“What’s Susan’s favorite part of lunch?” Tommy asked, as he arranged napkins at each place setting.
Paul considered the question. “I think she loves the moment when everyone’s seated around the table together. When the work is finished and all that’s left is sharing what you’ve cooked with the people you care about.”
“That’s my favorite part too,” Tommy said solemnly. “Grandpa says meals taste better when you eat them with people you love.”
“He’s right.” Paul checked the ham’s temperature, satisfied with its progress. “Sharing food with someone is a way of showing you care.” He thought about his grandmother’s Christmas Eve kitchen in France, about Michelle’s unsuccessful attempts to master coq au vin, about the countless meals he’d served in restaurants where diners never knew the chef’s name.
And he thought about Susan standing beside him in his kitchen, developing recipes that honored both tradition and innovation. The way she listened when he talked about his past, offering neither judgment nor empty reassurance. How she’d held him when he’d finally broken down about Sophie, her tears mingling with his as they’d grieved together for a child she’d never met.
She’d given him something he hadn’t known he was missing. Permission to be human. Permission to have failed and still deserve a second chance at happiness.
And that was more than anything he could have imagined.
Chapter 36
The front door opened, and female voices filled Frank and Isabel’s hallway. Paul’s pulse quickened at the sound of Susan’s laughter, that warm, genuine expression of joy that still took his breath away.
“We’re in the kitchen!” Frank called out.
Susan appeared in the doorway first, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her silver hair windswept. Behind her came Isabel, looking tired but determined. And Lynda followed, her face drawn with exhaustion and worry. But she managed a small smile when she saw the preparations that were underway.
“It smells incredible in here,” Susan said, crossing directly to Paul. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, and he felt the familiar warmth spread through his chest at her touch.
“We’ve been busy,” he told her, his hand finding hers automatically. “Tommy’s been my sous chef.”
The boy stood straighter at the acknowledgment. “I peeled all the potatoes without cutting myself even once.”
“That’s very impressive,” Isabel said, giving Tommy a hug. “And setting the table too? You’ve been working hard.”
While the women shed their coats and Lynda settled onto the sofa with a cup of tea, Paul returned his attention to the stove. Susan joined him, her shoulder brushing his as she surveyed the various pots and pans.
“This looks great,” she murmured, low enough that only he could hear.
“I had good help.” Paul turned the heat down on the green beans. “How’s Lynda holding up?”
Susan glanced toward the living room where Isabel and Frank were keeping Lynda company. “She’s struggling. Being away from the hospital feels wrong to her, but she knows Matt wouldn’t want her spending all of Christmas Day beside him.”
“Then we’ll make sure this is worth it.” Paul squeezed Susan’s hand. “We’ll give her a few hours of normalcy, so she feels supported and cared for.”
Susan’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked back the tears and nodded. “I’ll get the salads out of the refrigerator. You focus on everything else.”
Kathleen arrived twenty minutes later. She brought a pie with her and stories about Patrick’s great-grandchildren’s antics that morning. She joined Lynda on the sofa while Isabel and Frank finished setting the table.
Paul worked steadily, checking temperatures, adjusting seasonings, ensuring each dish would be ready at the same time.
Tommy hovered nearby, asking questions about why the bread pudding needed to rest before baking and how Paul knew exactly when the ham was finished. Paul answered each query with the patience his grandmother had shown him decades ago, recognizing the same eager curiosity he’d possessed as a boy.
“Can I taste the sauce?” Tommy asked when Paul removed the glaze from the stovetop.
“Just a small spoonful. It’s still hot.” Paul watched Tommy’s expression transform as he tasted the sweet honey glaze balanced with tangy mustard and a hint of brown sugar.
“That’s so good! Is it hard to make?”
“It isn’t hard, but you have to pay attention and trust your instincts.” Paul returned the saucepan to the stove. “Cooking is like that. Anyone can follow a recipe. But understanding why ingredients work together, and knowing when to adjust them and when to leave them alone, comes with practice and patience.”
“Like fishing,” Tommy said with the confidence of a nine-year-old making connections. “Grandpa says patience is the most important part.”
“Your grandpa’s right about many things.” Paul smiled at the boy. “And fishing and cooking have more in common than you might think.”
