N SATURDAY MORNING, I WAS once again wrenched out of bed by Angus’s hysteria and staggered down the stairs to open the door. This time, it was Margaret, a suitcase in tow, a glower on her face.

“I’m here,” she said. “Got any coffee?”

“Sure, sure, let me put it on,” I answered, still squinting. I’d been up late last night watching all two hundred and twenty-nine smarmily glorious minutes of Gods and Generals, weeping copiously as General Jackson barked out his last delirious orders to First Virginia. I think it’s fair to say I had a Confederate hangover, so Margaret in all her grouchy glory, first thing in the morning…ouch. I followed her as she stomped into the kitchen.

“So what happened?” I asked as I measured out coffee grounds.

“Here’s the thing, Grace,” Margaret said in her master and commander voice. “Don’t marry a man you love like a brother, okay?”

“Brothers, bad. Got it.”

“I’m serious, smart-ass.” She bent over and scooped up Angus, who was chewing on her shoe. “I said to Stuart last night, ‘How come we never have sex on the kitchen table?’ And you know what he said?” Margaret glared at me accusingly.

“What?” I asked, sitting down at the table with her.

She lowered her voice to imitate her husband. “‘I’m not sure that’s sanitary.’ Can you fucking believe that? How many men would turn down kitchen-table sex? You want to know when Stuart and I do it?”

“No, I absolutely do not,” I answered.

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday,” she snapped.

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds pretty good to—”

“It’s in his daily planner. He puts a little star in the nine o’clock slot to remind him. Intercourse with Wife. Check.”

“But still, it’s nice that he—”

“And that’s the whole problem, Grace. Not enough passion. So I’m here.”

“At the home of passion,” I murmured.

“Well, I can’t just stay there! Maybe he’ll notice me a little more now! Maybe not! I don’t really care at this point. I’m thirty-four years old, Grace. I want to have sex on the kitchen table! Is that so wrong?”

“I know I wouldn’t say so,” came a voice. We both turned. Callahan O’ Shea stood in the kitchen doorway. Angus exploded into his usual sound and fury, struggling to get out of Margaret’s arms. “I knocked,” Cal said, grinning. “Hi, I’m Callahan. The good-looking neighbor.”

Margaret’s expression morphed from furious to rapacious, a lion staring at a three-legged baby zebra. “Hi, Callahan the good-looking neighbor,” she said in a sultry voice. “I’m Margaret the horny sister.”

“The horny married sister,” I inserted. “Margaret, meet Callahan O’ Shea. Cal, my sister, pretty happily married for lo these many years, currently suffering from what I believe is called the seven-year itch.”

“Hey, it has been seven years, hasn’t it?” Margaret snapped out of her lustful daze. “So you’re the embezzler, huh?”

“That’s right.” Cal inclined his head, then turned to me. “Not fit for decent company, right, Grace?”

My face went nuclear. Ah, yes. Kiki and the warning. Callahan’s expression was decidedly cold.

“Grace, your windows came yesterday afternoon. If you want, I can get started today.”

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine this guy stealing my Victorian Santa collection. “Sure.”

“How about if I only work when you’re around?” he suggested. “That way you can keep an eye on your checkbook and family heirlooms, maybe pat me down before I go.”

“Or I can do that,” Margaret volunteered.

“Very funny,” I said. “Install the windows. Will it take long?”

“Three days. Maybe five, depending on how the old ones come out. I might need a hand with that, if your boyfriend’s around today.”

Gosh. Almost forgot about that pesky boyfriend. Margaret looked at me sharply. “Mmm. He’s working,” I said, shooting her a silent warning.

“He doesn’t seem to come around much, from what I’ve noticed.” Cal folded his big arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, he’s very busy,” I said.

“What does he do again?” Callahan asked.

“He’s a…” I really wished I’d picked something less sappy. “A pediatric surgeon,” I said.

“So noble,” Margaret murmured, smiling into her coffee cup.

Callahan’s hair was sticking up on one side, and my fingers wondered what it would feel like to run through that silky, misbehaving, adorable mess. I told my fingers to stop daydreaming.

“So, sure, okay, you can start today, Cal,” I said. “Would you like some coffee first?”

“No. Thank you,” he said. So much for my peace offering. “Where do you want me to start? And do you want to make a sweep of the room first?”

“Okay, listen. I’m sorry I told my friend you just got out of the slammer. But you are an admitted criminal, so…”

“So?” he said.

I sighed. “So you can start in here, I guess.”

“The kitchen it is.” He turned and walked down the hall toward the front door.

When he was safely outside, presumably to get my first window, Margaret leaned forward. “Are you guys fighting? And why did you tell him you have a boyfriend?” she asked. “He’s gorgeous. I’d do him in a New York minute.”

“We’re not fighting! We hardly know each other. And yes, he’s gorgeous, but that’s beside the point.”

“Why? I thought you were looking to get laid.”

“Shh! Lower your voice. I told him I was seeing someone.”

“Why’d you tell him that?” Margaret took a sip of her coffee.

I sighed. “Natalie was over last weekend, asking all these questions about Wyatt…” Margaret, the least fanciful creature on earth, never did understand the comfort of my imaginary boyfriends. “Anyway. I don’t think it’s a bad thing for him to think there’s a man who stops by occasionally. Just in case he’s casing my joint.”

“Wouldn’t mind if he cased mine.” I gave her a dirty look. “Right. Well. He’s hot. Wonder if he’s interested in an affair.”

“Margaret!”

“Relax. Just kidding.”

“Margs, speaking of dates, weren’t you going to fix me up with the blacksmith? I’m getting a little desperate here.”

“Right, right. Metalsmith. Lester. Weird. I’ll call him.”

“Great,” I muttered. “I can’t wait.”

She took another sip of coffee. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving. Oh, and I brought some dirty laundry, hope that’s all right. I just had to get out of the house. And if Stuart calls, I don’t want to talk to him, okay?”

“Of course. Anything else, Majesty?”

“Can you pick up some skim milk? This half-and-half will kill me.” Margaret was one of those people who ate nonfat cheese and didn’t know she was missing anything.

Callahan came into the kitchen carrying a new window and leaned it against the wall.

“Are you married, good-looking neighbor?” Margs asked.

“Nope,” came his answer. “Is that a proposal?”

Margaret grinned wickedly. “Maybe,” she murmured.

“Margaret! Leave him alone.”

“How much time did you actually serve, Al Capone?” Margs asked. “God, his ass in those jeans,” she whispered to me, not taking her eyes off his backside.

“Stop it,” I whispered back.

“Nineteen months,” Cal answered. “And thanks.” He winked at Margaret. My uterus twitched in response.

“Nineteen months on three-to-five?” Margs asked.

“Yup. You’ve done your homework,” he said, smiling at my sister. My beautiful sister. Beautiful, red-haired, smart as a whip, razor-witted sister in a high-income bracket and a size four to boot.

“Well, Grace asked me to check you out, being that you’re a threat to her security.”

“Shut it, Margaret,” I said, blushing.

“Any other questions?” Cal asked mildly.

“Have you had a woman since you got out?” Margaret asked, studying her fingernails.

“God’s nightgown!” I yelped.

“You mean did I swing by the local whorehouse on my way into town?” Cal asked.

“Correct,” Margaret affirmed, ignoring my offended squeaks.

“No. No women.”

“Wow. How about in the big house? Any girlfriends?” she asked. I closed my eyes.

Callahan, however, laughed. “It wasn’t that kind of prison.”

“You must be so lonely,” Margaret said, smiling wickedly at Cal’s back.

“Are you done interrogating him?” I snapped. “He has work to do, Margaret.”

“Party pooper,” Margaret said. “But you’re right. And I have to go into the office. I’m a lawyer, Callahan, did Grace tell you? Criminal defense. Would you like my card?”

“I’m completely reformed,” he said with a grin that promised all sorts of illicit behavior.

“I know people in the parole office. Very well, in fact. I’ll be watching.”

“You do that,” he answered.

“I’ll help you get settled,” I offered, hauling Margaret out of her chair and grabbing her suitcase. “You can’t have an affair with him,” I hissed once we were upstairs. “You will not cheat on Stuart. He’s wonderful, Margaret. And he’s heartbroken. I saw him at school the other day, and he looked like a kicked puppy.”

“Good. At least he’s noticing me now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re so spoiled.”

“I have to go to the office,” she said, ignoring my last comment. “I’ll see you for dinner, okay? Feel like cooking?”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t be here.”

“Why? Date with Wyatt?” she asked, raising a silken eyebrow.

I reached up to smooth my difficult hair. “Um, no. Well, yes. We’re going to Nat’s for dinner. Double date.”

“Holy Mary the Eternal Virgin, Grace,” my sister muttered.

“I know, I know. Wyatt will end up in emergency surgery, bless his talented heart.”

“You’re an idiot. Hey, thanks for letting me crash here,” Margs said at the door to the guest room, vaguely remembering that she should be grateful.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Leave Callahan alone.”

For the next few minutes, I found things to do upstairs, away from my neighbor. Took a shower. As the warm water streamed over me, I wondered what would happen if Callahan O’ Shea walked in. Tugged his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, slid out of those faded jeans and stepped in here with me, enfolding me in his brawny arms, his mouth hot and demanding, his—I blinked hard, turned the water to cold and finished up.

Margaret headed into her office, calling out a cheerful goodbye to Callahan and me, seeming rather depressingly chipper about leaving her husband. I wrote up a quiz on the Reconstruction for my seniors, using my laptop and not the larger computer downstairs. Corrected essays from my sophomores on the FDR administration. Downstairs, the whine of the saw and thump of the hammer and the offhanded, tuneless whistle of Callahan O’ Shea blended into a pleasant cacophony.

Angus, though he still growled occasionally, gave up trying to tunnel under my bedroom door and lay on his back in a puddle of sunlight, his crooked bottom teeth showing most adorably. I concentrated on my students’ work, writing notes in the margins, comments at the end, praising them lavishly for moments of clarity, pointing out areas that could’ve used some work.

I went downstairs a while later. Four of the eight downstairs windows were already in. Cal glanced in my direction. “I don’t think I’ll have to replace those sills. If the windows upstairs are as easy as the ones downstairs, I’ll be done Monday or Tuesday.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. “They look great.”

“Glad you like them.”

He looked at me, unsmiling, unmoving. I looked back. And looked. And looked some more. His was a rugged face, and yes, handsome, but it was his eyes that got me. Callahan O’ Shea had a story in those eyes.

The air seemed to thicken between us, and I could feel my face—and other parts—growing warm.

“I’d better get back to work,” he said, and, turning his back on me, he did just that.