The M-embroidered slippers on Monica's feet bobbed up and down, while I was still wearing a pair of disposable ones.The sizzle of hot oil drifted out from the kitchen.When she saw me, Monica stood up. There was no trace of her taunting from that afternoon, only an air of humble gratitude. "Laurel..."I walked past her and went to the walk-in closet to get my suitcase.Just then, Kevin Russell came out of the kitchen, his tone accusatory. "Laurel, why are you putting on airs? Monica came all the way here to thank you in person. Can't you be a little more gracious?"My gaze swept over him, a spatula in his hand and an apron tied around his waist.In all the time we'd been married, Kevin had never once cooked. He said his sinuses couldn't handle the cooking fumes. He said he was a university professor, and his hands were meant only for holding a pen.But now, for his beloved student, he had a spatula in one hand and a dishrag in the other.His sinus problems, his lofty airs, wer
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