When I come down the stairs the next morning, Wendy is already in the kitchen making coffee. She’s wearing jeans and a wool knit sweater, gray with a red-and-white pattern across her collarbone.
“Early rise?” I ask, surprised but pleased.
“We have a busy day,” she replies cryptically.
“We?”
Wendy hands me a cup of coffee with a smile as sweet as arsenic. “Coffee?”
I take the mug and smell it suspiciously. I can’t detect any salt, but then again, I couldn’t the last time, either.
Wendy stares at me expectantly. “Something the matter?”
“No,” I say. If drinking salted coffee is the price I have to pay to see her smile again, I’m happy to comply. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the worst, and take a sip. It’s delicious, rich, and sweet with that vanilla aftertaste.
Wendy smirks a
