Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [151]
“For cooking.” Steve had said that at the Pic and Save when he’d placed them in the cart, but Clare really wanted to have a glass.
“Corkscrew’s in that drawer.” He pointed with his elbow. She didn’t move.
“As far as I know,” he said dryly, “you’re not the one who needs to stay off the stuff.”
She secured the opener and removed the cork with a satisfying pop.
“I can still name that tune in one note,” Steve said with regret.
“You’re doing great, though.” She poured and tasted the red’s balance of grape and oak tannins. “This will go well in the stew.”
As she mentally toasted being here with Steve, she nearly blurted out Garrett’s offer. What kept her silent was that she didn’t know how he would take it. Sleeping with her was one thing, but he’d given no sign he’d be open to anything of a longer term.
Steve rinsed his hands and reached for a hand towel. “I’m sure you heard the North Fork is coming.”
“Big time. Can I help you pack?” She looked around his kitchen and wondered what he valued enough to take.
“Already done,” he said. “I travel light.”
Here she was thinking of moving to Boise to be closer to him. How would a man who traveled light take that?
Deliberately putting the future from her mind, she checked on Devon and found her still sleeping. The spread was thrown back. As Clare re-covered her, she noticed the nightstand was bare.
Of course, Steve would have packed Susan and Christa’s pictures.
Clare passed the piano and had a restless impulse to play. For a defiant moment she almost did, to show Steve that his home could have music again. Instead, she went into the kitchen, certain that her technique would be too basic for him.
“Can I help?” she asked from behind his shoulder.
“Just stand back and let the master work.” He turned and dropped a light kiss on her cheek. As quickly, he went back to dicing.
She sat at the kitchen table, sipped a long slow glass of wine, and drank in the show. Despite his limp, Steve moved with grace. His hands were sure and exact as he produced clean coins of carrot and slices of mushroom.
When the meal was prepared, she went and asked Devon whether she would prefer a tray or getting up. Dopey from the drug, Devon elected dinner in bed.
An hour later, the aroma of stewed chicken lingered in the kitchen. The delightful blend of spices and the succulent taste had proven that Steve was one primo chef.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Clare said. He’d done more than his share by cooking when his knees were probably killing him. She located some plastic bags and filled them with ice from the freezer. Wrapped in a kitchen towel, they made credible ice packs. “One for each leg. Off you go.”
In Steve’s bedroom, she collected Devon’s half-eaten dinner and saw that she had fallen back to sleep. She paused and planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead, the kind that would have made her squirm if she were awake.
On her way down the hall, her chest swelled with content. Steve stretched out on the sofa looking so comfortable that she wanted to lie down and put her head against his shoulder.
With a smile that warmed her, he asked, “Would you mind if I looked through your great-grandmother’s diary?”
She hadn’t had a chance to sit down and really read it yet, but there could be nothing in it she wouldn’t trust Steve to see. She knew how he loved history. “I’ll get it.”
Clare’s ‘luggage’ was on the kitchen windowsill, the paper sack her grizzly T-shirt had come in. It contained the shirt and diary, along with a toothbrush, paste, and comb. She was traveling light, herself.
That felt good. For months she’d lived out of a suitcase, mostly wearing a uniform that bonded her with the brotherhood of firefighting. Black and white, Native American, Hispanic, and Asian, they dressed alike. College student, fire general, soldier and convict, they came together for the season . . . and back apart.
Laura Sutton’s leather-bound book felt more fragile, the spine wobbly from all it had been through. Much more handling would see the pages come free from the