The news bothered me a lot. Partially because it hinted that there were darker parts of Simone's past, and partially because there was no way to ask her about it without revealing that Loretta had looked at the X-rays. Abuse is a God-awful fact of life for too many women and kids in this world. I purely hate it and despise those who inflict it on the innocent. Part of why I do what I do is to stand up for victims of such crimes and it never sits well to know someone personally who's been a victim.

I talked to Loretta who was sort of in the same boat in regards to both victims and talking to Simone. "I don't know her well enough yet to get into that sort of conversation," Loretta admitted to me quietly. "So far she's been a real asset to the morgue, and while she may not have Sebastian's head for technology, she's picking things up quickly. Still, in terms of more personal conversation—that will take time. And trust."

I nodded. "Goes both ways I guess. Still . . . we'll keep an eye on her?"

Loretta smiled. "We'll keep an eye on her."

And we did. For the next few months both Loretta and I made it a point of honor to do that. I didn't see her at much, but when I did, I chatted, and always asked if she was ready to take me up on my offer.

"Maybe," was her usual answer, but it wasn't firm and Simone usually smiled when she said it.

"We'd start easy," I coaxed her. "Shopping. Walk around one of the farmer's markets, or a grocery store. Gotta know ingredients before you start to combine and prepare them."

"I know ingredients," she protested. "Sort of."

"Water and oranges don't count. I'm talking cheeses and meats and vegetables." I teased lightly. "Something simple, like an omelet."

Simone looked downright wistful and sensing that she was weakening, I added, "A cheese omelet has only three ingredients, you know. Fewer than the fingers on your hand."

"I love omelets," she admitted in a shy little voice, and that was when I knew I had her.

I took her to Mimi's Market the next Saturday, doing my best to be casual but pleased just the same. Most weekends I catch up on all the mundane parts of my life that aren't nearly so glamorous-laundry and yardwork and business details for the bar mostly—but I was able to clear time for this and it did my head good just to get out.

Seemed to be good for her as well; Simone had on a blue sleeveless sundress with flamingos on it, and looked like she was straight out of some Fifties magazine. I asked her if she'd made it herself and she told me yes she had.

"I'll never be anything but curvy," she sighed, "So I work with what I have."

"Curvy works fine," I assured her, meaning every word. Her freckles were on display now and I enjoyed the view, although I did try to be discreet about it. "Ready for the excitin' world of grocery shopping?"

"Thrilled," she giggled, and followed me into the store.

"Seeing how I needed to pick up a few things anyway, we're combining errands," I told Simone, handing her a list. "Got most of it memorized but just in case I miss something, here it is."

"I doubt you will," came her confident reply. We got a cart and strolled up and down the aisles, comparing our opinions about everything from peanut butter to wine and I was having a pretty good time when we headed down the one with the personal products in it.

And I don't mean soap or shampoo, either.

I quickened my pace a little, determined to get us out and around to the next aisle with a minimum of embarrassment but Simone stopped dead and I found myself nearly at the end when I realized I'd lost her, and slowly turned around, wondering what had caught her attention.

She was gazing at the rack of condoms in surprise, and I felt the heat radiating off my face when she reached out and touched one of the boxes. Turning, Simone blurted, "Oh good lord, do they still make Bonne Nuit brand? I haven't seen these since a few fell out of my mother's make-up case thirty-five years ago!"

"Ummm, apparently they do," I offered after a pause, striving hard to sound objective, but it was damned difficult to do.

"Wow. I wonder if they're still black . . ." she mused, and then, finally, catching herself, flushed a deep rose. "Oh." Simone squeaked looking at me like a baby deer in headlights. Her hands flew to her face as I fought the urge to laugh.

Luckily she giggled first, spluttering as she moved one hand again to peek at me. "I am so mortified!"

"It's all right," I tried to reassure her, but I couldn't help grinning myself at this point since we were well on our way to laughing.

"I mean I don't buy condoms anymore now that that I can get decent party balloons and these were Mom's brand . . ."

"Wait, what?" stared at her. "Party balloons?"

"For making balloon animals," Simone chuckled. "The first ones I ever made I used condoms. Kids loved them. Parents either laughed or blushed."

"You made balloon animals out of condoms?" I looked towards heaven for strength and glanced back at her. "There's more to this story, isn't there?"

We stood in the middle of the aisle, looking at each other and I felt a rush of genuine fondness for this quiet, clearly off-kilter woman.

"Simone smiled, and the dimple in her cheek deepened. "So Dwayne. . . is this the skill you'd like to learn in trade for cooking lessons?" she asked me, poised to giggle again.

That's when a perfectly evil idea hit me, and I reached past her to snag a few boxes of multicolored condoms. I tossed them into the basket.

"You know what? Yeah."

Simone watched me and I think she must have had a clue because neither of us said anything more about them, focusing on the rest of the shopping. When we were done I drove her to the office and proceeded with lesson number one.

"Frying pan," I held it up. "Cast iron is best, properly buttered up. You can get non-stick versions if you want but cast iron will never do you wrong."

Simon sat on one of the kitchen stools and wonder of wonders, she had a pad out and was taking notes. I held up a stick of butter. "Ingredient one: butter. Terrible for your arteries, but absolutely vital for an omelet. We're gonna put about two tablespoons in the pan and heat it up."

Step-by-step I walked her through it, demonstrating how to crack an egg but when I picked up the whisk, Simone looked surprised.

"Is that what that thing's used for?"

"Yes," I told her. "What else would it be for?" Of course the minute I said it, a few very unorthodox uses came to mind, and apparently they jived with her because she went pink again.

"Well, I've seen it applied to . . . things that weren't eggs," Simone admitted. "Just . . . forget I said anything."

Easier said than done, but I carried on, and in a little while we were sitting down to a pair of perfect steaming cheddar and chive omelets. Simone's was a little more scrambled but she was proud of it, and she had a right to be. She looked pleased, and gave a little sigh when we'd finished eating.

"It's just a matter of steps," she marveled. "Not hard, just involved."

"Matter of practice too," I reminded her. "You should do it a few more times and it will get easier and faster."

Simone nodded, her expression hopeful. I nodded, and then fished one of the boxes of condoms out of the grocery bag, setting it in front of her.

She looked at me. "So now it's my turn to teach?"

I grinned. "I'm hoping for a few masterpieces. I think my team would appreciate a little something on each of their desks on Monday morning."

That made Simone laugh, and that full-throated sound had me going as well. There's something sexy about making a woman laugh; a sense of trust and shared humor of course but also a hint of passion too. What moves a person makes 'em either cry or laugh and I'll go for the laugh every time.

"You have a wicked streak, Dwayne Pride," she reminded me, and began tearing open a packet to reveal a bright red condom. "But fair's fair."

She brought it to her lips, blew hard, and with a complicated series of twists turned out a cute little bunny that I KNEW needed to be on Percy's desk. All I could do was stare.

"How the hell do you know what to do?" I finally asked.

She tossed me a condom. "Like cooking or sex: practice," Simone advised. "It also doesn't hurt to have someone good show you the ropes."

Hearing that and handling condoms was not a safe combination but I put my mind on paying attention to her instructions.

And yes, it was a memorable Monday, for sure.