“Go away, Edward.”

“You’re beautiful, Siobhan. And you taste like a peach.”

The hot dishwater was fogging Siobhan’s glasses, so that when she turned she couldn’t really see him, but then her lenses cleared and he was on her, kissing her. Again she was aroused. Appalling! She had spent so long disdaining Edward and his annoying if tangential presence in her life that she had forgotten he was a skilled kisser. But she would never have spent four years of her life with someone who wasn’t a skilled kisser or an extraordinary lover. Edward had been an extraordinary lover, very considerate, not as animalistic, maybe, as Carter, but attentive and confident—yes, she remembered this as he was kissing her. Then she pushed him away.

“Stop it, Edward.”

“I’m crazy about you. Look at me.”

She looked. She was very, very angry with him, but oddly her anger propelled her toward him rather than away from him. She wanted to punch him, to pound him. He had never been able to see her for who she really was—her own strong, clever, capable person—and she wanted him to see her now.

She led him into Isabelle’s pantry, which was big enough for a king-size bed. God, what a hypocrite she was. So self-righteous with Claire, and now look at her . . .

The pantry was dim; it smelled very strongly of truffle salt, which was, coincidentally, one of Siobhan’s favorite smells. Siobhan could hear the other guests chatting out on the sunporch; she should check on their drinks, light the citronella candles. She would, in a minute. Over Edward’s shoulder, she spied tapioca, baking powder, baking soda, a jar of black peppercorns, a jar of pink peppercorns, a tin of Colman’s dry mustard, and a small crystal jar of truffle salt, three ounces of the stuff, worth about forty dollars. Edward was looking at her expectantly. She liked this: she was driving the bus, she was in charge. She inhaled deeply, and Edward inhaled deeply also, as if they were playing a game of Simon Says, but Edward either didn’t notice the heady scent or he noticed it and didn’t know what it was. The man understood nothing about food.

Was she going to kiss Edward again, here in Isabelle’s pantry? She was not.

“Help me take some things out to the van,” Siobhan whispered.

He agreed happily. When he turned to leave the pantry, Siobhan slipped the jar of truffle salt into the pocket of her chef’s jacket. What was she doing? She felt like an incorrigible teenager, the kind who dyed her hair fuchsia, pierced her tongue, and hung around Piccadilly Circus. Thieving, from a client! She put the truffle salt back on the pantry shelf.

Edward was lingering by the kitchen sink. Siobhan pointed to covered dishes and platters drying upside down on dish towels, and Edward picked them up and followed her outside.

The night air surrounding Isabelle’s house smelled like rugosa roses and honeysuckle, and the only sounds were the crickets. A car pulled up to the end of the driveway, and Edward and Siobhan both watched as Dara and the cab driver wrestled the cello into the back of the cab. Then the cab disappeared, and the lights that their movements had turned on turned off again, just like that. It was dark.

Siobhan set the platters safely in the back of the van, as did Edward. Then he grabbed her by the hips and they kissed, and his hands went right up inside Siobhan’s chef’s jacket. She was consumed, once again, with fury. Wasn’t it just like Edward to assume that he could flip Siobhan like an egg, over easy? Wasn’t it just in accordance with his view of the world to assume that she would feel the same way about him as he felt about her? She did not feel the same way! She was livid and she would tell him so. She had no intention of following Claire into the dark forest of adultery, despite the fact that Carter had been unfaithful (and untruthful) with and about the family’s finances. Siobhan was going to make Edward see her and hear her—and then she would rip herself away.

But at that second, something happened. Edward stopped. He pulled back. He touched her face, ran his thumbs over her cheekbones, then over her lips. He pushed her glasses up, just as he used to when they were dating. Siobhan had always loved this gesture. She had to admit that in all her life, no one had paid as close attention to her as Edward. She thought of the calla lilies he’d sent when Liam broke his arm. The bell had rung, and she opened the door, saw the delivery person with an armload of calla lilies, and knew they were from Edward.

“I still love you,” he said. “I haven’t stopped loving you for one second.”

“Oh,” Siobhan said. She knew this to be true, and yet the words caught her by surprise. Or else it was his tone of voice that caught her by surprise. It was very tender.

“You hurt me,” Edward said. “When you left. When you turned right around and married Carter. My heart broke.”

Siobhan nodded. She was too stunned to speak.

“You didn’t feel the way about me that I felt about you,” Edward said. “You were right not to marry me in that case. But here it is, more than ten years later, and I’m still in love.”

Siobhan’s anger shrank until it was like a pebble at her feet that she could kick away. She did not allow herself to revisit the demise of her relationship with Edward very often, mostly because she had behaved regrettably—throwing the ring in Edward’s face and, six months later, marrying Carter in Ireland. She didn’t like to see Edward because seeing him reminded her of the person she’d been then—a woman who would break an engagement and immediately take up with another man. Siobhan had not allowed Edward any closure; when he came to her house “to talk,” Carter was there and Siobhan had asked Edward, curtly, to leave. Awful! She still had the ring—the beautiful and expensive symbol of Edward’s love and commitment—in her jewelry box. The ring taunted her. She had not been able to get rid of it, to take it to a pawnshop or sell it on eBay, because . . . why? Because of something Siobhan herself did not understand. Because she had been waiting for something. She had been waiting, maybe, for tonight.