home.”
“So I see.” His face relaxed.
“Good cookies,” the guest remarked.
“Glad you think so.”
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
John stole one longing look from Fiona to the bedroom
door. Then, with resignation, he said, “Spaghetti.”
Fiona hid her smile. She had probably sampled his
entire repertoire. Let’s see. Spaghetti today means stir-
fry tomorrow. Or was she misjudging him?
The reader nodded with apparent satisfaction and
went back to his book, oblivious to John’s frustration.
“I suppose I should get dinner started,” he said finally.
Fiona swallowed the last of her tea. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to. If you’d rather read, go for a
walk, take a bath…”
She almost wavered at mention of the bath. He had
one of those sinfully deep claw-foot tubs in his bathroom, too. But there would be time. Right now, she wanted to be with him.
“Never turn down help,” she told him cheerfully.
A flash of humor had that amazingly softening effect
on his face. “Even when they break dishes?”
“Not even then.” She stood. “Shall I chop?”
It felt like old times, except that it was other kids—
not hers—who wandered in to see what was cooking
and whether they could snitch an illicit, before-dinner
goody. Fiona immediately recognized the thirteen-yearold girl from his description. Hair veiled much of her face, her lower lip pouted, and her eyes rolled at everything the boy with her said. The parents were apparently out cross-country skiing, likely enjoying the break from
their delightful offspring.
When dinner was ready, guests filled the long table.
John and Fiona ate quickly at the counter, keeping an
eye on the diners so they could respond to requests. The
youngest boy spilled his milk. Fiona smiled at him, told
him not to worry, and mopped it up. The teenage girl
dipped her hair in her spaghetti and snapped at her
father when he mildly suggested she put it in a ponytail.
The gentleman who’d read all afternoon in the kitchen
remained solitary, as did the middle-aged woman from
the living room. Otherwise, conversations crisscrossed,
quieter ones between couples and family members,
more general observations and questions a little louder.
“Sky felt like snow this afternoon.”
John nodded. “We might get some. Just an inch or
two, if the forecast is to be believed.”
“Would you pass the garlic bread?”
“What wonderful spaghetti!”
“Can you recommend another trail for tomorrow?
We’d love to get up higher.”
John was hardly effusive, but he answered questions
and remained patient, just as he had with Fiona’s students.
He cut pie and she served as he set pieces on small
plates.
No, he was sorry, no television, he told the sulky girl.
“Not even in there?” She jerked her head toward his
room.
“Gretchen!”
In fact, Fiona knew that he had a television and DVD
player, although she doubted he bothered often with
movies. She waited with interest to hear what he’d say.
John met the teen’s challenging gaze. “Those are
my private quarters.” With no more comment, he moved
away to get coffee for someone.
The girl said loudly, “This sucks! A hotel with no TV.”
Her brother braved her scathing glance to say, “I
thought it was fun to play games.”
“Why don’t you come out with us tomorrow?” her
dad asked. “It was beautiful along the creek.”
“And cold. ”
He sighed and shook his head. Fiona hoped Gretchen
wasn’t enrolling in Willamette Prep.
Gradually the guests wandered out after compliments on dinner, and she and John worked in tandem cleaning up. In one way, it was so comfortable; they’d
done it before, and she seemed to fall into the rhythm
as if she’d spent weeks or even months here before,
rather than mere days. But in another way…well, she
kept thinking about when they could close up the
kitchen and retreat to his apartment. When they’d finally
be alone together.
The reader closed his book at last, stood, stretched,