"Yes. I love meat."
"Good."
I was suddenly nervous. Drank a little more wine. "Can I help?"
"You can make a salad."
He set out some lettuce and tomatoes, dug around in the fridge and found a pepper, as well. I got to work, rinsing the lettuce and patting it dry, slicing the tomatoes. Opened the fridge and found some carrots and avocado, too. "Can I use these?" I asked.
"Of course."
There were herbs growing in little pots on the windowsill. "How about these?"
"Make yourself at home," he said.
It was so strange to be here, the rain still pounding the roof and gurgling in the gutters. Jonathan turned on the gas stove and set a cast-iron frying pan on it and began slicing up the beef.
Making dinner with Captain Flatline. Very strange.
"So this house is quite something," I said when it became apparent he wasn't going to initiate conversation.
"Thank you. My great-great-grandfather built it in 1872. Part of it burned down in the 1950s, so this kitchen and the family room are new. Newer, that is."
He moved quickly around the kitchen, cooking efficiently. Occasionally, we'd get in each other's way, doing that awkward left-right-left thing. The smell of beef filled the air. He sliced some potatoes and seasoned them with salt and pepper, then drizzled olive oil on them. Took some rosemary from the windowsill and added that.
Gotta love a man who knew his way around a kitchen.
He wore jeans and a henley shirt, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Beautiful forearms, muscled and smooth.
Had he always been this tall, or was it just because I was barefoot?
I finished making the salad, sat back down at the counter and watched as he nudged the meat and potatoes. Drank the very good wine.
Felt some feelings.
A thunderclap shook the house, and if possible, the rain fell harder. "It should clear up soon," Jonathan said. "These storms don't usually last very long."
"I know."
I poured myself a little more wine, then topped off his glass, as well. He nodded his thanks.
I was getting used to that formality. It occurred to me that he might be a little shy.
"Dinner is served," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.
He was shy.
I couldn't believe I'd never noticed it before.
We ate at the table, not talking, just letting the storm blow and rumble around us. The food was fantastic, simple and flavorful, and I was suddenly starving.
Jonathan ate carefully and precisely, holding his fork in his left hand, like a European. Probably learned that at boarding school. I pictured the bleak place in the James Joyce novel, the little boy crossing off the days till he could go home at Christmas.
Yes. Jonathan fit that picture.
"Did you go to boarding school?" I asked.
He looked up. "Yes."
"I can tell."
He smiled. I smiled. The cat smiled.
He had a cat!
"You have a cat!" I said. Maybe shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Too late now.
"Ainsley, this is Luciano. Luciano, meet Ainsley. Miss O'Leary to you."
"Call me Ainsley, Luciano. Is he named after Pavarotti?"
Jonathan looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"
"I only know one guy named Luciano."
"Ah. Well. This Luciano also likes to sing." The cat obliged with a squeaky meow, then regarded me with a delightful lack of interest.
"I have a question for you, Jonathan," I said.
"Deeply personal, no doubt."
"Yes." I put my fork down and leaned back in my chair, the intimacy of the weather and the cozy kitchen making me relax. "Why are you running Hudson Lifestyle?"
He chewed carefully, his strong jaw flexing hypnotically, then swallowed, which forced me to look at his throat. "It's the family business."
What were we talking about? Oh, right, the magazine. "Do you like it?"
"I do."
I shifted in my chair. "Why? All those kiss-ass articles about plastic surgery and day spas, all those phony, gushing restaurant and gallery reviews...you could be doing a lot more. You're so smart."
He didn't answer.
Shit. That had been a really rude question. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Yes. Well, the kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews do make our advertisers happy, and our advertisers pay your salary. And the salaries of the rest of us."
"That's true."
He looked at me for a few beats. His eyes looked green now, but there was the little piece of gold. "I love this area," he said. "The river that seems to go unnoticed, the farms that are fighting to survive. The little towns and ice tool museums. The whole history of our country is embodied here. If kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews get people to at least get a glimpse of a place like the ice tool museum, then maybe they'll stop for a minute and learn something. Appreciate where we are and all that we have here."
He turned his attention back to his plate.
"That was a good answer," I murmured.
"Let me ask you something," he said.
"Go for it." I took another sip of wine.
"Why do you work at a job you hate?"
I sputtered, spraying a little wine. "Uh, I don't hate my job!" I said, dabbing my lips with a napkin. "I... It's fun. Today was fun. Chip, that is. That part was fun."
He folded his hands in front of him, looked me straight in the eye and sighed.
"I don't hate it that much," I said. "I'll probably like it much more after what you just said so poetically."
"When you're paying attention, you're not a bad editor. That being said, I think I can count on one hand how many days you've paid attention. And most of those days have been this week."
"Yes, well, we live in a distractible society."
He stared at me. Unfortunately, he was not distractible.
"Why haven't you fired me?" I asked.
He took his time answering. "I like your mother," he finally said.
I laughed. "Good for you. It's not easy. Also, she's my stepmother."
He resumed his tidy eating. "How old were you when your parents divorced?"
"They didn't. My mom died when I was three. Candy was my father's first wife. And also his third." I stood up and cleared our plates. "Thank you for dinner. It was very good."
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Thank you."
"Also, you make a good salad."
I smiled at his awkward attempt at conversation. "Everyone has special gifts, Jonathan. Mine is salad."
He glanced at me uncertainly, then finished clearing the table, and we loaded the dishwasher in silence.
"I'll check the forecast," he said, going into the other room.
Right. So he could get me home.
I followed him into the family room, where there were more framed photos of the girls on the mantel. Stone fireplace. I'd always been a sucker for those.
I sat on the couch, which was soft and comfortable. There was a yellow crayon stuck between the cushions, which made me happy for some reason.
The TV showed another red blob headed our way.
"Do you mind waiting till that passes?" he asked.
"Not if you don't."
"I don't."
He went back to the kitchen and returned with the wine bottle. Poured me a little more. "I don't have anything to offer you for dessert. I'm sorry."
"Life without dessert is sad, boss."
Another robust crash of thunder. Jonathan turned off the TV and sat next to me on the couch. I curled into the corner and stared at him. He didn't return the look. Then again, this allowed me to study his profile. The gods of bone structure had had a lot of fun with him-razor-sharp cheekbones, hard, well-defined jaw.
Funny that I used to think he was unattractive.
"How are you doing with your ex-wife and that, um, situation?" I asked.
The eyebrow I could see lifted. "It's...difficult."
"You were very polite on the phone."
"Yes. Laine is the mother of my children. It wouldn't help them to have us be at each other's throats."
I couldn't imagine Jonathan at anyone's throat.
I could, however, imagine him heartbroken.
"Do you ever talk to your brother?"
"No."
"That's a tough one."
"Yes." He swirled the wine in his glass. "My father and brother and I were very close, and when my father had the stroke, it was devastating. I worked at the magazine at the time and took over my father's job there, as well." He paused. "You may have noticed that I'm not the best at..." The hand that wasn't holding his wineglass flailed a little as he searched for the words.
"Expressing human emotion?" I offered.
"That. Yes." The cat jumped up on his lap, and he began petting him, eliciting a silky purr. The cat narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine back. "So. The magazine was struggling, and I was working long hours so we wouldn't have to lay anyone off. My brother was grieving, my wife was lonely, I was emotionally unavailable, according to Laine. So they found comfort with each other. For the sake of the girls, I'm trying to be civilized."