Annie just laughed.
True to her promise, Mindy appeared then with heaping plates of food. The blue plate special turned out to be chicken-fried steak with cream gravy, green beans cooked with pork seasoning and brown-sugar-glazed carrots. Soft rolls the size of Trent’s fist accompanied the meal.
Annie looked at him comically after Mindy bustled away. “Can you imagine how many calories and fat grams are on this plate?”
“No.” He picked up his fork. “I don’t care. I’m hungry.”
She smiled and cut into her meat. “So am I.”
To his satisfaction, she ate heartily. A few extra calories and fat grams wouldn’t hurt her this once, he figured. As for him—well, he still wasn’t back in preaccident shape, himself. He hadn’t had much appetite during the past months. Tonight he was hungry.
“My grandmother used to make chicken-fried steak for me,” he heard himself saying, though he hadn’t actually planned to initiate a conversation. Still, it seemed sort of rude to eat in silence. “She died when I was just a kid, but I remember her cooking.”
Annie seemed encouraged by the personal tidbit. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was French. She made pastries like you wouldn’t believe. She promised when I was old enough she would teach me her recipes, but she died when I was only ten.”
“Didn’t your mother learn the recipes?”
It intrigued him the way her expressive face suddenly blanked. “My mother doesn’t cook,” she said, little emotion revealed in her voice.
Every time he asked about her past, she clammed up. Withdrew. He kept his tone casual as he asked, “So who cooked for you when you were growing up?”
“Other people,” she said evasively.
“I see.” He’d obviously stumbled upon a sensitive spot. “Are your parents still living?”
“Yes, but I don’t see them often. Tell me about the remodeling project your father and brother are planning. What does Trevor want you to do?”
She’d very efficiently erected a No Trespassing sign around the subject of her personal life. Trent would honor her wishes—for now. “He wants to replace all the pine cabinetry with a darker, richer wood in a more traditional style. Something more dignified and lawyerly.”
“Lawyerly?” She smiled as she repeated the word. “Is that an established decorating term?”
“If it’s not, it should be. He said he wants to project an image. Dark woods—cherry, mahogany, maybe walnut—glass-fronted barrister cases, hunting prints and leather. He wants to start around the first of June, which will give me time to do your painting first.”
He had already purchased the paint in the color she’d chosen for her bedrooms and hallways. The cans were stacked, along with the painting supplies he would be using, in one of the two small, empty bedrooms in the three-bedroom house. He had decided to paint the inside of the house first, to brighten up her living quarters, and she had agreed with an eagerness that had told him she was tired of being surrounded by dull, dirty walls.
“I know you’ll do a great job at the law firm’s offices,” she said. “Have you considered taking more commissions?”
“Starting a cabinetry business, you mean?” He shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll see how this job for Trevor works out. If I screw that up, no one else will want to hire me.”
“You won’t screw up.” She looked amused by the idea. “As beautiful as your work is, I think you’ll be in big demand.”
It was something he’d been considering for the past couple of months. As his mother had pointed out on numerous occasions, it was past time for him to stop mourning his broken dreams and get on with his life. Cabinetry had certainly never been a career plan for him—but now that the only job he’d ever really wanted was out of the question, he had to come up with an alternative.
His vision loss meant that he could no longer work as a pilot, but the woodworking he’d always enjoyed as a hobby was still a viable possibility. His trick back could prove problematic at times, but if he used reasonable care, hired an assistant for the heavy stuff and gave himself plenty of time for each job to allow for the bad days, he should be able to make a satisfactory living. Hardly a glamorous career—not like jockeying a fighter jet—but it would give him a purpose his life had been lacking lately.
He couldn’t see himself working nine to five behind a desk, but being self-employed, working with wood and his tools, seemed like a life he could tolerate. He could take the commissions that appealed to him, turn down the ones that didn’t, live simply and quietly—all in all, it didn’t sound so bad. If he couldn’t fly.
“I’ll think about it,” he said with a shrug. “What about you? Do you have any goals beyond cleaning houses and teaching kids to play piano?”
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “I’ve only recently struck out on my own. I’ve been concentrating on getting on my feet financially. I haven’t had time to make long-term plans.”
He slipped smoothly past her No Trespassing sign. “What were you running from, Annie? A bad marriage?”
“No. I’ve never been married.” She glanced from her nearly empty plate to her watch. “I’d better go. I don’t want to be late for my piano lesson.”
Mindy stopped by the table and set the check in front of Trent. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“No, that’s everything. Thanks, Mindy,” he said.