LITMIR.BIZ

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returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn’t work in the lock. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn’t work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn’t left the porch light on. What the hell?

      He rang the doorbell.

      No one came.

      He rang again.

      Still no one.

      Chelsea’s car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

      Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

      That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

      Now she was at the door but it didn’t open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

      Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

      What? “Let me in. My key won’t work.”

      “It won’t work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

      Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you’ve had your laugh. Now open up.”

      Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn’t funny anymore. Open up.”

      One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchased the house next door hadn’t moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn’t even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He’d wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

      This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

      “What?” she answered.

      What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

      “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

      An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren’t smiling.

      She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don’t—” he began.

      Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

      His wife had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

      A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

      “All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

      “Guess.”

      “You didn’t want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

      Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

      He called her again. “I don’t get it.”

      “Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

      Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he’d forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

      “Yeah, that’s what you’re in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

      “I called.” That was feeble. He’d left a message on voice mail telling her what time he’d be in. No mention of their anniversary.

      Because he’d forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

      “And then I found the package and thought you’d left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother’s birthday present. And her birthday isn’t until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

      He wouldn’t have remembered this year, either, except he’d been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she’d dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She’d come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother’s birthday.”

      Yeah, and he should’ve been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn’t. He’d stuck his mom’s present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he’d forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He’d planned to remember. Lame.

      “This is the last straw. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”

      “I do not,” he insisted, both to her and himself.

      “Oh, yes, you do. And this isn’t the first time you’ve messed up.”

      All right, so he’d accidentally gotten tickets to a Mariners game on the day of their anniversary the year before last. And she’d never have known he’d screwed up if his brother Greg hadn’t called from Seattle asking what time they were meeting at the stadium. He’d done penance and gotten her diamond earrings. A whole carat, for God’s sake. He’d even taken her to the game and they’d ended up having a great evening.

      And last year he’d remembered. She hadn’t needed to remind him the week before. Why did women keep score like that? They kept track of every screw-up and then threw it in your face. In the middle of the night.

      “Oh, come on, babe. Cut me some slack. Let’s talk about this.” She always wanted to talk.

      Not tonight. She ended the call and the bedroom light switched off.

      Of course he tried to call her once more, but it immediately went to voice mail.

      Great. Just great. Where would he go at eleven-thirty at night? He supposed he could go to one of the town’s B and Bs, but if he did that, everyone would know his wife had kicked him out.

      Since this was only temporary, he saw no point in going that route. Tomorrow he’d take her out to dinner. They’d kiss and make up and everything would be fine.

      Meanwhile, though, he couldn’t sleep on the porch. He hauled his carry-on back to the car. If that was the way she wanted it, he could sleep there. Except while an SUV would be okay for sleeping, it made for a poor place to shave in the morning.

      He started the engine and drove slowly away from his house. His house! He had no idea where he was going. He sure knew where he was, though. In the doghouse.

      * * *

      Jonathan was having an incredible dream. He’d just killed a man in a sword fight, and now the woman he’d rescued—Lissa, in an old-fashioned pink gown—had thrown herself into his arms.

      “How can I thank you?” she breathed.

      “Well,” he said, and lowered his head to kiss her.

      “Oh, wait. What’s that I hear?” she said, turning her head just before he could reach her lips. “The church bells.”

      “That’s the bells, all right,” he agreed, and tried for her lips again.

      “They’re summoning you. You must go.”

      “Who’s summoning me?”

      He never found out. Between the insistent ringing of his doorbell, coupled with pounding on the door and Chica’s barking, he was now hopelessly awake.

      He

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