s no way you didn’t check it.” He drained and rinsed a can of chickpeas. “Bowl?”

It appeared at his elbow.

“The oyster has already reduced the reef tank’s particulate matter by over sixty percent,” she told him while he whisked a fork through his chickpeas, mixing them with chopped celery, sweet pickles and red onions, parsley, a few teaspoons of dried cranberries, mustard, plus a dash of salt and pepper.

“It’s an efficient little sucker.” He layered provolone onto the bread, then topped it with the chickpeas. A frying pan was ready on the burner when he turned, olive oil shimmering. “Thanks.”

Maybe she nodded. Regardless, either her watchful quiet or the heat radiating from the burner warmed his neck as he flopped their sandwiches into the pan. He set a timer so he wouldn’t fidget.

Her weight shifted on the creaky linoleum tiles. “How did you know there was a pan in the stove drawer?”

“Where else would it be?” His urge to check that she’d remained nearby relaxed into another smile. She was still by the stove—and even engaging with him.Engaged. He explained, “Most kitchens have similar spots where the basics get stored, once people cook in them long enough. Things congregate where they’re used most. Water glasses by the sink, pans by the burners. Like that.”

“Oh.”

“But,” he scraped up some leaking cheese with a spatula, “I might need to use wall hooks for my pans on theNauti Lass, instead of storing them under the stove. Even inside the bulkhead, it’s not a great idea to put anything near the floor that you wouldn’t want to get dirty and wet.”

“TheNauti Lass?”

He flipped the sandwiches to brown their reverse sides. Provolone bubbled at the crusty edges. Nodding appreciation for the plates that Isabel set out, he said, “My live-aboard boat. Hypothetical boat. Or—hypothetical for now.”

“For now,” she repeated.

“Yeah, and you should know about her. Baby’s my best girl, but theNauti Lass? She’s probably an older, stripped-down Grand Banks model. Caterpillar eight-hundred-horsepower engines, a stateroom, plus a salon and a cockpit. Maybe even hydronic heating for cold climates? I would’ve already bored you with these fascinating details, if this,” he shrugged between them while he ferried their lunch out to the coffee table, “was real. Like you’ve said, we need to make it seem like it is.”

“We have to convince an immigration officer.” She perched at the edge of the couch to fold their paper napkins into triangles.

Wes took the basket chair and a bite of his sandwich. “We have to get to know each other. Habits, likes, dislikes. Facts. Plans. Stories. We’ll need to get all that straight, if we’re going to pass the test.”

“Yes.”

Another silence elapsed while he chewed (but he didn’t panic, because it would be an oral exam, so he’d be fine, hewould) and Isabel frowned while folding more napkins. Her sandwich was untouched. One bite, two. . . but then she extracted a pen from the bungalow’s binder of local restaurants and activities. Nodding to herself, she creased a new napkin into halves and started a numbered list on each side.

“What’s that?”

“Questions for us to answer. Birthplaces. Brands of toothpaste. Music tastes.” The duplicate lists rendered at speed. The items were ready on her lips, reeling off faster than he could parse her precise handwriting, and definitely faster than he could read the letters upside down.

Had she made notes like these before?

Maybe she’d made them for Chase.