He went back to his task, using the knife to press the garlic out of its skin and chop it up. He threw it into the pan and pointed to the vegetables collected on the counter. “All right if I use these up?”
“Sure. That’s what Samhain’s all about, using up the last fruits of the harvest,” she said. She’d used that strange word for Halloween again. “So, Italian then?”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t ask if you liked Italian.” Your lipstick distracted me. “I’m making a frittata. It’s my fallback recipe when I know there are lots of eggs around.”
“Okay, I know fritters, but what’s a fri—whatever you said?”
Nick laughed then stopped chopping. “Seriously?”
“Scotch-Irish, remember? No Italians up on this here mountain. Ouida cooks pasta now and again, but never anything called that. You’ll have to hand over a recipe.” He watched as she took a long drink of the wine. She seemed to be cooperating rather enthusiastically with his plan.
“It’s frittata,” he pronounced. “I’m ashamed to admit that it’s my mom’s recipe for clearing all the leftovers out of the refrigerator. Basically, you just fry up anything you have around, add beaten eggs, fry it, sprinkle cheese on, and broil it. It’s fast and with fresh eggs like yours I imagine I can’t foul it up too bad.”
“Sounds delicious. Do I have permission to set the table, or must I not move a muscle?”
Oh please, move some muscles. He waved the knife he was wielding. “Feel free to prepare the dining area, ma’am. But nothing too formal. Frittatas don’t sit comfortably on fancy china.”
She laughed and started pulling silverware out of a drawer and placing it on the breakfast bar. He was glad she hadn’t disappeared off to the dining area. This might be the only chance he got to see her in a sweater instead of those flannel shirts she seemed to fancy, and he wanted to savor it. Who knew when he’d get another chance?
“So, your mother’s Italian then?” she asked.
Nick looked up from the pepper he was chopping and pushed all the vegetables into the sizzling oil. “Yes, well, half. My Nan’s English, mostly. My grandfather was Italian.”
“And the other side?”
“Irish.”
“Really? Crowe doesn’t sound Irish at all. Sounds more like you might have some Native American in there somewhere.”
Damn, he hadn’t thought that through. He turned back to look in the refrigerator. “Do you know if Ouida has Parmesan cheese in here anywhere?”
“In the door, I think. Big green canister full.”
“Store bought? Sacrilege! You need to grate your own. Nothing like it.” He sighed and pulled out the container with a disgusted expression. “But we’ll make do. I like this refrigerator, by the way.” The Sub-Zero had fooled him for a minute, with the exterior fitted out like an old-fashioned icebox with five distressed-wood doors and antique-looking hardware.
“Pops was all for progress, but he wanted to keep this place looking and feeling like an old farm house,” Grace said.
“Well, he succeeded. I was worried there for a minute until I looked in,” he quipped. “And the stove fooled me too. I thought I was going to have to fetch wood or something.”
She laughed and took another sip of wine. “So, Crowe?”
“Yeah, well. Irish and something else. A veritable melting pot.” He started breaking eggs into a bowl. “How about you? All Scotch-Irish, all the time?”
“On my father’s side, pretty much. Except my great-great-great-grandpa Zachariah, who was half Cherokee.”
“Great-great-great. I don’t even know the names of my greats. How do you keep track?”
Grace smiled and pointed to the west. “The cemetery.”
Nick realized she was pointing toward the huge meadow that he had seen when he first arrived. “That I’ve got to see.”
“Like I said, it’s on our schedule for the evening.” She smiled and took another sip.
“Sounds like fun.” Why do I get the feeling your intentions are much more improper than mine, Dr. Grace? Nick threw some of the spices he’d found in the estimable Ouida’s neat cabinet into the beaten eggs, tossed in the chunks of goat cheese left over from the casserole they had earlier, and mixed in some milk. Then he poured the mixture over the vegetables in the pan, stirred it well and started slicing up a tomato.
“That’s just amazing. You don’t even look at what you’re doing half the time!” Grace exclaimed. “Ouida does that too. Don’t you people have to, well, measure things?”
“Spoken like a true scientist. You don’t cook much, do you?”
She smiled. “All my cooking is in the lab.” She smiled at him, pleased with her own joke.
“I bet.” Nick tried to return the smile but the headache behind his eyes flared up again. He rummaged in the bread bin he had found during his explorations. “You have any particular bread you want to serve with this?”
“I think there are some leftover biscuits in there.”
“Perfect.” He pulled out a zip-top bag and looked at the biscuits critically. “These are not from a can.”
“Ouida’s. Homemade from scratch.”
“So, who’s this Ouida? She sounds like a member of the family.” He wrapped the biscuits in a towel and put them on a plate in one section of the warming drawer beside the oven.
“She is, practically speaking.”
Nick watched her refill her glass and wondered why she was so intent on drinking the entire bottle by herself. It was as if she were building up her courage for something—something which might not be in line with his plans for the evening.
Or it could just be melancholy over her Pops’s birthday. You know how that feels.
“My Gram died twenty-five years ago. Ouida was Gram and Pops’s housekeeper and cook. She became a surrogate grandmother to all us kids.”
“All us kids is you and Daniel and—?”
“My sister, Thea.”
“Well, Jamie told me all about Dr. Daniel, the bee whisperer,” Nick prodded. “Is Thea a doctor, too?”
“No. She’s a lawyer.” Grace took a long drink. “For my father’s corporation.”
He had a feeling there was a lot more to that story. “Any other sibling overachievers?”
“Nope. That’s it.”
“Good. I was getting an inferiority complex.”
“Pops always encouraged us to reach for the stars, as it were.” Her smile skewed and twisted. “He was a bit disappointed that no one became an astronaut. What about you? Siblings?”
He poked at the frittata, which was beginning to set. “My big sister, I think I mentioned her. Alison.”
“That’s all?”
“We had an older brother, Alex.” He’s the reason I’m doing this, though he probably wouldn’t approve. “He died when he was nineteen.” Nick laid a few tomato slices on top and sprinkled cheese over them. “I was sixteen.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her sympathy was genuine.
“He’s one of the reasons I’m writing this book. A speed freak shot him.” Nick slid the pan into the oven, turning on the broiler.
“That’s—that’s horrible.” When he looked up those green eyes of hers were wide and glistening. “I—I can’t imagine. I mean to have someone you love die that way. How—” She took a deep breath. “How did you— You were so young.”
“Yeah. I didn’t take it too well. But neither did my father. He died not long after. Heart attack,” Nick said. “I didn’t have much of a chance to do the whole angry-vengeful-teenager-makes-family-miserable thing.”
“I imagine not.”
The kitchen was quiet for a moment, except for the ticking sound of the oven and the sounds of Grace setting the dishes on the breakfast bar. He hadn’t talked about Alex in a long time, but somehow this felt right.
Nick almost pulled the pan out of the oven without a mitt. He shook himself and grabbed the one hanging on the oven front. Turning with the pan in his grasp, he bowed deeply. “Dinner is serv
ed, ma’am.”
Grace had set a trivet in front of the plates which he carefully placed the pan on, then added the plate of fresh tomatoes and went to get the biscuits out of the warming tray. When he placed them with the rest, he realized there were three settings, and she was holding a fourth plate, with silverware and a napkin, in her hands.
“It’s a part of the ritual,” she said in a soft voice. “We set a place at the feast for the ones we’ve lost most recently, and then we eat the meal in silence out of respect for them.” She held the plate out to him. “I thought you might like to set one for Alex.”
Something that had been bolted down in his chest for a long time suddenly loosened and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, tears blurred his vision.
Damn the woman.
Grace had known she was in trouble when she watched Nick’s hands shake a little as he set the empty place for his brother, the pottery plate clinking against the granite counter.
She had served up the steaming frittata and the fresh tomato slices, and he had buttered the biscuits and poured her more wine. Then they had eaten in companionable silence. So quiet, except for the clinking of silverware against plate, that Pooka, who had been curled up in his bed, uncurled and came over to put his head onto Nick’s lap. Nick’s lap.
Grace watched as Nick put his finger to his lips, shushing the dog, who then came to her for reassurance. She patted Pooka’s head and motioned him back to his bed as Nick smiled at her.
Deep trouble. She drank the rest of her wine and tried to remember how many glasses that had been. Very deep trouble and very…very something. Something that was likely going to hurt whenever Nick left the mountain.
Nick pushed away his empty plate and looked at hers, an unspoken question in those gray eyes.
“It was absolutely delicious. Amazing,” she said, startled at how loud her voice was after such a long silence.
His eyebrow went up and she smiled.
“None of us ever manage to stay quiet all the way through dessert, so we generally give up after the main course. It actually was a bit of a contest to see who’d talk first when we were younger.”
“Is this a contest?” he asked in a serious tone.
She stopped smiling. He stared at her as if he were asking some other question. A question she didn’t want to answer.
“Well, yes! And I guess I lose since I opened my big mouth,” she said. “As usual. I never could outlast Daniel. He has an unfair advantage, being the more somber and quiet one among us.” You are babbling, Grace.
Nick’s eyebrow was up again, but at least he was smiling. He had quite a range of expressions involving either that dimple of his or his eyebrow, most of them amused and usually somehow at her expense.
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Never.” He held up the bottle of wine. “More?”
“No, I think I’m fine. The body can only metabolize alcohol so fast and I do believe I’ve pushed that limit significantly.” Grace covered the top of her glass with her fingers.
“Well, you managed to say ‘metabolize’ and ‘significantly’ without any problem. I don’t know if you’d pass a breathalyzer test, but we aren’t driving anywhere tonight, are we?”
She smiled at him. “No road. Just grass and stars. Lots of stars.”
He eyed her critically. “I think you’re right. We definitely need some more metabolizing.” Nick pushed back his chair. “How about if we clear the dishes and make some coffee?”
“Coffee doesn’t help you metabolize alcohol, you know. It only adds caffeine and wakes you up,” she explained.
“So, instead of being a sleepy drunk you are a very awake drunk.”
“Exactly!” Grace picked up her plate and glass and started for the sink, almost tripping over the rug.
Nick came up behind her with a tray. “What say you sit back down and I’ll clean up and make the coffee.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. You cooked. And really well too.” But she sat down obediently. “Does your sister cook?”
He grinned. “Well, yes. But no one eats what she cooks. I got the cooking gene and she didn’t. She hates me.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You are very…unhateable.” Watch it, Gracie-girl.
Nick gave her one of those looks again. He was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. They were doing something else—
“Thanks. I think.” Nick opened a cabinet door, then another one. “Coffee?”
She pointed and he came up with a bag of beans.
“You grind?”
“Ouida insists. She’s a real coffee aficionado.”
“Wow. You managed ‘aficionado’. I think you are on your way to somewhat sober.”
Grace grinned, holding up the empty glass. “And the wine is wonderful. Perfect with the frittata. I should pour myself some more. I haven’t felt this relaxed in years.” At least a decade. And you are thoroughly sloshed, Gracie-girl.
“Nope. Hold off. We’ll scrounge something up for dessert and then pop the cork on that champagne of yours.” He started grinding the coffee and stood there smiling at her through the racket.
“So, we’re celebrating Pops’s birthday and toasting your—our departed relatives. Anything else?”
“Hmmm?”
“Well, we’re opening a very fine and very expensive bottle of champagne. This one has a reputation for tasting like stars in a bottle, so we need a profound reason to drink it. Or at least several good ones.”
“Stars in a bottle. That’s perfect.” For Pops. Grace realized, either because of the wine or the company, the thought of Pops didn’t hurt so much right now. “Well, actually…”
She watched as Nick finished loading the dishwasher and leaned against the counter. Those eyes of his were so expressive and changeable. Right now they were a pale silver color that made her mouth go dry. Or maybe it was the wine.
“Well, actually…?” He stuck his head in the freezer hunting for dessert, leaving rather nice parts of him on display. Grace leaned sideways to get a better look.
“I can think of a few things.”
“Hey! You have some gelato in here.”
“I do?”
Nick’s head appeared around the door. “You don’t spend much time in the kitchen, do you?”
She shook her head. “As little as possible.”
“And it’s lemon.” He pulled out the container with a flourish. “I must meet this Ouida, I think.”
“I think you would get along famously. She’s been after me to get an espresso maker.”
“Yes, I am disappointed that we have no espresso to top off this fine Italian meal.” He hunted the cupboards and drawers for bowls and spoons and a scoop. “So, what are we celebrating?”
“Well.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “First, I have measureable proof that some work I’ve been doing in the greenhouse has re—has impacted the active compounds in one of our most important products, which means we may be able to start up production again soon. Second—”
“Whoa. Layman here. What the heck’s an active compound?”
“Oh, sorry!” Grace said apologetically. “Active compounds are the phytochemicals—” she laughed out loud when he winced, “—the plant chemicals which we think create the therapeutic effect caused by a particular herb. For example, the effect of American ginseng on nausea and chemo-related fatigue.”
“Here.” Nick pulled a glass out of the cabinet and poured the last bit of the red into it, handing it to her. “The fact that you can say all that and actually understand it proves that you were right—you need some more wine. It’s a wonder you don’t fall over with all that stuff in your head.”
She downed the glass without a breath.
“Whoa. What did I say?” Nick looked shocked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s all right. That was— That’s something Pops used to say.”
“Oh. Sorry.” A bowl of gelato appeared in front of her. “It seems like you really lived here as a
child. I mean the way you talk. Instead of in Philly.”
“Well, we stayed here every summer and every holiday—every school break basically. All three of us.” She frowned and dug into the gelato. “My mother’s…well, let’s just say my mother’s still working hard at her own childhood. And my father believes in working pretty much non-stop for the ‘good of all mankind’. The classic poor little rich kids—that’s us. When we weren’t at school, we were here and they were somewhere else.” She looked up. “It’s cliché, and I’m sure our first world problems don’t seem like much compared to the kids you must see in your work. At least we had Pops, and Ouida, and the mountain.”
“No wonder you love this place.”
“I don’t think love is the right word, but yes. And you’re right.” She lifted her spoon. “This is perfect after the frittata.”
“I have this thing about gelato.”
She grinned at him. “You make me laugh.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Is it ever a bad thing?”
“Nope. And you have a great laugh,” he said.
The gelato tasted like melting sunshine sliding down her throat. And Nick’s smile—with that dimple of his—was warming her all the way to her toes. She smiled back, rather stupidly no doubt, but she didn’t care. And it was really great not to care for a while.
“So, the second reason?” Nick asked. Grace thought about it.
“Tink’s in complete remission and she’ll have a normal life and grow up and have kids and—” Wait. Will she actually be able to have kids? Did whatever happened reverse the radiation side-effects too? What about—
“Tink?” Nick prompted.
Grace blinked at him. I didn’t say that out loud did I? “Tinker Bell. Really Isabella. It’s a nickname.”
“Your little patient.”
“Yes. She was in pretty bad shape.”
“That’s pretty amazing, isn’t it, to recover so completely?” Nick sounded impressed. “Some kind of experimental drug trial or something?”
“Something like that. Yes.” Grace looked at her empty bowl. She should stop this and send him off to his cabin before she did something stupid. But it was so nice to have a normal conversation with an adult for once. Well, relatively normal. The fact that he was a good-looking adult male was a plus.
More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling) Page 12
