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“I don’t,” I state as I move my queen. “Checkmate.”
With a single, thick finger, he topples over his king.
“You’re kinder than you like to admit. Why do you hide it?” I retort.
“I’m not kind,” he says as he stands. “I should go light some fires in the other rooms to keep the house warm. We should have kept that old gas furnace,” he mutters as he leaves me sitting alone in the library with a million more unanswered questions to ask.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Adam
I go room to room turning on fireplaces to keep the building warm. As I turn a corner, I hear noises in the kitchen.
I slowly open the door and find Isa chopping veggies by candlelight. A giant pot sits on the gas stove.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making soup,” she answers without looking up.
“Why?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine. “Because…it sounded good and the gas lines work, so might as well cook real food.”
“But…Mrs. Potter has meals in the freezer,” I point out.
“The power is out,” she says as if I’m an idiot. She sighs. “I don’t want to keep opening the freezer door because I don’t know how long the power will be out. These veggies were all in the basket over there.”
“No meat?” I ask, already questioning her soup.
She rolls her eyes and I narrow mine. “There are lentils in it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your protein.”
“You didn’t ask if I was allergic to anything,” I point out.
She stops mid-chop. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.”
She points a knife at me. “Then, why are you asking me to ask you that? You’re a real grump, you know that?”
I laugh sarcastically. “Right. Anyhow…” I trail off as a memory of my mom cooking soup in this kitchen comes barreling into my mind out of nowhere. I’d forgotten about that day. It wasn’t much different than today. A snow day from school. My mom telling Mrs. Potter to stay home.
Isa stops her chopping and walks around the peninsula. Her hand reaches for my forearm.
“Adam? Are you alright?” she asks, her voice gentle and calming like a balm on my soul.
I take a deep breath. “I’m fine.” For reasons I can’t explain I decide I want to help.
“Can I help?”
Her smile makes me want to do the right thing, whatever that is. It makes me want to please her again. It makes me want to keep doing things so she’s always smiling.
“Absolutely,” she replies as her hand slides down my arm, and she entwines her fingers with mine, giving a small tug. “Come on.”
I let her guide me around the counter. She motions to the knife and vegetables. “Chop those up and toss them in the pot.” I give her a look. I suppose I’m not used to people demanding things of me. She pauses and her lips twitch with another smile. “Please,” she adds. I nod my understanding and get to work.
She begins adding spices and herbs to the pot. We each complete our tasks in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence as if we’ve known each other for years. There are a few moments where we both turn and end up face-to-face and I swear I hear her sharp intake of breath over the liquid bubbling on the stove. Could she be affected by me just as I am toward her? She seems too pure, too innocent, and much too kind. She deserves someone better, someone…undamaged.
When she finally puts the lid on the pot to simmer the soup, she asks, “What now?”
