scent of fresh garlic mingled with the sharp onion and the soft butter, filling the air.
"Do you feel smaller in this kitchen?" Mike asked.
"Why?"
"You're not that big. All your stuff's really huge."
"All your stuff's really huge," Cate sing-songed back.
Mike grinned. Talking had done her a world of good. "You slept?" he asked, just to hear her voice.
"Yep."
"And now you're making onion soup why?"
"I took the morning off. I'm perfecting the recipe."
"Ah."
"Yep." Cate set her timer for 25 minutes and rinsed the cutting board, leaving it in the deep farmer's sink. She measured flour and red wine, pouring beef broth into the Crockpot.
"Cooking makes you−" Mike began their favorite game, amusing himself, watching Cate move efficiently behind the over-sized island. Every so often, she'd stop and stir the soft pile of vegetables sautéing on the cooktop.
"Content. Inspired. Cross-country or downhill?"
"Downhill," he answered without thinking. "You?"
"Cross-country. Beach or mountains?"
"Depends on where the girls are," he smirked. "Italy or Greece?"
"Oh−" Cate tapped the short, worn wooden spoon on the side of the shiny pan. "I have to think about that−both."
"Which one first?"
"Italy."
"Why?"
"No. Greece. I'll vacation at the beach then gorge on all the food."
"Your turn." Mike smiled at her reasoning.
"Hmm?" Cate was dreaming of blue waters. "Oh. Comedy or drama?"
"Action."
"Chick flick. Your turn."
"Movie or dinner?"
"Both. You?" Cate grinned.
"Movie."
"Why?"
"Uh, get the girl alone in the dark−"
"What's on your mind, funny boy?"
"Do I have to eat this?"
Cate threw a nearby dishtowel at Mike, who hid his grin by ducking quickly. "Farm or city?"
"Farm." Mike knew country and farm were synonymous in Cate's world.
"Yeah, me too."
"I kn ow ," he drawled.
"Oh, you know everything about me, do you?"
"I do."
"Name one thing."
"You're famous."
Cate laughed.
"You're organized, you're a business owner and you're a slave−" Cate raised her eyebrows. Her eyes slid across Mike's face as he spoke, "to Jeeps."
Cate laughed again.
Mike continued, "That's three things. There."
"You could find those out reading trashy magazines," Cate retorted.
"You're a dog owner, but you love all animals. You've been cooking since you were three, and in middle school you met the love of your life." He ducked again as Cate burst out laughing, reaching for her mug of lemon tea.
"Done yet?"
"Don't throw that at me!"
"I'm non-violent."
"You're non-violent. Seven. Seven facts."
"Okay, okay." Cate choked back a smile. "You−"
"What?" Mike leaned forward, his hands on the counter in front of him.
"You're a hard worker, you're very intelligent and you're a little bit of a typical guy." Mike made a face and Cate stuck her tongue out. She stirred the caramelizing onions, resisting the urge to flick the spoon at him. "You're also not very neat."
"Neatness is overrated." Mike gestured around her organized kitchen. "People who are neat are control freaks."
"Control−" Now she was going to throw something. Cate looked around the spacious room, calculating.
"See? You can't find anything to throw."
Chapter Twenty Six
In truth, Cate was cooking to occupy her left brain. That way her right brain could focus on industrious thoughts before her children came home for a long weekend. One of Nic's favorites was onion soup. She was making pasta for Al, and she'd add sauce with fresh garlic for Nic, too. Both would devour loaves of her garlic bread and healthy salad with fresh dressing. Al would appreciate a large vat of Cate's creamy mac & cheese. Maybe Cate would make linguine carbonara. Yes, she decided.
Bleu cheese dressing, she thought, inspecting the shelves of her fridge. What about creamy Italian? Maybe a spicy balsamic vinaigrette.
"When do they get here?"
"Al is driving in late Friday night. Nic's flies in Saturday."
"You won't sleep," Mike predicted.
"Nope." Cate popped her head around the door of
"Do you feel smaller in this kitchen?" Mike asked.
"Why?"
"You're not that big. All your stuff's really huge."
"All your stuff's really huge," Cate sing-songed back.
Mike grinned. Talking had done her a world of good. "You slept?" he asked, just to hear her voice.
"Yep."
"And now you're making onion soup why?"
"I took the morning off. I'm perfecting the recipe."
"Ah."
"Yep." Cate set her timer for 25 minutes and rinsed the cutting board, leaving it in the deep farmer's sink. She measured flour and red wine, pouring beef broth into the Crockpot.
"Cooking makes you−" Mike began their favorite game, amusing himself, watching Cate move efficiently behind the over-sized island. Every so often, she'd stop and stir the soft pile of vegetables sautéing on the cooktop.
"Content. Inspired. Cross-country or downhill?"
"Downhill," he answered without thinking. "You?"
"Cross-country. Beach or mountains?"
"Depends on where the girls are," he smirked. "Italy or Greece?"
"Oh−" Cate tapped the short, worn wooden spoon on the side of the shiny pan. "I have to think about that−both."
"Which one first?"
"Italy."
"Why?"
"No. Greece. I'll vacation at the beach then gorge on all the food."
"Your turn." Mike smiled at her reasoning.
"Hmm?" Cate was dreaming of blue waters. "Oh. Comedy or drama?"
"Action."
"Chick flick. Your turn."
"Movie or dinner?"
"Both. You?" Cate grinned.
"Movie."
"Why?"
"Uh, get the girl alone in the dark−"
"What's on your mind, funny boy?"
"Do I have to eat this?"
Cate threw a nearby dishtowel at Mike, who hid his grin by ducking quickly. "Farm or city?"
"Farm." Mike knew country and farm were synonymous in Cate's world.
"Yeah, me too."
"I kn ow ," he drawled.
"Oh, you know everything about me, do you?"
"I do."
"Name one thing."
"You're famous."
Cate laughed.
"You're organized, you're a business owner and you're a slave−" Cate raised her eyebrows. Her eyes slid across Mike's face as he spoke, "to Jeeps."
Cate laughed again.
Mike continued, "That's three things. There."
"You could find those out reading trashy magazines," Cate retorted.
"You're a dog owner, but you love all animals. You've been cooking since you were three, and in middle school you met the love of your life." He ducked again as Cate burst out laughing, reaching for her mug of lemon tea.
"Done yet?"
"Don't throw that at me!"
"I'm non-violent."
"You're non-violent. Seven. Seven facts."
"Okay, okay." Cate choked back a smile. "You−"
"What?" Mike leaned forward, his hands on the counter in front of him.
"You're a hard worker, you're very intelligent and you're a little bit of a typical guy." Mike made a face and Cate stuck her tongue out. She stirred the caramelizing onions, resisting the urge to flick the spoon at him. "You're also not very neat."
"Neatness is overrated." Mike gestured around her organized kitchen. "People who are neat are control freaks."
"Control−" Now she was going to throw something. Cate looked around the spacious room, calculating.
"See? You can't find anything to throw."
Chapter Twenty Six
In truth, Cate was cooking to occupy her left brain. That way her right brain could focus on industrious thoughts before her children came home for a long weekend. One of Nic's favorites was onion soup. She was making pasta for Al, and she'd add sauce with fresh garlic for Nic, too. Both would devour loaves of her garlic bread and healthy salad with fresh dressing. Al would appreciate a large vat of Cate's creamy mac & cheese. Maybe Cate would make linguine carbonara. Yes, she decided.
Bleu cheese dressing, she thought, inspecting the shelves of her fridge. What about creamy Italian? Maybe a spicy balsamic vinaigrette.
"When do they get here?"
"Al is driving in late Friday night. Nic's flies in Saturday."
"You won't sleep," Mike predicted.
"Nope." Cate popped her head around the door of
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