It wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
“I heard about the ice storm boxing us in,” I said. “And Henry said we’re on our own for dinner, so… I wanted to check what supplies we do have so I know what we’re working with.”
One of her eyebrows lifted, like she hadn’t expected any of the women from her employer’s sick little Game to speak the language of common sense.
“You want to see the pantry?”
“Yes, please… unless there’s a secret underground bunker of food I should know about,” I joked.
That got a real laugh out of her, warm and surprised.
“You’re the first person who actually thought to ask that,” she said. “I heard several of the others ran back to their rooms to ‘regroup’ after Henry’s announcement.”
Of course they did. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
She motioned me over and opened the main pantry door, revealing a walk-in lined with tall shelves full of supplies. Flour. Rice. Pastas. Canned tomatoes. Broths. Beans. Dried herbs. Onions and potatoes stored in crates at the bottom. Jars of preserved vegetables from the summer harvest.
She watched my face like she was testing me.
“It’s not much,” she said, “but we can make do until the ice storm is over.”
“It’s plenty,” I said immediately. “We could do a soup. Or a stew, and bread, maybe? If the yeast is still good, that is.”
Her brows shot up.
“You cook.”
It wasn’t a question.
“My granny taught me,” I said, shrugging. “And when you grow up broke, learning to stretch five ingredients into a week is a survival skill.”
Lucia’s eyes softened in that way people look at someone they suddenly understand better.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose that makes two of us.”
And just like that, we were a team.
The next hour felt nothing like a challenge. It felt… normal and human. It was the most normal thing that had happened since I arrived at the hunting lodge, honestly. It felt good.
I took inventory while Lucia pulled old recipe cards from a drawer. We talked, laughing more than I expected, as we weighed what we could make with the food on hand. She told me she grew up in a huge Italian family where feeding twenty cousins was standard. I told her about the time my grandmother made gumbo in a hurricane using only a camp stove and a prayer.
Then the conversation shifted subtly, growing personal, quiet, and a little bit painful.
“My husband…” she said, trailing off as she kneaded dough. “He’s making the divorce difficult. He thinks I owe him another chance. After what he did. After who he did it with.”
My chest tightened.
“Lucia… I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged a shoulder, but it didn’t hide the ache in her expression.
“I thought leaving would be the hard part, but no. The hard part is him refusing to let me go.”
I swallowed.
“When this is all over… I can help. I can put you in touch with the best mediator in Stonewood. He’s my boss, actually. We can get you resources or whatever you need to make things easier for you.”
She blinked quickly.
