Page 13

We didn’t, and along with the savings to our pockets, we’d agreed to take turns hosting. One of us cooked the main meal, while the other two helped peel potatoes, chop vegetables, mash whatever needed mashing, set the table, and wash up afterward. It was simple, practical, and a good excuse to see each other regularly without having to schedule a special occasion.

There was only one complication. Ricky was not allowed to cook unsupervised. We’d learned that the hard way. So when it was his turn to host, one of us distracted him while the other quietly took over rescuing the main course. Then Ricky would be invited back into the kitchen to check on the food he’d now only allegedly prepared, and we’d all agree it was coming along beautifully. He was a wonderful friend, a loyal companion, and a talented hairdresser. His culinary abilities, on the other hand, were a work in progress.

I’d once tried to explain the arrangement to him as a matter of teamwork. He’d informed me that his cooking was misunderstood and that we were all lucky to have him. I wasn’t about to argue as I quite liked my eyebrows where they were.

By the time I arrived at Tammy’s, Ricky was already there, standing at the kitchen counter with a cutting board in front of him. Tammy had apparently assigned him the vegetables, which was either a sign of trust or proof that she’d forgotten what had happened the last time he’d been given a knife and an onion.

“Morning,” I said, hanging my jacket over the back of a chair.

Ricky looked up. “You’re late.”

I checked the clock on the microwave. “I’m three minutes early.”

“Late by my standards.”

“Your standards are unreasonable.”

“That’s what people say when they don’t respect excellence.”

Tammy came through from the dining room carrying a stack of plates. “Don’t encourage him. He’s already convinced himself he’s in charge of the kitchen.”

“I am helping,” Ricky said.

“You are,” Tammy agreed. “And you’re doing a lovely job. Max, could you finish those carrots while I get the potatoes going?”

“Sure.”

I washed my hands, took the knife Ricky offered me, and inspected his work. The vegetables were cut into pieces of wildly differing sizes. A few were so thick they might have needed their own place settings.

“Interesting approach,” I said.

“Rustic,” Ricky corrected.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“It’s a style. You wouldn’t understand.”

Tammy hid a smile as she turned toward the stove. I began cutting the carrots into more manageable pieces, and Ricky went back to his onions, humming along to a song playing softly from Tammy’s radio. It was an ordinary Sunday morning in a house where I’d spent countless hours over the years. I knew where Tammy kept her mixing bowls, which drawer held the good knives, and how far I could open the pantry door before it caught on the corner of the kitchen mat.

There was comfort in that kind of familiarity. Nobody had to explain where things belonged or ask whether I wanted a cup of coffee. I could simply be there, useful in small ways, surrounded by people who knew me well enough to recognize when I was having a bad day and kind enough not to ask about it every five minutes.

Of course, Ricky could only maintain that restraint for so long.

“So,” he said, tipping the chopped onions into a bowl, “have you spoken to Josiah today?”

“No.”

“Yesterday?”

“Ricky.”

“I’m just asking.”

“And I’m just wondering why you think my conversation with the sheriff is the most important subject in Hartwell Cove.”

“Because you turn into a human thundercloud every time someone says his name.”

“I do not.”