"I told you to put your leg up after supper," she said from the doorway. “And you agreed.”
"I did not, in fact, agree. I made a noncommittal sound that you interpreted as agreement."
Rats. He was right. "Still. I should be doing the dishes," she said.
"Maybe. But," he said, rinsing out the stew pot and turning it upside down on the drying rack, “They’re all done, so the point is moot.”
She spotted two mugs already on the counter beside the coffee pot, waiting for tomorrow morning. The teakettle was starting to steam on the stove, and there was nothing left for her to do except make tea and drink it on the back porch.
She felt something soft come loose inside her that she didn’t know what to do with.
"Go sit," he said, without turning around. "I'll make the tea and bring it to you."
"But . . ."
"Go sit, Grace."
She went out to the screened-in porch. The frogs were in full chorus tonight along with the crickets and a few night birds. The one drawback to all the tall shade trees around the house was she didn’t get a good view of the stars from here. But she could see the moon shining off the lake, an elongated disk of white stretching toward her.
She turned on the small space heater beside the sofa and sat down beside it, enjoying the quiet sound of its soft heat blowing toward her and taking the edge off the night’s encroaching chill. The porch was lit only by the small lamp on the side table beside her.
She tucked her feet up under her on the couch. From the kitchen came the click of the kettle on porcelain and the small sounds of Reno making tea and stirring in sugar.
He came outside carrying two mugs. He handed her one and lowered himself carefully onto the other end of the couch.
“You can prop your leg up on the coffee table,” she murmured. “It’s old and beat up already.”
He did so with a small sigh of relief. The cat, Marshmallow, appeared from wherever she went between dinner and bedtime, and sat down on the rug beyond the coffee table staring at Reno.
Grace said. "That stare from her means she's deciding whether to murder you or not."
"Bulls have the same stare and it means the exact same thing," he replied, not looking away from the cat.
"I've never seen her do it. But I'd hate for you to be the first."
He took a sip of his tea and said nothing as he continued to look back calmly at the cat. All at once, Marshmallow walked to the end of the coffee table, and sat down again to keep staring. He seemed content that the cat was no longer a threat for he looked down the sofa at her and asked, "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine."
She looked at him over the rim of her mug. He was watching the cat again, but she realized with a start that this time he was making it easy for her to lie if she wanted to, and easy for her to tell the truth if she wanted to do that instead.
She wasn’t fine and they both knew it.
"What put that worried look in your eyes at supper?" he asked.
"Was there one?"
"There were several."
She set her mug down on the side table. "It was nothing."
He didn't argue. He just took another sip of his tea and waited.
The cat climbed up between them onto the sofa in her usual spot and folded herself into a loaf.
Grace lasted maybe ten more seconds before blurting, "It was a biscuit.”
"A biscuit worried you?"
