Tears gathered on her eyelashes. “Thank you.” She tried to smile. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Aunt Carolyn.”
Britt had taught Zander to cook and, frankly, she’d done an outstanding job.
Dating men was entertaining. Dancing with men—enjoyable. Kissing men—pleasurable. Competing with men—exciting. But cooking with Zander was a dream.
He stood beside her in her cottage’s kitchen, seasoning a tray of Broccolini while she chopped a shallot for the citrus vinaigrette she’d pair with her arugula and pear salad.
Zander wasn’t in Norway or Spain or Singapore.
He was right next to her, and they were cooking together in perfect synchronicity.
He slid the Broccolini into the oven. “What’ll it take? About fourteen minutes?” he asked her.
“Thirteen,” she teased, knowing he was physically incapable of setting a timer or alarm to an odd number.
He winked. “Fourteen it is.” After adjusting her kitchen timer, he set the ingredients she’d need for the vinaigrette near her cutting board. Champagne vinegar, olive oil, an orange, a lemon, pepper grinder, salt shaker.
The salmon filets Britt had purchased earlier waited, prepped. She planned to pan fry those last, right before she, Zander, and her sisters sat down to dinner.
As soon as Willow and Nora had learned of Zander’s return, they’d contacted Britt, demanding to know when they could see him. Tonight’s dinner was Britt’s answer, and so far, her sisters were making good use of their time. They were currently setting the table and pelting Zander with questions about his Grand Tour.
Britt listened to their conversation with one ear while pouring a golden stream of olive oil into her bowl. Phillip Phillips’ gravelly voice eased from the speakers. A breeze stirred the white curtains that accented the dining room windows. Whenever the temperature hovered above fifty and below eighty, Britt kept at least a few of her windows cracked. She craved fresh air and the extended daylight of the spring and summer months.
Tonight, dusk was hesitating extra long, as if unsure of its welcome. The peachy pink sky suited the satisfied state of Britt’s heart.
There’d been a time when a gathering that included herself, Zander, and her sisters had been commonplace. But this particular grouping had become very rare. Mostly because of Zander’s long absence. But also because the Bradford family was changing and expanding.
Britt’s oldest sister, Willow, had married Corbin Stewart last summer. Nora would be marrying John Lawson in a month and a half. Britt was acquiring brothers-in-law faster than shipments of cacao beans, and her sisters’ schedules were busier than ever. Not that she held that fact against Corbin and John or her sisters. Herbrothers-in-law were great guys, handsome guys, accomplished guys. If Britt were to marry, which was a big if, she’d always known it wouldn’t happen until after her sisters were married. Everything was progressing exactly as it should.
Even so, she occasionally missed the old days when she’d been—let’s face it—the crux of Zander’s and Willow’s and Nora’s social lives.
She gave the salt shaker a hearty twist and watched the flakes dot the top of her vinaigrette.
“We’ve finished setting the table,” Willow told her.
“Can we lend a hand with the cooking?” Nora asked.
“Thanks, but we’ve got it under control.” Her sisters were well-meaning, but Britt had no interest in talking amateurs through the creation of this dinner. Sharing cooking duties was, in her opinion, sort of like sharing the creation of a piece of artwork. Better left in the hands of the people who had a clue. “Your main job tonight is to inflate Zander’s ego by giving him lots of undeserved—”
“Well deserved,” he corrected.
“Attention,” Britt finished.
Zander shot her a small smile. She smiled back, glanced down at her work space, then glanced back at him and found that he was still watching her.
“What did you think of New Zealand, Zander?” Nora asked. “I’ve been dying to go there ever since I learned that’s where they shotLord of the Rings.”
He was tugged back into Willow and Nora’s inquisition as he closed two drawers, then began rinsing the dishes and utensils Britt had used.
One side of her kitchen ran along the rear wall of her house. Acacia wood topped the half wall that formed the other side, which emptied to her living room. On top of the acacia wood, she’d placed seasoned nuts, grapes, brie, and crackers.
She lived at Hackberry Lane Cottages, Merryweather’s only community of small homes. The floor plans of the cottages varied, but none of the houses were larger than hers, which rang inat fifteen hundred square feet. The exterior of every home in the miniature neighborhood looked similar: taupe-painted siding with white trim, a roomy front porch, two stories tall, shimmering windows, steeply pitched roof. The structures were aligned in two rows that faced each other across a garden zigzagged by stone pathways and bursting with spring flowers. A petite wooden fence framed the garden, and a sidewalk framed the fence. A row of trees hid their parking lot from view at one end of the complex. The other end of the complex flowed into protected woodland.
The moment Britt had heard about the Hackberry Lane development, she’d visited the sales office. And the moment they’d shown her their plans, she’d plunked down her money.
Not all of the spontaneous decisions she’d made in her life had turned out well. One spontaneous decision in particular had almost cost her her life. But, fortunately, she’d never once regretted her spur-of-the-moment decision to buy her home. She’d embraced the entire concept—the small environmental footprint, the sustainable ethic, and the fostering of connection with neighbors.
