Something Fishy by Hilary MacLeod Page B

as they did at all such opportunities, to check if Ian might have seen her with this man.
    She opened the door wide, her eyes alternating from Ian’s house to the stack of boxes the man was wheeling in on the dolly.
    As he crossed the threshold, she stuck a hand out to stop him. She put newspapers on her floors to keep them clean. She had just lifted the papers to sweep and mop.
    â€œBe careful,” she grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
    Strong. He stopped pushing the dolly forward and looked back at her. Not bad-lookin’. A tad white in the face. Still, his mother had always said that was the mark of a lady.
    â€œThe floor.” She pointed at it, but she was looking at him. She flushed.
    Now that’s better, he thought. Some colour, that’s the ticket.
    Moira didn’t know much about men, but she did know the difference between Ian’s thoughtless indifference and the spark of interest this man was displaying. He had a cheeky look about him, face formed in a smile, a wink always at the ready. His hair was greased into a cowlick at the front.
    â€œLet’s put them in the kitchen,” she said, playing her strong suit, taking him to the only room in the house that was homey, especially when it smelled of freshly cooked muffins, as it did now.
    He began to push the dolly forward, and she put a hand on his chest to stop him. Now she felt it.
    Strong. Yes, he was strong. She felt a frisson of excitement.
    â€œIf you could, possibly, pick them up and bring them through.”
    He did as she asked, taking his time, his long, lanky legs strolling in and out of her uninspiring kitchen. It was beige and white, yellowed with age. The linoleum was older than she was, and she was a bit over forty. The counters dated to the same era. They were worn in patches, the swirls of brown, made to look like marble, rubbed off in places by constant application of cleaning product and elbow grease, but otherwise undamaged and scrupulously clean. In spite of its über cleanliness, the kitchen was inviting. The scent of Moira’s muffins had seeped into the walls, so that even when there weren’t any in the oven, it smelled like there were.
    â€œCup of tea?”
    â€œDon’t mind if I do.” He sat down at the old wooden table, thinking something stronger would be even better. At some of the houses he delivered to, he was offered rum or vodka. Sometimes he was offered more than that. He gladly accepted.
    â€œMuffin?” She pushed a plate forward on the counter.
    â€œIf you insist.”
    Moira busied herself finding him a plate, still thinking about Ian, about how she might parade this man in front of him and finally win his interest.
    She put the tea and a plate of muffins down in front of him. He took off his hat, and extended a hand.
    â€œFrank,” he said.
    She took his hand. “Moira.”
    Moira now began to order the slow cookers one at a time, and he would deliver them, one by one. The slow cookers had caught on. The villagers couldn’t wait to start cooking slow. And Moira couldn’t wait for Frank’s next visit.
    He was quite a catch. Except for the cowlick.
    â€œSlow cookers?” Gus shook her head and wrinkled her brow, dropped a stitch from her knitting and didn’t notice.
    â€œSlow cooking?” she said again, to underline her disapproval.
    Hy grinned. She’d seen it coming.
    â€œAlls I ever wanted to do was cook fast, and get it out of the road. Cooking’s slow enough for me already.”
    Hy nodded and sat down.
    â€œCooking’s so slow at my place it doesn’t even happen.”
    Everywhere else in the village, the slow cookers were placed proudly on kitchen counters beside the little-used microwaves, indoor grills, and sandwich makers.
    Moira even bought them for the cottages she was cleaning, including bills with a percentage added for herself, expecting that none of the wealthy cottagers would be so cheap as to reject