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The house settles around me the way it always does—quiet, solid, familiar.

I set the bags on the wide wooden kitchen counter and start unpacking, one thing at a time.

I turn on the Bose speaker from my phone and let Libiamo, ne’ lieti calici from La Traviata fill the air. It feels apropos as Violetta and Alfredo talk about drinking from joyful cups, urging everyone to embrace pleasure, love, and wine because life is fleeting.

I hum along with Maria Callas as I put away the things I bought.

Coffee beans go into the airtight can next to my De’Longhi espresso machine.

The brown rice into the glass jar in the small pantry.

The Devil’s Slip ’n Slide hot sauce gets a place of honor in a cabinet above the range, next to the salt cellar and the olive oil.

I line up the dried hominy—yellow and blue—beside the canisters of flour and cornmeal in the pantry. The blue cornmeal goes into its tin, which I use when I have the time to make tortillas from scratch.

The chiles—Pueblo green, Hatch, and the dried Chimayó reds—get spread out on the counter for a moment before I sort them, fresh in the crisper, dried in the pantry.

Pork shoulder goes into the fridge.

Cilantro into a jar of water by the sink.

Limes in the bowl that always seems to have something green and bright in it.

The pasta, the good kind, goes into the cabinet above the stove.

San Marzano tomatoes next to it.

Parmesan into the fridge, wrapped carefully.

I finish with the olive oil, setting it on the shelf by the stove, within reach.

The kitchen is set the same way the rest of the house—part practical, part deliberate, nothing wasted.

Open shelves with stacked white dishes.

Cast iron hanging within easy reach.

Knives kept sharp and visible.

Beadwork I inherited from my grandmother, who inherited it from hers, hangs just past the doorway, where I can see it from the counter.

“What should I cook tonight?” I ask myself.

Posole, I decide. It’ll take time—and I can use that time to think.

I open the wine fridge I brought over from Aspen and had installed in the kitchen, pull out a bottle of Barolo. It’ll go nicely with the posole.

I open it and pour myself a glass.

Like Julia Child always said—wine first, then cooking.

Maybe I should invite him home for dinner, I think for a moment. Maybe⁠—

My phone rings, and a feminine automated voice cuts off the music and says, “Call from Griffin Cole, answer it?”

I sigh and pick up my phone.

I don’t want to hear from him, but my old firm still owes me money—the bonus they withheld after Griffin unceremoniously gave me the boot from his life and the firm—so I take it.