Flirting With Pete: A Novel by Barbara Delinsky

the brew. She took several sips as she stood at the front window, looking out over the large rings of the café curtains. She imagined her father had often stood like this, half hidden here as he was on the attic sofa, wanting to see the world without being seen.
    On impulse, she pushed the rings to either side, opening the curtains wide.
    Satisfied to have put her first tiny mark on the place, she left the kitchen with her coffee and headed downstairs. Watercolor seascapes hung one after another on the cream-colored walls of the stairwell; the paintings were gentle and appealing. Casey admired them until she caught the artist’s name in the corner: Ruth Unger . Connie’s wife. Out of loyalty to her own mother, she turned away.
    Reaching the ground floor, she found a door on her right. Sensing that she was entering Connie’s professional space, she carefully tested the knob, cautiously turned it, and peered into a small reception area where patients would have waited until Connie called them in. One door led directly outside; it was locked and bolted. Another, at the opposite end of the room, led to Connie’s office.
    Not quite ready for that yet, Casey went back through the hall to the room on the other side of the stairs. The door here was open. This was the den. It was a cozy place, barely half the depth of the house, with only a shallow pair of windows high on the front. There was a sheltered feel, thanks to walls of dark green, lots of deep furniture, throw pillows, and a crocheted afghan. Intermingled with shelves of books were a television and a music system.
    Just then, head bowed, Meg came down the hall carrying cleaning supplies. She was nearly even with Casey when she looked up and jumped in alarm. Several moments passed before she returned from wherever her mind had been. Then her gaze fell to the mug Casey held, and she looked crushed. “You took coffee before I could ice it.”
    Casey smiled. “I cooled off, so hot was fine. The coffee is wonderful.”
    Meg’s face was transformed by the compliment. “I’m glad! Can I get you anything else?”
    “No, thanks. I’m all set.”
    “I really didn’t know he had a daughter. You don’t look any older than me, but he was so much older.” Her brows rose in fear; they were tinged the same auburn as her hair. “I mean, I’m not— I’m not criticizing him.”
    “I know that,” Casey said gently. “I’m thirty-four. He was forty-one when I was born.”
    Transformed again, Meg beamed. “I’m thirty-one. I was born in August. I’m a Leo. What’re you?”
    “Sagittarius.”
    “That’s such a good time of year. I used to make Thanksgiving dinner for Dr. Unger. I mean, he had other Thanksgiving dinners, but we always had a nice one here.”
    “With his wife?”
    “No. Just him. We always did it the night before, because he went up to see Ruth on the holiday itself. I always call her Ruth. She told me to. Why didn’t he have Thanksgiving with you?”
    “We weren’t close,” Casey said quietly.
    “Were you with your mother?”
    “And friends. There were always lots of us without families.”
    “That’s me,” Meg said with a false brightness. “No family but Dr. Unger.” Her brightness crumbled. “He was a kind man.” Her chin trembled. “I miss him.”
    “Maybe you’ll tell me more about him sometime.” In fact, Casey thought that was an excellent idea. If a scavenger hunt of Connie’s life was the game, Meg Henry definitely held a clue or two.
    Lips pressed together, Meg nodded. Still struggling with emotion, she continued through the room and went up the stairs.
    Watching her, it occurred to Casey that the grief she saw in Meg might well be the greatest that had been felt for the man, which was a totally sad state of affairs at the end of one’s life. Casey herself might have felt sorry for Connie if there hadn’t been anger to balance it out.
    Taking a breath, she sipped her coffee and turned back to the den.
    This was a place