“I made it because it’s good.”
“I know that too.”
She drained the pasta, saved the water, tossed the spaghetti in the oil and garlic and chili flakes. Added a splash of pasta water. Watched the sauce come together—glossy, clinging, the way Flavia had taught her. She plated two servings and brought them to the table and sat across from Michael and they ate.
It was good. Better than practice. The garlic was right, the heat was right, the pasta had that quality that only happens when someone has cared about every step.
Michael ate in his precise way — fork turned, bite measured, chewing deliberate. He didn’t comment. She’d learned that his silence over food was the truest compliment. The focaccia. The bruschetta. The salsa she’d put on the menu. He ate the things that mattered without narrating them.
“I should have made a salad,” Anna said.
“This is enough.”
“Michael Torres saying something is ‘enough’ is practically a standing ovation.”
He almost smiled. The expression that wasn’t an expression and said more than most people’s faces said in a paragraph.
They talked about possible events — the menus, the setups, whether patio heaters would be needed soon. The conversation was easy. Professional. Familiar. Except they were in her kitchen and the light was warm and Bea’s paintings were on the walls and it wasn’t professional at all. It was dinner. At home. With someone she’d invited because she wanted him there.
The front door opened at seven-forty.
Anna’s stomach dropped. Bea was early. Bea was never early. Bea was supposed to be at Stella’s until eight.
“Mom? Uncle Tyler needed the?—”
Bea stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Michael was at the table. Pasta in front of him. The sparkling water between them. The folder closed. The kitchen smelling like garlic and olive oil and something that was very obviously a dinner that had been cooked for two people plus one.
Bea looked at Michael. At Anna. At the table—two places, two plates, the sparkling water between them. Her eyes came back to Anna and something in them shifted.
“Bea,” Anna said. “Michael came to discuss event partie?—”
“At the kitchen table.”
“We were going over the timeline and I thought?—”
“You didn’t tell me,” Bea said. Her voice was even. Controlled. The voice of someone who was holding something very carefully so it wouldn’t spill.
“I was going to?—”
“When?”
The kitchen was quiet. The garlic smell hung in the air. Michael set his fork down—silently, precisely, the fork parallel to the plate.
“I should go,” he said.
“Michael—” Anna started.
“This is a family conversation.” He stood, picked up the folder, and looked at Anna. Not the almost-smile. Something else—understanding, and apology, and the restraint of a man who knew when the numbers didn’t apply. “Thank you for dinner. The pasta was excellent.”
He left. The front door closed. The house was quiet.
Bea stood in the kitchen doorway. Anna sat at the table with two plates of pasta—one finished, one half-eaten — the sparkling water and Michael’s empty chair.
“Bea—”
“I need to go.”
