“Whatever you say,Stormy.” Windy poked him in the arm.
“That’s the thanks I get for all my help today?”
“Sorry, bro. Accept my humble gratitude,Marcus.”
“Mine too.” Riva turned to Windy. “By the way, you’re both invited for dinner at seven as an expression ofmygratitude.” She gave the attic one last glance. “I really do love what you’ve done up here, Windy. I never dreamed it could look this great.”
“Windy’s always had a creative streak.” Marcus grinned at his baby sister. “Even if she is an overgrown hippie child.”
Windy socked him in the arm and he feigned pain, grabbed his toolbox, and made for the door. “I’m getting outta here beforebaby sis gets really rough.” He winked at Riva with mischievous gray eyes. “No appreciation for my good help.”
“Come down and help me with dinner, and I’ll show you some appreciation,” Riva told him.
“You got it.” He nodded eagerly.
“Hope you like chopping produce.”
“I’m a natural sous-chef.”
“Perfect.” She grinned at Windy. “I like a guy who can take orders.”
Windy laughed. “Good luck with that!”
It turned out that Marcus could take orders—and he was good at chopping veggies. Before long, the meat sauce was simmering and the salad was tossed. Riva even had time to arrange an impromptu appetizer spread of crackers, cheese, olives, nuts, and smoked salmon. And it was only six o’clock.
“That looks good enough to eat.” Marcus snuck an olive. “But your charcuterie board needs a good bottle of wine.”
Riva opened the pantry where she and Paul used to keep a small assortment of bottles but only found red wine vinegar and olive oil. “Slim pickings here.”
“Want me to make a run to the market?”
“Do you know much about wines?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I know enough to pick a decent bottle.”
She crossed to the door that led to the basement. “Are you afraid of dark basements with lots of spiderwebs?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Any torture racks, skeletons, prison cells, or poisonous snakes down there?”
“Not that I know of. But I hate going down there myself,” she explained. “The house has been in my family for generations, and my father was a connoisseur of fine wines. At least, he claimed he was. So when he and Mom moved to Arizona, they left the wine and a bunch of other things here with us.”
His brows arched. “So you have a wine cellar?”
“I’m not sure you’d call it that, but yes, there are a couple of dusty old racks in the cellar. Paul and I rarely ventured down, and we kept the door locked when the kids lived at home.” She opened the door and flipped on the light. “But if you’re game and can tell whether a bottle is good or not, you’re welcome to try.”
“Your dad won’t mind?”
She shook her head. “He passed about twenty years ago.” She reached for a tea towel. “Take this to swipe away the cobwebs and dust.”
“All right.” He took the towel.
“And be careful on the stairs,” she warned as he went down. “Holler if you need help. I’ll leave the door open.”
“If I’m not back by dinnertime, call in the troops.”
Riva checked the kitchen clock. If he wasn’t back by seven, she would be calling 911. Keeping her ears tuned to the stairs, she filled a large pot with water and salt and oil and set it on the stove, then she went over to yell down the stairs, “You okay?”
“I’m okay.” He was already coming up. “And I think I hit the mother lode.”
