The Doubted Wife's Second Chance

Chapter One—Julie

THE SALISH KITCHEN has been wrong for three weeks, and today I finally understand why.

I stand in the breakfast nook while Patricia Salish watches me from the other side of the island.

She spent ninety thousand dollars on this renovation, and she doesn’t love the result.

She hasn’t said that yet. She’s been circling it through four emails and two phone calls, each one slightly more pointed about what she can’t quite put her finger on.

I can put my finger on it. “Your island is six inches too far south.”

Patricia looks at the ten-foot slab of marble between us. “What?”

“The contractor shifted it during installation. Probably to avoid rerouting the gas line.” I walk to the end and rest my hand against the marble, then gesture for her to sit in the chair she uses every morning. “Look from there.”

She does, and her gaze settles on the range hood dominating the opening between the kitchen and family room.

Six inches north, and she’d have a clean view through the windows beyond it.

“Oh.” Patricia leans sideways, testing the angle from the next chair before returning to the first. “That’s been driving me crazy. ”

I’ve been doing this long enough to know that oh means I’m right. I pull out my tape measure and confirm what I already know. The island needs to move, which means the gas line and pendant lights move with it.

Patricia comes to stand beside me while I make a note. “Can they fix it?”

“They can. Your contractor won’t like me for a few days, but he’ll recover.”

She chuckles. “He already doesn’t like you.”

I take that in stride because it’s true. “Then we’ve saved time.”

Her laugh follows me into the foyer. I send the contractor a message from my car before pulling out of Patricia’s driveway.

He replies before I reach the end of the block, asking me to please tell him I’m not moving the island.

I set my phone in the console without answering. He has until tomorrow to mourn.

By the time I turn into our driveway, I’m twenty-three minutes late for Sunday dinner, which is a problem because my husband has many talents.

Dalen built Dorsey Capital from a small private equity fund, an alarming tolerance for risk, and more working hours than should legally fit into a week.

He can read a term sheet faster than I can read a restaurant menu.

He remembers conversations from years ago, including ones I’d prefer he’d forget.

Among his many talents, cooking isn’t one of them. The smoke that reaches me before I make it through the front door suggests he hasn’t developed the skill in the time I’ve been gone to Patricia’s.

I drop my bag on the entry bench and follow the smell of rosemary into the kitchen.

Dalen is at the range in dark trousers and an undershirt, his dress shirt draped over the back of a stool.

The apron I bought him for his birthday covers most of his front.

TRUST THE PROCESS is printed across his chest, which seemed funnier when I ordered it than it does while something burns behind him.

He glances over when I come in. “You’re late.”

“I was fixing a ninety-thousand-dollar kitchen.” I kiss his cheek on my way past and inspect the damage. Three pans occupy the stove. Two cutting boards cover the island, and what appears to be an entire bulb of minced garlic occupies one of them.

Dalen reaches around me to turn down a burner. “Don’t start.”

“The recipe says to slice the garlic.”

“Not the one I’m using.”

I turn my head. “There’s another recipe?”

He takes the paper from my hand and slides it beneath a cutting board. “That one had too many steps.”

I laugh and move the garlic away from the edge. “You’re not allowed to simplify cooking. You don’t understand it well enough.”

He scoffs. “I simplify billion-dollar acquisitions.”

“Those don’t require rosemary.”

The skillet hisses when he turns the chicken. One side is several shades darker than the cookbook photograph, so I lower the heat while he’s distracted, but he catches me. He gives me a scolding look as I pick up the wineglass he poured before I got home. “I’m saving dinner.”

“You’re interfering.”

“Also true.”

Dalen bumps my hip as he reaches past me for the pepper. He works around me while I start cleaning the cutting board because otherwise he’ll use another one. We’ve done this enough Sundays to have developed a system neither of us admits exists. He creates chaos. I reduce the casualty count.

His mother cooked on Sundays when he was little, before his father left and she started working every shift she could get.

Dalen has never said that’s why he keeps doing this despite being spectacularly unqualified, but I fully understand.

He’s establishing our version of normal. I just wish normal were more palatable.

I scrape rosemary stems into the trash while he reaches across me for the olive oil. His hand settles briefly at my waist on the way back, an absent touch that makes me smile. “Meg’s bringing dessert,” I say.

“That’s great. I’m not a very good baker.”

“You aren’t a very good cook either.” I grin and glance at the darkening chicken.

Dalen tastes the sauce simmering in the smallest pan, and his expression tells me enough.

I hold out my hand for the spoon. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing.”

I taste it. The sauce is salty enough that my blood pressure probably spikes, so I take his wineglass from beside the stove and hand it to him.

“Drink.” He laughs, and I catch the front of his apron when he tries to turn away.

He comes willingly, sliding one arm around me while keeping the spoon away from my blouse.

“I missed you,” he says against my hair.

I snuggle closer. “I was gone six hours.”

“Long six hours.”

That gets him kissed. He curves his mouth beneath mine before he deepens it, and I forget about the sauce until the doorbell rings.

Dalen keeps one arm around me. “She has a key.”

“She also has manners.” I pat his chest and leave him smiling.

Meg has a key because she lived with us for six weeks after her divorce, but she still rings the bell.

She’s standing on the porch with a bakery box tucked against her hip and her purse sliding down one shoulder.

Her dark hair is twisted into a loose knot that has mostly surrendered.

I take one look at her face and step aside. “Bad day?”

She scowls. “My boss discovered color coding.” She follows me inside and hands over the bakery box.

Chocolate cake from Laurent’s. As we head toward the kitchen, she tells me she spent four hours replacing blue file folders with green ones because apparently this is how business degrees are used now.

“I like receiving a paycheck,” she says when I ask why she didn’t object.

I nod in commiseration. “Always limiting.”

Meg stops when we reach the kitchen. Dalen has opened the patio door, and a thin haze is escaping into the evening air. She surveys the room. “I see dinner’s going well.”

Dalen points a pair of tongs at the bakery box. “Did you bring enough cake to earn an opinion?”

“Eight slices.”

“You may speak.”

I set the cake out of his reach and pour Meg a glass of wine while she moves automatically to her usual stool. She plugs her phone into the charger and reaches into the refrigerator for the sparkling water Dalen keeps because she likes it. Meg knows this house almost as well as I do.

Dalen gives me the potatoes to carry to the table while he takes the chicken. Meg follows with the vegetables and steals one from the serving bowl.

I catch her before she gets a second. “Don’t eat yet.”

“I’m starving, and these are surprisingly edible.” She steals another as soon as I release her, and Dalen joins her.

I look between them. “You’re both terrible people raised with no manners.”

Meg kisses my cheek before sitting down. “You helped raise me, sis.”

I mutter about that but can’t deny it as we all sit at the table. We’re only a few years apart, but our mom was a disaster. Someone had to be the adult, and I was designated as the lucky pick.

The chicken requires more pressure from my knife than poultry should. I cut open the center, and it’s not pink, so that’s a win. Across the table, Meg encounters the same resistance and looks up at me. I shake my head before she can say anything.

Dalen catches the exchange. “What?”

I take a bite. “Nothing. It’s good.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m being married.”

Meg covers a laugh with her napkin while Dalen cuts into his own piece. His confidence survives the first bite, so I pour more sauce over his chicken.

“And now it’s better.”

He looks at the extra sauce, then at me, and gives in with a laugh. That’s as much criticism as Sunday dinner needs.

We eat for almost two hours because nobody has anywhere else to be.

Meg tells us about a man in her apartment building who’s been stealing packages from the lobby without noticing the security camera pointed directly at him.

Dalen immediately starts asking about the building’s access controls while I rescue the last roasted potato before my sister can take it.

“He’s going to buy your apartment building,” I say with a grin.

Meg points her fork at him. “If you do, fire the property manager.” She frowns. “The super is a bit lazy too, so clean house.”

Dalen rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I was thinking better cameras.”

I nudge the breadbasket toward Dalen. “You’re not buying her building.”

His expression says the discussion remains open, but he doesn’t argue.

Two years ago, Meg sat at this same table hollow-eyed after her husband walked out.

Dalen helped her get back on her feet without making her feel like a charity case.

He cosigned her new lease, and I helped her get an office job through one of my clients.

Meg had the degree and experience. She just needed a door opened.

Taking care of her became a habit long before either she or I was old enough to understand what a habit was.

She catches me looking at her. “What?”