SLOANE
Hank is in the patch of shade he likes best with his lower lip drooping. When I walk over he opens his good eye and angles his head a fraction toward me.
"Hi, friend."
I lean against his side and put my hand on his neck. His coat is dusty and warm as I reach up and scratch the spot behind his ear.
"You like it here, don't you? You're happy, I can tell."
He flicks his ear.
"It's been a bit strange for me, I have to admit. A month ago I still had my driver's license and my freedom. I had a beautiful manicure, drank the best coffee in L.A. and ate at the most amazing restaurants." I sigh. "But I was also in a relationship with a man who cheated on me and it turns out my friends weren't really my friends. Well, apart from Sita, maybe. And I'd never scratched a donkey, never collected an egg, never so much as touched a pitchfork or a shovel or a wheelbarrow before I came here."
I lean in a little closer and plant a kiss on the soft part of his nose. "And between you and me, Hank — it's not the end of the world."
"Hank's going to charge by the hour for this."
I freeze at Maggie's voice behind me and turn to find her watching me with an amused expression.
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find Sloane Archer kissing a donkey on the nose," she says, laughing. "Anyway, I know you're about to head back to the Ritz but I'm making dinner and…" She shrugs. "I thought you might want to join me? Eat something fresh? Something with color for a change?"
I blink.
"Unless you'd rather go back, of course," she adds quickly. "I know it's been a long day. I don't want to take up your free time if you —"
"No. Thank you."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Really. I'd love that."
"Good." She smiles. "Nothing fancy. I had some potatoes left over from last night and I was going to make a Spanish tortilla. If you don't mind helping, I could teach you how to crack your first egg."
I laugh. "I'll have to send a picture to my mother. She's not going to believe me if I tell her I cooked." I pat Hank on the neck and tell him I'll see him tomorrow and follow Maggie toward the house.
Even without air conditioning, the kitchen is cool after the heat outside. Maggie pulls two beers out of the fridge, opens them, and hands me one without a word. I take a sip. A picture of me drinking beer out of a bottle would be another good one to send Mom, but the combined shock might be too much for her.
"Right," Maggie says, placing a chopping board and a knife on the counter. She pulls a bowl out of a cupboard and sets it in front of me. "Crack five eggs into this. Don't get any shell in the bowl. If you do, get it out with a piece of the eggshell, not your finger. Don't ask me why, that's just how it works."
"How do I —"
"Tap it on the side of the bowl. Firmly. Once. You'll see a crack. Then put your thumbs in the crack and pull it apart."
I tap the egg on the side of the bowl. Nothing happens, so I tap harder.
"That's it. Now thumbs in. Pull."
I pull. The egg opens and the inside of it falls into the bowl. Feeling oddly proud of myself, I crack four more. The third one I do almost gracefully. The fifth one I attack with such confidence that I crush half the shell and have to fish pieces out of the bowl.
"Whisk them," Maggie says. "There's a fork in that drawer."
I do as she tells me. Maggie comes around behind me to reach into the cupboard and for a moment she's right there, close, and I forget what I'm doing.
"Put some chili flakes in." Maggie hands me a small jar. "About a quarter teaspoon. Pinch of salt. Pepper." She puts cold potatoes on the chopping board. "Then slice these. Thin." She picks up the knife and demonstrates a slice. "Like that."
While I slice, Maggie warms oil in a pan, slices an onion, and crushes some garlic. "Okay, you can tip the potatoes into the pan," she says, and adds the onion and garlic. "Stir a little, not too much. We want everything just golden."
The smell hits the kitchen and the potatoes start to go soft and gold at the edges. Maggie tastes the mixture and nods approvingly.
