He lifted his head, blinked to pull the room into focus, then noticed the glass I was holding out for him.
“Drink. It will help.”
“Offers such as that do not usually end well for the recipient.”
I grinned. “It’s medicine, not poison. It will help with the sneezing and aches.”
He took the glass, held it up to the light, then drank it down in one long, sustained pull.
He dabbed a tissue against the corners of his eyes. “Hideous. I regret requesting your assistance.”
“Too bad. That’s going to take a few minutes before it works. Stay here. I’ll make soup.”
“And will there eventually be tea?”
“Yes. Still regret requesting my presence?”
“Less so, Reed Daughter.”
I raided his kitchen for a pan, can opener, and bowl and got the soup heating. This kind didn’t even need me to add water, which I totally would have nailed, anyway.
So there,Myra.
I filled the electric kettle with fresh water, turned it on, and mooched my way through tea tins until I found one that smelled like chamomile and lemon. Honey was at the front of the cupboard, local stuff in a half-full glass jar.
By the time I’d gathered a wooden cutting board, a mug with a bee in sunglasses tanning in the center of a sunflower with the words:life’s a bee-chon it, and sliced a lemon, it was time to pour hot water into the little ceramic tea pot.
I remembered to turn off the soup, then carried the tea out, setting it on the coffee table.
Than still had his head back, eyes closed. He’d tossed a tissue over his face. It fluttered slightly as he exhaled, contracted on the inhale, forming to his nose, mouth, and chin before fluttering outward again.
“Tea,” I said. “Be right back.”
He moaned softly, the wuss.
I left him to it and got busy with the soup. Crackers too.
“And here’s the soup.”
“Chicken soup?” his muffled voice asked from beneath the tissue.
“With stars.”
I set the soup down next to the tea and dropped into the wingback chair. I scooted it closer to the couch so I didn’t feel like I was halfway across the room.
Than sat and drew the tissue away from his face with the kind of dignity no one should be able to pull off with a nose that red.
“Stars?”
And oh, how his eyes glittered.
“In the soup.”
He picked up the bowl and brought it to his lap. He scooped a spoonful and stared at it.
“It’s soup,” I said for what felt like the millionth time. “Chicken and vegetables and broth and little star noodles. You eat it by putting that spoon in your mouth, not by staring at it.”
He flicked a look my way, and okay, yeah, there was a death glare.
