At a service station where they’d fueled up the Roadster, they’d also grabbed a couple of cheese sandwiches. She’d barely tasted hers she’d eaten it so quickly. Fern was still hungry, though, and it smelled as though Helen was a good cook.
“I can’t stay,” Cal said. Fern’s stomach dropped with disappointment, even though she’d known to expect it.
Helen rolled her eyes. “I’m not letting you leave until you’ve finished your supper. Now, go wash up.”
She sounded like a mother chastising an unruly child. To Fern’s surprise, Cal relented. He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair in the small kitchen, and then went to the washroom, located off the kitchen, next to the storeroom. He closed the door behind him.
“It’s the only bathroom in the house, and my boarders pay an extra five dollars a week to use it. So, get used to the noise,” Helen told her as she set bowls out for them.
“Can I help with anything?” Fern asked. Helen moved efficiently, clearly in command of her kingdom here.
“Bring that pot over and set it on the tile there,” she said. In the center of the table was a blackened square tile, scorched, Fern imagined, by years of hot pots and pans.
Using a pair of equally blackened mitts, she lifted the pot of soup by its handles and brought it over to the table. The padded mitts had thinned with repeated use, and her fingers were near to burning when she finally set it down on the tile. Cal emerged from the bathroom as Fern removed the mitts and inspected her fingers. Red, but not blistered.
Cal caught her hand and inspected them himself. Satisfied that she hadn’t burned her hand more seriously, he dropped a quick kiss onto the tips of her reddened fingers. The sweet gesture took her breath away, but then he released her and pulled out a chair, as if it had been the most normal thing in the world to have done.
As Fern sat next to Cal at the table, Helen ladled soup into their bowls, seeming to think nothing of the double holsters tucked against her nephew’s ribs.
“Where’s your brother?” Helen asked. The way she said ‘brother’, it was clear Helen was just as cautious with Rodney as everyone else.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day,” Cal answered.
“Does he know you’re here?”
Cal shook his head.
Fern could tell Helen wanted to know more—about her, about Rod—but she stayed quiet as Cal spooned up his soup like a starving man. He just wanted to finish and be gone, and as soon as he was, he got to his feet.
“Thanks, Aunt Helen,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her on the cheek.
She stood up too, making some excuse about needing to check in on her “crew.”
Cal put his hands in his pockets while Fern stirred what remained in her soup bowl.
“You okay staying here?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied, confused about why she sounded—and felt—irritated.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She nodded, still stirring her soup. She wasn’t his responsibility. He didn’t need to stick to her like glue.
He stood next to her chair until Fern finally looked up at him. He offered his hand, and like before, she readily slipped her fingers into his waiting palm. With a light tug, he helped her to her feet, and then his hands settled around her waist. Cal leaned closer, angling his head to look her in the eye. He kissed her with a gentle, testing nudge of his lips. Heat gathered under Fern’s skin everywhere, and without thought, she kissed him in return. Surely, her kiss was inexperienced, but the way he reacted—pulling her closer, kissing her harder—made her feel powerful.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered against his mouth.
Cal murmured that he wished he could stay, too, but before he could say anything more, the swinging door to the kitchen slammed open with a startling bang. Cal shoved Fern behind him and had his revolver drawn and aimed a millisecond before what had happened permeated her fuzzy brain.
One of Helen’s boarders, holding a large ceramic platter filled with the remains of a roast chicken, stood frozen in the doorway. The door swung back into him as his eyes popped with fear, staring at Cal’s gun. Without the use of his hands, he must have kicked the door open—with more force than was necessary.
Cal swore under his breath and holstered his revolver. Helen came in behind the young man, whisking the platter out of his hands and shooing him back into the dining room.
“Sorry, Helen,” Cal muttered.
“Well, maybe now he won’t go kicking in doors,” was all she said as she bustled over to the sink.
Cal grabbed his coat from the back of his seat and pecked Fern’s forehead with a chaste kiss before pushing his arms into the sleeves. And then, in another blink, he’d left the boardinghouse through the back door.
