Page 12 of Sheltering You

She smiled back. Yes, Derrick would help her.

When Roger offered a prayer of thanks for the food, she added her own silent, please God. She would need help from the One True God if she was going to pull this off.

The family lined up to serve themselves from the buffet on the peninsula. The kitchen was large but didn’t feel that way with all the Wrights in it.

While the rest of them filled their plates—the decibel level was louder than ever—Jasmine returned the opened food containers to the refrigerator and stacked dirty pots and pans in the sink.

“You’ve done enough.”

The words were low but still startled her. She spun, and Derrick took a dirty cutting board from her hands and set it aside. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. You’ve been hiding in here long enough.”

“I’m not hiding.”

His eyebrows hiked, and though he didn’t say anything, his expression held a challenge.

“Your family is very loud.”

At that, he grinned. “Can’t argue with you there.” He set his hand on her lower back. “Come on. I already fixed your plate.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Figured you’d do it wrong.” There was humor in his tone, but he must have been serious. Why else would he have gotten dinner for her? What man would ever get dinner for a woman?

It was odd enough that the men let the women serve themselves first—opposite of the way things were done in Iraq.

But to serve a woman?

Unheard of.

Derrick led her out of the kitchen, across the hallway, and toward the formal dining room.

Jasmine had eaten in there on her first visit to Sam’s house, when she and Leila had just arrived in Maine. It held a round table large enough to accommodate the twelve chairs surrounding it. The last thing she wanted was another crowd.

She paused outside the door. “Would you mind very much if we find someplace private to eat? I need to talk to you.”

“Oh.” His eyes brightened as if he liked that idea. He walked down the hall and peeked into the living room, then glanced back with a smile. “Grab a seat. I’ll get our food.”

There were two wingback chairs near the fireplace, a small table between them. She settled into one of the chairs and watched the fire flickering nearby, lifting her hands to warm them.

She loved Maine. She loved the winter, even when it was so cold she worried her fingers and toes might fall right off. She loved the snow that covered everything in a layer of purity. And she loved the indoor fireplaces that people lit for no reason, as far as she could tell, except that they were cheerful. Sam’s house had a furnace, like the house where Jasmine and Leila lived. So the flames were just for fun. For kindness and coziness and comfort.

Derrick set a tray on the table between them. “Eliza grabbed the tray so I wouldn’t have to make two trips.”

“I should have helped. I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine.” He sat on the other chair and picked up a bowl. “Have you ever had chili before?”

“No.” She took her dish, which he’d filled with the meat stew, orange chips—Fritos, she remembered from the package—grated cheese, sour cream, and green onions.

Derrick was mixing his concoction, so she followed his lead and tasted it on her tongue. It was spicy and creamy and crunchy and salty.

He watched. “Well?”

She chewed and swallowed, considering. “It is…different.”

“Different?” Did he seem disappointed? “That’s it?”

“I like it.” It wasn’t the most delicious thing she’d eaten in Maine, but it was food, and she would be thankful.