“You don’t cook, Evie.”
Larkin didn’t reply to that verifiable fact, and instead said, “In 2003, Jay Leno ate a bite of a 125-year-old fruitcake and didn’t die. Toss the cake in the breakroom and come home.”
Doyle’s rich, top-shelf laugh seemed to reverberate off the walls of the darkroom. “I won’t do that, but I’m on my way.”
Larkin said goodbye, hung up, and went to the bedroom to strip out of the clothes that smelled of sweat, hospital antiseptic, and of neighborhood trash sitting curbside for morning pickup that he seemed to have collected on his walk from the Audi to Doyle’s building. Larkin showered, dressed down in black jeans and a light summer flannel in shades of yellow, black, teal, and aquamarine, then flicked the fairy lights on in the main room. Larkin cuffed the sleeves at his elbows as he walked into the kitchen, where he then proceeded to dig through the cupboards and fridge before deciding—with the exception of no white wine, because Doyle didn’t keep alcohol in the house—they had ingredients for making risotto. There were also scallops that hadn’t been cooked yet, and a whole bag of spinach, because it had three times more calcium, iron, and potassium than leaf lettuce, and Doyle was more conscious of those things than Larkin was when they traded off on grocery duties.
He set out the ingredients, chopped shallots, and had just begun stirring stock into the rice when the door unlocked and swung open. Larkin met Doyle’s expression, could see the fine lines of stress from maintaining the personal and private guilt that’d been threatening to overwhelm him all afternoon, but he also caught a spark, a glint, of joy in Doyle’s eyes. Joy from simply seeing Larkin, even though it was—Larkin checked his watch—7:45 p.m. and they’d only been apart for an hour and ten minutes. Doyle’s smile came out, like sunshine burning morning mist, and the lines in his face snapped like tension wire giving way.
“Smells good,” he said, closing the door and propping his portfolio bag against the wall. “Risotto?”
“Yes.”
“Do I have time to wash up?”
Larkin waved his free hand in a shooing motion, but did take a second look as Doyle stepped into the bedroom, tossed his tie, vest, and suit coat on the foot of the bed with his usual lack of concern for wrinkles, before unbuttoning his white shirt and pulling it from his shoulders. Larkin would have to thank whatever yoga guru taught Doyle the crane pose, because he might not have been a big, buff guy, but every muscle in Doyle’s back and core were so defined that he could have been a living anatomical guide for medical students.
Doyle was in and out of the shower in a few minutes, rejoining Larkin in the same pair of relaxed, rolled-up jeans as yesterday and a plain black T-shirt. He grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, poured a glass of water, and set the table with silverware and napkins. Doyle removed two bowls from the cupboard and offered them to Larkin, who plated the steaming risotto, plopped a few seared scallops on top, and added the spinach he’d just finished sautéing.
It was 8:02 p.m. when they sat down to eat.
Doyle popped the tab on his Coke, held the can up, and said, “Here’s to your return to active duty.”
Larkin tapped his glass. “A hell of a welcome back.” He took a sip, put the glass down, and added, “Thank you for being there.”
“You’re welcome. Even though I doubt there was much assistance actually provided.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is?”
Larkin said, “Cold Cases often requires working alongside beat cops, detectives in other cities or states, and I’ve even worked with the FBI on a few occasions.”
“Sounds like a lot of dick-measuring.”
“Yes, and mine’s the biggest.”
Doyle clasped a hand over his mouth, but he snorted and a bit of Coke dribbled onto the tabletop. He grabbed his napkin to clean it.
“The point is,” Larkin continued, letting a smile slip, “those were necessary partnerships. Yours is different. Iwantto work with you. You know things I don’t. And—we balance each other out.”
Doyle smiled as he wiped his fingers clean. “I think so too.”
“But I don’t want to talk about work or the case or anything like that.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
Larkin took a bite of his dinner, shrugging.
Doyle tried the food and made a sound of delight. “Wow, this is really good.”
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t you cook more?”
“I find it tedious.” Larkin stabbed a scallop, brought it to his mouth, then lowered it before elaborating, “Maintaining defenses all day is exhausting. Having to walk a tightrope of engagement without becoming absorbed, in case the event turns south, because I don’t want more negative associations. I have too many. So I suppose by the time I come home, and dinner needs to be cooked but I’m already so tired, and I look at the pile of ingredients and recipe directions… it becomes a sort of visual noise that’s like… chewing on aluminum foil.”
Doyle ate, listening to the explanation without interruption, then said at Larkin’s conclusion, “The meditative qualities of cooking has the opposite effect on you.”
