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“Smart lady.” I peel back to let her in, smoothing my hands over my simple white button-down shirt. It hangs over a dark t-shirt with jeans, like she’d give a good goddamn about one wrinkle somewhere.
“Both works for me. We’ll have wine with dinner and beer with dessert. Hell, might be interesting to see how the beer complements the sauces.”
“What sauces?” She steps inside with a little sashaying stride, this playfulness that makes her so wicked as she hands over the goods. “What did you make?”
“You really want to spoil the surprise already?”
“Have you cooked up the culinary wonder of the world?” Her eyes round in astonishment.
“Come find out, brat.” Laughing, I toss my head toward the kitchen. “Should be about done.”
“Awesome timing.”
“Or I timed the recipes for when I figured you’d show,” I say with a snort.
She just snickers.
I lead her into the kitchen, suddenly painfully conscious of my house, wondering what she must think of it.
The building is a two-story alpine-style cottage. My great-grandparents built it over seventy years ago. It’s dark grey on the outside with ornate white trim framing the black-shingled roof and applied in intricate patterns under the eaves, framing the windows and doors.
Inside, it’s all wood and neutral greys, giving the house this nice moody feel like a misty morning.
It suits me.
A lot of the rooms are smaller like they always are in old houses, but plenty of tall windows help make up for it—and the main living area is one big space with minimal accents.
Doesn’t need ’em with the ash wood. Grain and knots are subtle decoration enough.
I’m a fan of simplicity.
While I’ve long since replaced furniture that wore out over the course of my lifetime, I kept the same minimalist focus on comfort that my parents and Celeste had: soft cream linen upholstery, natural wood tones, furniture with deep cushions.
All stuff meant to be lived on, rather than being show pieces.
It’s been my home since I was born, and there’s still a picture of me and Celeste above the fireplace, right next to another framed photo of my entire family when our folks were still alive and I was just a swaddled-up baby.
I wonder what Delilah sees as she soaks the place in. Her curious gaze turns with each step she takes in my wake.
Does she see a house that’s full of light, love, and memories for generations?
Or does she just see a lonely asshole, clinging to a bygone past he can never bring to life again?
Her small smile gives away nothing as she follows me into my homey kitchen that’s all quartz-topped wood counters everywhere, a big butcher block island, and a massive six-burner range.
Right now, it’s filled with mingling scents of the food. I turn the burner off on the asparagus before pulling on my mitts and opening up the oven.
The pasta bake looks good, and the crab cakes have been sitting pretty and keeping warm so they’ll taste like they’re just out of the pan.
I glance at Delilah.
“Island or table?” I ask, nodding at the barstools around the butcher block, and the dining table tucked against the window on the far end.
“Hmmm. Island?” she says after a moment. “Anything I can do to help out?”
“You can pour the wine, if you want. Glasses are on the rack over there.” I jerk my chin toward the rows of wineglasses hanging upside down from the rack built into the bottom of one row of ash wood cabinets.
With a thoughtful sound, Delilah retrieves two glasses and then climbs up on one of the tall wooden hardbacked stools.
She pops the cork with a practiced twist, easing it out carefully without even needing a corkscrew.
The delicate, tart aroma of white wine joins the smells of the food.
It’s only after a second that I realize she picked the stool I draped my apron over.
After she finishes pouring the wine, she gives me a mild look and picks up one of the strings on the apron, tugging it over her shoulder.
“Nice,” she says offhandedly. “Think I could see you in it? The ruffles suit you.”
“Very fucking funny.” Rolling my eyes, I sling out two plates and start loading up. “It was Celeste’s. The strings are just long enough for it to fit, so I never saw much need to buy a new one.”
Delilah sobers, her eyes flickering with chagrin.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Lilah,” I interrupt gently, scooping up the cutlery before taking everything to the island. I slide a plate in front of her and finish setting silverware before I say, “I loved my sister. Still love her. After our parents died, she was all I had. But she’s not a forbidden subject in this house. She’d have laughed just as much at me wearing her apron, frills and blue checks and all.” With my hand free, I catch a strand of Delilah’s hair and tweak it, teasing the tip against her cheek. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”
