“Ah, a cookbook reader.” He glanced around. “But I don’t see any cookbooks.”
She flipped open the cabinet and pointed.
“Two cookbooks? That’s all? A cookbook reader is supposed to have a huge collection.”
“I’m, uh, I’m a little new at it.” She unwrapped the chicken and rinsed it under the faucet.
“You didn’t used to cook?”
“I didn’t used to eat.”
Matt chuckled and scratched his forehead. “That picture. I’d forgotten. You were pretty skinny back then—no offense intended.”
“None taken. You’re right, I was pretty skinny. It’s just recently that I’ve been forcing myself to eat. I don’t dare tell that to many people, mind you,” she added, patting the chicken dry with a paper towel. “Most of them get annoyed.”
“Jealousy, plain and simple.”
She sent him a mischievous grin, then knelt down to remove a baking dish from the lone lower cabinet. That took some doing on her part. Pots were piled on top of pots, which were piled on top of pans, which were piled on top of the baking dish. “Top priority in this kitchen,” she announced, rising at last, “is new cabinets, and plenty of them.”
“Cabinets—easily done. What else?”
As Lauren dipped the pieces of chicken, one by one, into the sauce and placed them in the baking dish, she outlined her concept of the perfect kitchen, only to find that Matt’s suggestions and additions made her plans more perfect than before.
“Why didn’tIthink of a center island?” she asked as she shoved the baking dish into the oven.
“Because you’re not a builder.”
“And you do this kind of thing?”
His shrug was one of modesty. “The development we’re planning in Leominster is a cluster-home type of complex, a planned-community thing. Modern and elegant but also practical. Island counters in the kitchens are an option. They can be used for storage underneath and eating above, or for a sink and a stovetop. Lord only knows, this kitchen’s big enough to handle an island.”
“And you know people who can do this for me?”
He patted the breast pocket of his shirt. “Names and numbers, already checked out.”
With exaggerated greed, she put out her hand. “Gimme. I’ll make the calls tomorrow.” She proceeded to tell him of the contractors she’d interviewed herself; well before she had finished, he’d closed her fingers around his list. She promptly secured the piece of paper with a decorative magnet on the refrigerator door, then reached for the foil-wrapped loaf of French bread Matt had brought.
He clasped her wrist. “Set the timer for twenty-five minutes. That’ll be plenty early to put the bread in the oven.” While she did so and then put a pot of water on to heat for the com, he refilled their wineglasses. “Come on. Let’s go out back. I want to hear more about your … escapades.”
With vague reluctance, since she’d enjoyed talking with Matt about lighter subjects, Lauren led the way through the back door to the yard. A weathered bench under the canopy of an apple tree provided them with seats. Sunset approached; shards of orange and gold sliced through the trees and threw elongated shadows on the grass.
“Okay,” he said. “Start from the top. I want to hear about each thing as it happened.”
Encouraged that at least he was taking her seriously, she turned her thoughts to the days that had passed. “The first incident took place more than a week and a half ago, I guess.” She related the Newbury Street story. “I don’t know if the driver was drunk. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman.”
“How about the car? Size? Color?”
She shook her head. “It came from behind. I don’t think it was red or yellow. Nothing bright—that would have stuck with me. It must have been some nondescript color. As for the size, God only knows.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“What could the police do? The car was gone.”
“Maybe there was a witness who caught the license number.”
“If there was one, he or she certainly didn’t come forward. I just assumed I’d had a close call with a freak accident and left it at that.”
He nodded. “Okay. What next?”
