At Grace House, cooking was the worst chore assignment. I hated it. And when I lived with Cara, I could only afford ramen noodles. That just takes a packet and water. When I returned to Independence Cottage, I mastered cooking an entire meal in a single pot. Pasta works best. You cook the pasta, throw frozen veggies in at the last minute, drain the water, and toss a jar of sauce on top. Then eat—out of the pot. I’m embarrassed to admit I cooked and ate like that most nights. But it does illustrate what a surprise this new passion is for me. I thought my first attempt at shrimp worked well, and Alex seemed to enjoy it . . . at least he didn’t get sick.
I gather Alex is here because his publisher suggested a change of scenery for his hero, Cole. He’s in a rut. Fictional characters get in ruts? Or is it the writers? Regardless, both are here to break free. Cole’s here to help an interstate task force hunt a serial killer, and Alex is here to “assist”—that’s exactly what he said.
“What does ‘assisting’ a fictional detective entail?”
“It’s a boondoggle,” he laughed.
I sighed. Clearly, he assumed I knew what that meant. I was about to ask when he must have caught my lost look.
“It means I get to play around Chicago, try out restaurants, go to baseball games, visit museums, and do anything I want that will help Cole solve crime and capture local flavor, and call it ‘work’.”
“Can I have a fictional detective too?”
“I might let you assist.”
I almost pounced on that: When? Where? Why? What? How? All my instincts were firing because it sounded so fun, but I simply smiled.
We chatted all evening and covered everything: books, politics, school, weather, writing, friends, and my internship—that impressed him.
“You must be an amazing writer, Sam. I’d like to read some of your work.”
“Oh no. That’s too much pressure. You’re Alex Powell, you know.”
“That shouldn’t intimidate you. I thought we were past that.”
“We may never be past that.” I laughed, but he didn’t join me.
I wonder if I hurt his feelings. He may have thought I put the fame above the man. Does that make sense? I don’t. I just meant . . . I don’t know what I meant. I was careless and, heck, heisAlex Powell. There’s no way around that.
“Then what can you tell me or I tell you so we can get past that?”
My heart raced. I wasn’t ready to share, and asking him questions was only going to lead to more questions for me. So I deflected and babbled about the dishes, the day—anything inane that flitted through my brain.
“Well played,” Alex said after a few moments. He laid down his dish towel and leaned against the counter. His sudden stillness filled the room.
“Hmmm?” I kept washing silverware, trying to pack both time and space with dish suds.
“Your deflections are subtle. It took me a few beats to catch on. That’s hard to do.”
Crap.
Alex smiled, reached over, and squeezed my shoulder. “I’d love to know about you, Sam, but I’m not going to press. Let’s finish the dishes and walk to Homer’s for an ice cream.”
And that was it. He didn’t ask any more questions about my past, only my present. But I did learn new stuff about him nonetheless.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“What?” He glanced at me as he moved around and behind me as we crossed the street.
“You keep putting me on your right side. You did it in the kitchen too. You kept moving to my left.”
Alex was silent for a moment. I thought I’d stepped too far.
“I can’t think of a single person who has ever noticed that before.” He stopped walking and stared at me. “I tell people, sure, but no one’s noticed.”
“What?”
“I can’t see you if you’re on my left. I was hit in the head by a baseball in high school and have no peripheral vision on that side.”
