"How do you cook your brisket?" Juliet asked with interest.
"Low and slow."
"Of course," Juliet said.
"I usually give it at least six hours."
Juliet murmured approvingly. "What do you cook it with?"
"Stock, some red wine, bay leaves, of course."
"I like to add a little Worcestershire sauce," Juliet said. "Or some quince jelly if I want a touch of sweetness."
"Quince jelly?" Eileen looked as if she was storing that away for another time. "I thought it was an English thing. Where do you find it around here?"
"They grow quince in California," Juliet replied. "But the jelly I use is imported from the UK. There's a cheese shop in Beverly Hills that sells some."
"They have cheese shops in Beverly Hills? I thought it was all designer boutiques and tennis clubs."
Juliet laughed, obviously imagining my aunt was joking.
"My aunt has never ventured into Los Angeles," I explained. "When I first moved here, we had a place in South Pasadena. Then I bought the vineyard, and we moved out here."
"Oh, right. What about San Francisco? Surely you've been there?"
"No." Eileen shook her head. "I grew up in a city, but I've never liked the cars, the crowds, the noise."
"You're a country girl at heart." Juliet smiled softly. "I can see why."
Her gaze drifted up to meet mine, and for a moment, the room seemed to still around us. Was she saying what I thought she was? That she preferred being here to being in the city? I didn't dare hope.
As the moment grew awkward, I cleared my throat. "Shouldn't the hotpot be ready by now?"
"Yes, it should."
Juliet grabbed a couple of folded dishcloths and carefully removed the piping hot dish from the oven. She brought it to the table and set it down. The scent of the gravy had me salivating before I took my first bite.
The lamb was tender, the potatoes crisped on top the way they should be. She watched me as if waiting for my verdict.
"This is exactly right," I said.
Juliet's face brightened. She picked up her fork, took a bite, and nodded in agreement. As we ate, we chatted about inconsequential things. Eileen told of a delivery driver who'd ended up twenty miles south at a different location when he took a wrong turn coming out of Oakridge. Juliet laughed and shared her own tales of woe about orders she'd placed going astray.
A little before ten, Eileen said goodnight. She took her tea and left us alone in the kitchen. Juliet refilled our glasses and leaned back in her chair.
"Tell me something more about your father," she said.
I turned the glass in my hand. My father wasn't my favorite topic of conversation, but I decided to satisfy Juliet's curiosity.
"He built a business from nothing and lost it. Ten years ago. There were bad decisions and a partner who turned out to be dishonest. He's been living in a poky little flat in Gateshead ever since."
"Gateshead?"
"In the north, just outside of Newcastle." I doubted she'd heard of the city I grew up in either.
"Right. Is that hard for him?"
"He copes. I've offered to help, but he won't take anything from me." I paused. "I send money through Eileen instead. He pretends to think it comes from her."
