Chapter Seven
Greta stood in the kitchen, flouring chicken parts and humming. She hadn’t had a chance to do any real cooking for weeks, months in fact. Well, years if she was being honest. Not since she’d gotten married, anyway. She’d tried cooking a couple of meals for herself after Ryan had left, but she just couldn’t get excited over cooking for one. Eventually, she’d started grabbing meals from the grocery, lousy though most of them were.
And she’d barely cooked at all while she’d been married to Ryan. His family seemed to find her cooking sort of embarrassing, like having a wife who was a former stripper or something. Oh baby, yeah, let me see you fry that bacon.
Of course, she’d had plenty to do as Ryan’s wife even without cooking. Sometimes it had seemed like she’d volunteered for every worthy cause in Boston. And in the evenings, Ryan always had places for them to go and things to do. Places to be seen mostly. She couldn’t have held a restaurant job after they’d gotten married, even if his parents hadn’t been dead set against it. She wouldn’t have had the time.
After she and Ryan had separated, she’d taken a part-time job at a friend’s bakery. It had given her a small salary to pay the bills without Ryan’s support, but it wasn’t like pulling together a whole meal. Her friend was still willing to give her the same baking job, maybe full-time, assuming she returned to Boston after her Promise Harbor adventure.
Assuming she returned to Boston. Another decision to avoid thinking about for the next week. Decision-free zone.
She sighed, pouring a puddle of olive oil into a large, nicely seasoned cast-iron skillet. She had to hand it to Nadia, or whoever had originally set the kitchen up. The equipment was first rate even if it hadn’t seen much use lately.
“What are you cooking?”
Greta managed not to jump. The voice was coming from somewhere in the neighborhood of her right hip. “Hyacinth?”
The child climbed up onto one of the kitchen chairs beside her. “You’re doing chicken?”
She nodded. “Chicken Marengo.”
Hyacinth regarded her suspiciously. “It sounds like it has hot stuff in it. I don’t like hot stuff.”
“No hot stuff,” Greta said firmly. “It’s French. The story behind the recipe is that Napoleon’s cook created the dish to celebrate their victory in the Battle of Marengo. But he didn’t have much in the way of ingredients because they were out in the country. He ended up with chicken and some vegetables and crayfish. Today cooks usually skip the crayfish. Or I do anyway.”
Hyacinth opened her mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. “What’s a crayfish?”
“It’s a kind of freshwater shellfish. They look like little lobsters.”
“Where do you get them?”
Greta frowned. “Most of them are grown down South, I think. Louisiana is famous for crayfish. They call them crawfish, though.”
“Not here?”
She shook her head. “Too cold. They like warm weather.”
Hyacinth sighed. “Darn. I thought maybe I could find one in the creek.”
“Probably not.” She placed the chicken in the hot oil. “You like collecting animals?”
“I just look at them,” Hyacinth said quickly. “I always let them go. After I find out what they are.”
Greta nodded absently, prodding the chicken with her tongs. “Good.”
“Are you in love with Professor Mitchell?”
Somehow Greta managed not to drop the tongs as she turned around quickly. “No. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I guess the way Aunt Nadia’s humming. She gets happy when she thinks people are in love.”
Greta huffed out a breath, then started slicing onions to give herself something to do. “Well, I’m sure she doesn’t think Professor Mitchell and I are in love. We just met yesterday. It takes a lot longer than that to fall in love, believe me.”
Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Probably.”
“Absolutely. Don’t ever let anybody tell you that you can fall in love at first sight. That only happens in fairy tales.” She felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. No matter what her mother thought, she hadn’t fallen in love with Ryan overnight. They’d gone out several times before she’d even decided she was interested in him. Hell, she hadn’t even slept with him until they’d been dating for a few weeks. Nothing precipitant about that relationship, no sirree, even if she had married him three months after she’d met him.
Had he ever sent shivers down her spine, even slightly? Greta frowned again. He must have. At least a few times.
“How would you know if you were in love?” Hyacinth reached for a piece of green pepper.
“It just feels…different.” Greta shrugged, moving on to the mushrooms. “You know when it happens, but it’s not something I can really describe.”
“I bet a scientist could. Scientists have to be able to describe things. Maybe Professor Mitchell could.”
Greta gritted her teeth. Don’t you dare ask him if he’s in love with me. She began flipping chicken with grim determination. “Would you rather have rice or noodles with your chicken?”
“Rice please. But I won’t eat the chicken.”
“You won’t?” Greta paused with her tongs in midair. “Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t like to eat animals,” Hyacinth explained carefully. “I haven’t decided yet about fish. I have to think about it.”
Greta glanced toward the pile of vegetables that she’d been ready to dump into the skillet. “How do you feel about having things cooked with meat? Would you rather I cooked the veggies separately?”
Hyacinth’s forehead furrowed as she worked it through. “I don’t know. Aunt Nadia just took out the meat before she put the food on my plate. But maybe not cooking them together would be a good idea.”
Greta sighed, staring down at the chopped vegetables on the cutting board. She really wanted to use that fond in bottom of the pan, and she really liked the flavor of chicken and vegetables braised together. On the other hand, the child had a right to her principles. “How about this. I’ll cook you a separate dish of rice and vegetables, maybe throw in a little spice to give it a kick. Would that be okay?”
Hyacinth frowned again. Then she gave her one of those beatific smiles. “I think that would be okay, thank you very much. But no spice, please, because I don’t like hot stuff.”
“Right. I remember. So I’ll fix your dinner separate from everybody else’s, but you’ll get mostly what they get—just without the meat.”
“Super.” Hyacinth climbed down from her chair. “Would you like to see Carolina?”
Greta blinked. “North or South? Actually, I’ve already seen South Carolina. Or anyway, I’ve seen Charleston.” Good restaurants there, as she recalled.
“It’s not a place,” Hyacinth said indignantly. “Carolina is an animal. I named her Carolina.”
“Oh.” Greta started warming oil in another skillet for Hyacinth’s vegetables. “Maybe later then. I’m in the middle of cooking right now, and I can’t leave the kitchen.”
“Okay.”
Hyacinth headed for the back door just as Alice entered from the front desk. “Did you clean up the back stoop, Hyacinth? I don’t want mud and leaves out there.”
“Yes ma’am.” Hyacinth sighed, heading out the back door. “I’ll clean it up now.”
“And no worms,” Alice called after her. “Or other bugs.”
Hyacinth paused in the doorway. “Worms aren’t bugs. They’re annelids.”
“Hairsplitting,” Alice snapped. “Nothing invertebrate on the back steps.”
“Yes, Grandma.” Hyacinth sighed again, clearly feeling abused, and closed the back door behind her.
Alice narrowed her eyes as she checked the stove. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken Marengo.” Greta made a quick decision not to go through the Napoleon story again. She had a feeling Alice wouldn’t be charmed.
Alice added a furrowed brow to the narrowed eyes. “I don’t recall that we had any chicken sitting around here.”
“We didn’t.” Greta shrugged. “This came from Merton.”
Now Alice was openly scowling. “I didn’t say you could buy from someplace else.”
“I didn’t ask.” Greta measured rice into a pan. “Don’t worry. I’m not charging you.”
Alice sat down at the table, folding her arms across her chest. “I can’t say I’m happy with that alternative either.”
“Why not? We all get fed, and you’re not paying extra. Works for me.”
She shook her head. “I can pay for my own food, missy. I’ve been doing it for a good long time. Granted, you’re one hell of a cook. But I don’t want you buying food from somebody else. If you’re cooking for us, I provide the food.”
Greta poured wine over the chicken and vegetables in one pan, then gave a stir to Hyacinth’s mixture in the other. “The problem with that is, you don’t have a lot of food available. All I found in the pantry was cans. And all I found in the general store was frozen hamburger patties and processed chicken nuggets. I am one hell of a cook, Alice, that’s the truth. But even I can’t do much with that.”
Alice huffed out a breath. “Don’t have much call for fresh meat around here. People go to Promise Harbor or Merton to buy fresh. They come here to pick up stuff like salt or flour that they’ve run out of. If I started stocking vegetables and meat, I’d go broke.”
Greta frowned. “How did you deal with grocery shopping before I showed up?”
“Nadia headed off to Costco every six weeks or so and brought back what she needed. Mostly cans.”
“Well, there you are.” Greta sighed. “Like I said, I don’t do cans.”
Alice scowled, leaning back in her chair. “How many of those muffins did you make this morning?”
“A dozen. Enough for everybody to have two with a couple left over.” Except, of course, nothing was left over now.
“Suppose you made two dozen tomorrow? I can sell them in the store. Whatever we make goes to buy whatever you want to cook.”
Greta folded her arms. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just give me some money for groceries?”
“It would.” Alice nodded. “But we’ll do it this way instead. Doing it my way, you earn your keep. Agreed?”
“Why not? It’s your money either way.”
“It is.” Alice nodded again. “It is indeed.”
Hank limped up the walk to the rear entrance of Casa Dubrovnik, having left his truck under what passed for a carport at the hotel. He had high hopes for dinner, but he figured he needed to get cleaned up first, having spent the day getting increasingly dusty at the dig. Still, if he entered through the kitchen, he might get a quick glimpse of Greta before he went upstairs. He hoped she hadn’t bought more clothes when she’d bought food. Or at any rate, he hoped she hadn’t bought more underwear.
And when exactly did you turn into a sexist pig, Professor Mitchell? Probably when he’d seen Greta Brewster hovering at the edge of the dig in her hoopskirt and sneakers.
Stepping inside the kitchen door, he felt as if he’d been hit by a sensual carpet bombing. Delectable smells assaulted him. The sound of Greta’s laughter mingled with Hyacinth’s. Platters and bowls heavy with glistening vegetables were being served up on the counter. Suddenly, his mouth was watering so much he was afraid to talk.
At that moment, Greta turned and saw him. Her reddish-brown hair was damp from sweat and steam, her face slightly pink from the heat. She should have looked lousy. She didn’t. Her lips parted in a slow smile, full of promise.
All of a sudden, he had a feeling sitting down for dinner was going to be difficult.
“Good evening.” Greta arched an eyebrow. “Dinner in five minutes. If you have any freshening up to do, I suggest you do it now.”
He nodded. “Right. I’ll be back.” He limped toward the stairs, wondering if he had time for a fast cold shower.
Dinner lasted about twice as long as it had in the past, mainly because for once nobody was trying to eat so quickly they wouldn’t taste the food. Hank managed to partially solve what he thought of as the Greta Problem by rationing the number of times he looked at her during the meal. Once every twenty bites seemed fair. And that way nobody could accuse him of being obsessed with the cook.
Nobody would accuse him of that anyway, of course, because he wasn’t. Absolutely was not.
Greta refilled his glass with iced tea, and he felt as if the lower half of his body had turned to granite. He was careful not to look at her after she’d set the glass in front of him. He knew she’d be smiling. When he finally looked up, she’d walked back to the counter again.
She pulled down what looked like an old fruitcake tin from the cupboard. “I didn’t have time to do much for dessert. Just cookies. Maybe I’ll be able to do something more elaborate tomorrow.”
Nadia touched her napkin decorously to her lips. “I’m sure a cookie is all I can manage, dear. My compliments on a wonderful dinner.”
The plate of oatmeal raisin cookies she set out on the table disappeared with astonishing speed. Hank managed not to gobble his down, but given the intoxicating tastes of butter and brown sugar that laced through the oatmeal, it was a near thing.
“Would you like me to help with the dishes?” Hyacinth carried a pile of plates to the sink. “I’m good at it.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“Actually, Hyacinth dear, we have other things to do.” Nadia rose to her full five foot two or so, augmented at the moment by pink satin mules beneath the usual swirling skirt. “Come with me?”
Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “What other things?”
“Things.” Nadia gripped Hyacinth’s hand, drawing her briskly toward the door to the dining room. “I’m sure Hank can help with the dishes.”
Hank blinked. He’d never washed a dish in Casa Dubrovnik before.
Alice pushed herself to her feet, dropping her napkin next to her plate. “Can you stand up long enough to dry some dishes, Mitchell?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“Then you might as well go along with my sister’s rather heavy-handed attempts at matchmaking. Otherwise, Greta here will be washing dishes by herself.” She turned and stalked after Nadia and Hyacinth.
Greta shook her head. “Was that what Nadia was doing? I must be out of practice. I missed it entirely.”
“I’m not sure there’s any way to practice for Nadia.” Hank carried the last stack of plates to the counter. “Great dinner, by the way. How did Alice react when she found out you’d bought your own food?”
“In her own unique way,” Greta said dryly. “We’re good for now.”
He followed her to the sink, where she was rinsing the dishes before stacking them on the side. “How do we work this?”
“I wash and rinse, you dry. Classic division of labor. Towels are over there.” She gestured toward a wooden drying rack near the stove.
Hank grabbed the nearest towel and stepped back next to her. “Bring it on.”
As he stacked dried dishes on the counter, he considered the problem of how he might be able to get Greta out of the house. Maybe go for a walk—or in his case a limp—in the Dubrovniks’ surprisingly pleasant garden. There was a full moon tonight. The June temperatures were warm but not yet hot. Perfect night for a getting-to-know-you-better kind of thing.
Before coming down to dinner, he hadn’t figured on making any moves in her direction. But that was before he’d spent some time in the slightly steamy kitchen, watching her step back and forth in front of the sink, her T-shirt alternately clinging to and dropping away from her body. She’d pushed her short hair behind her ears, and for some reason she had a tiny bit of detergent foam on the tip of her nose.
He’d never wanted to touch a woman more in his life.
Just put the dishes away, jerkwad.
“So what do you think of Hyacinth?” Greta reached for a dish, drawing the T-shirt across her breasts long enough to show a brief outline of nipple.
Sweet lord. “She’s a nice kid. Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out if she’s just got the usual kid fascination with animals or if she’s actually thinking more like a budding scientist.”
He frowned. A welcome diversion from the warm bundle of temptation standing next to him. “She’s got a big thing about science. Asks a lot of questions. Has a lot of field guides to local fauna. I’d say she’s serious. Or as serious as the average nine-year-old can be, anyway.”
“I don’t think of her as average.” Greta reached for another plate, spiking his temperature by a couple of degrees. “She seems unique.”
“I guess she is. I haven’t spent a lot of time around kids before. I like her.”
“I do too.” She gave him another slow smile.
Down, boy. He picked up the last two glasses and stowed them in the overhead cabinets as a way to keep from drooling over that smile. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Sure.” She spread her dishrag across the sink divider. “How far can you walk without wincing?”
“Not that far. I was thinking once around the garden.”
“You’re on. I need to get some rose geranium leaves out there anyway.” She pushed the back door open, holding it for him. “Why don’t you lean on me? That way you won’t have as much weight on your foot.”
Oh lordy yes, why don’t I do that? He put his hand on her shoulder, feeling warm skin and damp T-shirt against his palm. “Thanks.”
The balmy night air was scented with lavender and something vaguely lemony. He’d never been able to figure out why someone as talented in the garden as Nadia undoubtedly was couldn’t find more effective ways to turn that produce into something edible.
“Just a minute. The rose geranium plants are over here.” She stepped carefully between the plants at the side, leaning down to snap off some leaves that she put in her pocket.
“Dare I ask…”
“I’m going to do a rose geranium cake for dessert tomorrow. And the butter and sugar need to infuse overnight.”
“Oh.” He had no idea what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure what infuse meant in this context.
Greta stepped back beside him, lifting his hand back to her shoulder and moving slowly forward.
“Nice night,” she murmured. “Look at that moon.”
The moon had just begun to rise, impossibly large and golden, low on the horizon. He stood for a moment, feeling himself relax. “When you see it looking like that, you realize why people felt like worshipping it.”
“Did the people in your village worship the moon?” She walked forward again, letting him lean against her. “That sounds interesting.”
“I don’t know anything about the people in my village.” He took a breath. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even know for sure that it’s a village. These walls are all over New England. Some of them came from native people, but a lot of them were just root cellars.”
“Not Celtic worship sites?”
He grimaced. “No, that’s just romantic crap.” He glanced down and saw her grin. “Okay.” He sighed. “Got me.”
She shook her head. “If you don’t know for sure that it’s a village, why are you working on it?”
“Because it might be. It’s a kind of puzzle. I should have some idea of what I’ve got by the end of the summer. Then I can spend the winter analyzing what I’ve found. Right now I’d say the odds on it being a Wampanoag settlement are pretty good.”
“And the Wampanoags were…”
“The principal Native American group living in this area.”
“That’s cool.” She smiled up at him. “Spending your time solving a puzzle that’s maybe several thousand years old. That’s very cool.”
Her eyes were dark in the moonlight, her lips curving up as she smiled. He smelled lemon and lavender again, and something like roses but not exactly. Suddenly he felt a little dizzy.
If he’d thought too much about what he was going to do next, he’d never have been able to go through with it, but irresistible impulse took over. He lowered his mouth to hers, running his tongue tentatively along the line of her lips until she opened for him, then giving himself time to taste and savor. There was a hint of sweetness mixing with the scent of rose geranium and mint, sending his head swimming. She made a sound low in her throat, a faint hum of pleasure, and then her hands looped around his neck, pulling her body against his.
Soft breasts pressed against his chest, and he touched warm skin as he slid his hands down her sides to rest finally on the jut of her hipbones. She seemed right at home in a garden full of sweetness.
After another moment reveling in the taste of her, he raised his head again, trying to think of something unfoolish to say. So who are you exactly, and what the hell are you doing here in my arms?
“Maybe we should go in,” Greta murmured. “I need to put together some cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning. And I’ve got to do the butter and sugar for the cake.”
He sighed. “Okay.”
If she was true to her word, they had the rest of the week for more conversation. He figured sometime during those six days, he’d find out all he needed to know about Greta Brewster. And maybe a bit more.