Snowed by Pamela Burford

writer. Luke’s a chef. He owns a restaurant in Boston.”
    “James, Mark, and Luke. Sounds like my mama’s not the only one who got bit by the Bible bug. And only you carried on the family trade,” she said. “That photograph of your mother is intense. She must’ve been some lady.”
    He smiled and she was struck by the change that came over his handsome features. She saw fond remembrance mingled with a hint of pain at his loss. She resisted the sudden urge to reach out and place her hand on his.
    “She was that,” he said quietly.
    “When did she die?”
    “Ten years ago.”
    An awkward silence followed while she thought about the things she’d learned that day.
Don’t do it,
she warned herself even as the demon inside her said, “So. No pictures of your father. No pictures of your late wife. You must admit that’s a bit strange.”
    He stared at her. “No one else makes it their business.”
    She shrugged. “Of course not. Everyone’s afraid of you.”
    “Maybe everyone knows me better than you do.”
    The implicit warning gave her pause until she remembered Kara. James’s agent probably knew him better than anyone, and to her he was all bluster. But then, maybe that was just Kara. Could be everyone else had more sense.
    “I’ll risk your wrath, Attila,” she said, with more bravado than she felt. “Come on. Satisfy my curiosity.”
    He was silent a long while. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Leah, have you ever been married?” When she shook her head no, he said, “I wish to God I never had.” His tone was frigid, unforgiving.
    “You sound so bitter. What did she do?”
    He was on the verge of answering her, she could tell, but then his face changed, like a door closing, and she knew the secret would remain inside him. “That’s ancient history.” He rose and went to the refrigerator. “Does the queen of southern vittles know how to do something with chicken?”
    Grateful for a chance to lighten the mood, she dredged up her thickest drawl. “Do
Ah
know how to do somethin’ with
chicken
? Why, sugah, this Dixie gal’ll fry you up a mess a’ cluckers that’ll bring a tear to your eye.”
    “You’re on.” He deposited a package wrapped in white butcher paper on the counter.
    Leah made them dinner
—
fried chicken, biscuits, and a salad
—
while James took a shower. He came back down looking fresh scrubbed and painfully handsome with his wet hair combed off his face.
    They took their meal and two bottles of dark ale into the dining room, where they occupied one corner of the enormous linen-draped table, sitting at right angles to each other. Their legs brushed under the table, sending a tingling current of awareness through Leah. The lingering smell of soap overlaid the essence of James himself, a heady combination.
    He pretended to bully her until she finally divulged the secret of her fried chicken: “Put lots of pepper in the flour, some butter in the shortening, and make sure that fat is hot.”
    “I think there’s some fudge ripple in the freezer,” he offered. When she declined dessert, he rose, lifting the plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
    “What a man.” She helped him clear the table and then headed upstairs for a bath.
    When they’d been preparing to ski earlier, he’d found a variety of clothes that had belonged to him and his brothers when they were younger. He’d added some of his own flannel shirts that on her would be long enough for nightshirts. And of course, the red silk kimono. He’d deposited this pile of clothing in the room next to his own, a comfortable guest room that he’d said had once been his brother Mark’s.
    “I’m fresh out of lacy undies, I’m afraid,” he’d apologized.
    “That’s okay. I’ll just wash my things out tonight.” She hadn’t added that if her unmentionables weren’t dry by morning, she’d simply do without. No reason to put that fine a point on it.
    She luxuriated in the enormous claw-footed bathtub,