Page 29 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Recalling what Lance had said about his religious feelings about olive oil, I gestured at the bottle next to him. “Does the oil have the same kind of history as the wine from last night?”

“It’s a single-estate oil from Umbria.” He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth gave him away. He was so different here, compared to the man listing his rules on the plane. He picked up the bottle and turned the label toward me, showing the small Italian print. He set it down with a care that suggested the bottle had feelings. “The family’s been producing their oil for five generations.”

“Lance was right about your opinions.”

He gave a little shrug while he finished slicing the tomatoes. “They don’t have a brand so much as a way of life.”

“You’ve got to respect that.”

“You do.” He added the tomatoes to the pan, and they hit the hot oil with a hiss. Next came capers from the jar, and olives he’d already cut. The pasta water came to a rolling boil, and he dropped spaghetti noodles in without measuring or checking the time.

He cooked like he moved through rooms—certain about where everything was, reaching for things without looking. But there was none of the tension he carried in other spaces. His shoulders sat lower. His jaw was loose.

From somewhere at the back of the house, a door opened and closed. I heard footsteps a few seconds before Lance came through the archway with a frown. But when he spotted me, the frown turned into a smile—one I wouldn’t have realized was forced if I hadn’t watched him shift. “Hey, Gwen.”

“Hey.”

“Perimeter’s clear.” He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the end of the island. “Systems are armed. Front and rear cameras are up, motion sensors on the east and west approaches.”

Arthur nodded, cutting his gaze to the phone on the counter beside him. “I’ve got the monitoring software running.”

“It smells fucking amazing in here.” Lance came around the island and took the stool next to me. He leaned over the breakfast bar and inhaled. “Is that one of Hettie’s recipes?”

“It was her shelf-stable go-to.” Arthur glanced at the sauce, stirring slowly. “At least I’ve got fresh garlic and tomatoes.”

Hettie. Arthur smiled at the pot. Clearly, she was someone important to him. Was she his mother? An ex? And why did I feel like I needed to know? “Who’s Hettie?”

Chapter 10

Arthur

Who was Hettie? Fucking hell⁠—

Sorry, Hettie. I didn’t mean to swear.

I kept the laugh to myself.

“Mrs. Henrietta Parsons.” I stirred the sauce, remembering my small hands on my first wooden spoon. “She was a chef who cooked for us for almost thirty years.”

Except she wasn’t just a chef. Mrs. Parsons, as my father called her, was five feet two and had a voice that could stop a grown man at twenty paces. My mother had called her Hettie, and so did I. She called me “my boy” while everyone else in my father’s employ called me “Master Arthur” or “young Mr. Penn.”

“She showed me this recipe for the first time when I was five,” I said. “I stood on a stool so I could reach the stove, and she let me stir.”

“She let a five-year-old near a gas stove?” Gwen asked.

“She let me stir.” I could still feel Hettie’s fingers wrapped around mine on the big spoon she’d also rapped my knuckles with once. “She did everything else.”

‘Slowly, my boy. You’ll splash it if you rush.’ She’d said it every time, even when I was fourteen and taller than her, standing at the same stove without the stool. Still stirring too fast. Still being corrected.

“Her waffles were my favorite,” Lance said.

“Mmm.” I could have tasted them if the kitchen weren’t so full of garlic and olives. “Strawberries, whipped cream, and maple syrup she had imported from Quebec.”

Gwen yawned. “From another family farm?”

I pointed at her with the clean end of the spoon. “Precisely.”

Lance chuckled, clearly traveling down memory lane with me. “Do you remember New York Thanksgiving 2015? That turkey must have been fifty pounds.”