Be honest, MJ. There is no other way.
George was so right. Honest was the only way.
“I have to know something,” she started after an easy toast and their first sip.
“Anything,” Matt said, brushing his moustache with two fingers.
“Why did you give us that snowmobile?”
He drew back as if he were expecting a different question.
“Well,” he said after a minute of thought. “Because it made me feel good?” His voice rose as if it were a question he didn’t expect her to understand.
“But it was expensive.”
He waved off the comment, the move accidentally flashing the edge of the watch that cost enough to renovate one of their bathrooms…so, obviously, money didn’t matter to him.
“You’ve, uh…” She swallowed and barreled on. “You’ve done quite well for yourself.”
He gave a tight smile, his kind brown eyes suddenly fading with something that looked…guilty? Why?
“Nothing more than the right time, right place.”
She doubted that. “As a plumber?” she pressed.
“I started with a van and a toolbox,” he told her. “And I was good at fixing things and better at hiring people who were more talented than I was. Turns out, if enough water heaters and sinks in a hundred-mile radius break, a man can make a decent living.”
Giving away snowmobiles and staying in expensive cabins for a month was more than “a decent living,” but it was very clear he didn’t want to talk about it.
Their server returned with a basket of bread that smelled faintly of rosemary and butter. Then they had an amuse-bouche consisting of a small spoon of silky topping with a micro-greenperched like a hat. The first bite was a whisper of lemon and cream and a pop of unexpected salt that made MJ close her eyes.
“Good?” he asked.
“Indescribable. I wish I could cook like this.”
“You’re a great cook!” He practically choked the compliment.
She chortled at his sweet enthusiasm. “I’m a serviceable, untrained cook who can nourish people. This”—she beamed down at the precious dish—“is made by someone who studied in France with the goal of delighting tastebuds. Big difference.”
“Did you want to study in France?” he asked, leaning in as if her answer was all he cared about in the whole world.
For the rest of dinner, they kept up an easy conversation, without a hint of interrogation, but plenty of questions. She told him about growing up in Snowberry Lodge, and he talked about his passion for fishing in his hometown of Destin, in the part of Florida known as the Panhandle.
That took him to telling her some stories, a little about the climate and culture of a state she’d never been to. He made it sound pretty, and she wanted to see this beach town that boasted of white sand and palm trees blowing in the sea breezes.
“It might as well be Mars to a woman born and raised in the Utah mountains,” she said.
“And you don’t ski?” he asked for the second time, surprised by the fact.
“I did when I was young,” she said, trying not to drag the last bit of fish through the citrus beurre blanc that pretty much ruined all her sauces forever. “But George wasn’t much of a skier. He liked to hike in the spring and, oh, I do enjoy that. The mountains in the warmer months are just incredible. The flowers, the smell.”
“You talk about the spring a lot,” he noted. “Which is surprising because I think of Park City as such a winter destination.”
“Oh, it is. But spring is my favorite time of year,” she said. “There’s always this one day in late May when I step outside and the world takes my breath away. The peaks of the mountains have snow, but everything is turning green and coming to life. I want to spin around and do what my late husband called my ‘full Julie Andrews’ singing, ‘The hills are alive!’” She didn’t sing, but he threw his head back with a hearty, appreciative laugh.
“Tell me about George,” he said, his voice low and interested. “He must have been wonderful.”
She felt warmth in her cheeks, and not because she’d nursed a second glass of wine. Because he seemed like he cared, and that touched her deeply.
