I went into the kitchen and pulled down the plates to set the table. Noel entered a few minutes later.
“What ishestill doing here?”
“Who, Hopper? He eats dinner with us, dear. He works right up till six. It would be rude to let him go hungry, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess,” he grumbled, shooting me a suspicious look.
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to get under Noel’s skin. We hardly knew each other in high school. We hadn’t really moved in the same crowds. Not that Noel had much of a crowd, but I seem to remember him being friends with one of those foster kids from Riverton.
It was too bad Noel seemed so set against me, because he’d really grown into his too-large ears. He was still fun-sized, topping out around five six, but damn if he didn’t look like the most adorable Christmas elf.
Granted, one giving me a death glare. If he actually smiled, well…I’d be lost. He had turned into a knockout, with strong features that made his face masculine, but soft, rosy lips that looked made for kissing.
Or…other things.
And if I didn’t stop thinking about Noel’s mouth, I was going to be sporting wood at his family’s dinner table. I cleared my throat and carried the plates to the dining room, setting each place at the little round table where we ate most meals. There was a formal dining room, with a much larger table, but it was too much bother for casual lunches and dinners.
Noel came into the room, and I halfway expected him to demand the full-court service. Instead, he muttered to himself, “I should have made dinner.”
I shot him a look. “Fried chicken not good enough for the fancy chef?”
He looked up, his eyes suddenly piercing. “How is my father? Really?”
The worry in his voice made me falter.
“He’s better than he was,” I said carefully. “Still…fragile. But don’t let him hear you say that.”
Noel’s lips quirked. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You should have been here,” I said. “He needed you.”
He flinched and looked away, hands tight over the back of the chair in front of him. “I should help my mother. She’s taking on too much.”
His comment about cooking hadn’t been snobbery at all, I realized.
He fled the room, and why wouldn’t he after I’d taken a swing at him? But it wasn’t as if I was saying anything untrue.
His father had been in the hospital, his mom had been scared half to death, and Noelhadn’t beenhere.
Maybe he’d see now how wrong that was.
Ed ambled into the dining room, still moving slowly but upright and not as deathly pale as he’d been when he first came home. He was too thin, still, but he looked stronger.
“Smells good in here.”
“Sure does. Maggie made fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
“Damn, I do love that stuff.”
“I baked you a white chicken breast, dear,” Maggie said as she came into the room, carrying a plate made up for Ed. Noel followed with a platter of golden fried chicken in one hand, a large bowl of potatoes in the other. He placed the serving dishes in the center of the table, then returned to the kitchen for corn on the cob and a basket of dinner rolls.
Ed gazed down at his chicken breast with a forlorn sigh. “Can I have gravy, at least?”
“No, you may not,” Maggie said. “Too much sodium.”
“I’m going to die of starvation,” he complained. “It’s the bland food diet.”
“Oh, I could spice those up for you!” Noel jumped out of his seat and grabbed his dad’s plate.
