“Have you lived here a long time?”
“I used to live here before I moved to the attic.”
“Here?” He pointed at the floor.
She nodded.
“You didn’t move because of me, did you?”
Of course she had, but she didn’t need to tell him that either. “The attic is perfect for me. It’s got a great skylight.”
“Really? I’d like to see it.”
Zoe glanced around. Her grandmother had always kept an easy-to-reach jar of utensils on the counter, but Ethan must keep his hidden in a drawer. “Should I get a ladle?”
“I’ll get it—or something like it, since I don’t think I own a ladle. Here, just use this.” He handed her a mug with a picture of a bulldog wearing a sombrero.
She took it from him and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” He put two ceramic bowls and a couple of spoons on the table across from each other so he and Zoe would be seated facing each other. Zoe typically ate her dinner in front of the TV with her plate balanced on her lap.
“Nothing,” she said, fighting her smile.
“Are you seriously mocking my mug?” He went to the cupboard to get glasses.
“It’s just such a man tool.”
He stopped in the center of the kitchen, glasses held midair. “I suppose you have lots of ladles.”
She settled into a chair at the table. “Two. A big one and a small one, but I’m not a good person to compare yourself to.”
“And why not?” He took the chair across from her and spread a napkin in his lap.
“This isn’t a contest,” she told him. “It’s just that I’m a sucker for kitchen utensils.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means my favorite section of any department store is the kitchen appliances. It means when the Williams Sonoma catalog comes in the mail, I stop what I’m doing so I can sit down and read it. It means I love Sweet and Spicy Sous-chef parties.”
He used his bulldog mug to ladle soup into her bowl. “What about Tupperware?”
She wrinkled her nose and used the serrated knife to cut the rosemary bread. A puff of heavenly smelling steam lifted into the air. She felt it settling around them like a cloak of friendship. What would it be like to meet at the end of every day like this, to share a meal and discuss the day’s events? Was this what he’d had with his wife?
She felt his eyes on her and she had to fish around to remember his question. “I don’t do Tupperware.”
“Why not? Are you opposed to plastic?”
“Not adamantly, but maybe. I haven’t really ever thought about it, but I do like things that last. I still have my grandmother’s wooden rolling pin and cast-iron pans.”
He held up his mug like it was a trophy he’d won. “This will last.”
She grinned. “That’s a pity.”
“Hey, it’s a fine mug.”
“If you say so.” She watched his expression change as he sipped his soup.
“Hmm. The mug may last but this soup won’t. It was made to be eaten.”
