“When I worked for the Times, no. You lived there, in Cedar Hill, I mean. You know what a rat race it is. Leave for work at six-thirty, don’t get home until seven. Rinse and repeat. There’s not a lot of time for cooking. That changed when my sister moved in with me and we had to relocate for my job. If there’s one thing I can say about Portland, it’s that I enjoy working nine to four and having a life again. I learned to cook, rediscovered my love of reading for pleasure, planted a garden. I hang out with my sister doing useless things like shopping at the mall and eating ice cream while we look at ugly clothes. It’s different.”
I tap the spoon against the pot’s edge and put the lid back on top. I don’t know anything about soup and don’t know if it’s done. The oven is on as well, but I don’t risk opening the door and peeking inside. I don’t want to ruin whatever she’s baking.
“My business partner called me while I was doing paperwork. He knows who you are.”
She winces. “Everyone in Cedar Hill knows who I am. The only reason I slipped by you was because you happened to be in the hospital fighting for your life.”
I lean against the counter and cross my ankles. “Stevie Johansson? You have balls.”
She lifts a shoulder, and the sweater falls farther down her arm. Whoever her boyfriend is, he’s one lucky son of a bitch.
“I’d do it all over again. She’s dirty, and I was trying to prove it.”
Laughing, I fold my arms over my chest. “She owns a chain of sweetshops. What do you think she’s doing?”
“Nothing. I don’t think she’s doing anything. That was two years ago, and all I care about now is watching out for my sister and making ends meet the best I can. Like ninety percent of the American population, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, and getting fired from the Pioneer isn’t going to help fix that. I was looking for jobs, and I might have found a lead or two. Surprisingly, I still have a few friends at the Times willing to give me a reference, and Walt said he would, too.”
That jealousy stabs at me again, and I try to push it back, though none too successfully. “The boyfriend?”
She rolls her eyes. “Forget about him. Walt’s the editor of the Pioneer. It’s not his choice to fire me when I go back to Portland emptyhanded.”
I wait for another request for an interview, maybe in exchange for what she did for me yesterday, but all she does is continue with, “Things happen for a reason. I’m going to take this lesson and run with it. It has nothing to do with you.”
“It shouldn’t. I’ve only known you for two days.”
“Huh.” She turns back to her laptop, keeps scrolling.
“Can I eat? Is it done?”
She picks up her phone. “The biscuits have two more minutes. If you want to wait, wait; if you don’t, don’t.”
“Biscuits?”
“Your flour looked questionable, but I made it work.”
“I had flour?”
She looks up from her laptop and smiles, and I swear, just for a second, I feel like I’m back outside unable to breathe. “We’re in trouble if you didn’t.”
We talk while we eat, but nothing heavy. I don’t ask about Stevie Johansson again, and she doesn’t ask me what kind of work I was doing in the cottage. I find out she does have a degree in Journalism with a minor in English. She’s well-read, knows a lot about the state of the world, and she cares about her sister. She doesn’t talk about her parents and speaks as if they’ve never been around. Maybe that’s why she needs to take care of her sister, but I don’t feel comfortable asking and she doesn’t offer the information. We talk a lot about life in a small town compared to living in Cedar Hill. Our lives weren’t that different in the city. We were rats running a different race, but we were still running and we compare notes about the simplicity of small town living.
We chat for nearly an hour, but it occurs to me as we clean the kitchen together everything she told me I could have found out online. She didn’t get personal, didn’t say anything about her boyfriend, either. She could be engaged, planning her wedding.
She didn’t say anything about the kiss.
Not that I expected her to. If she’s in a relationship, she’d want to ignore it and hope I don’t pursue it.
I liked spending the time talking to her, but I came away from our conversation empty, wanting more and not knowing how to get it, not knowing if I should.
The snow is supposed to stop sometime tomorrow in the middle of the night.
She’s drifting toward the living room, and I’m leaning against the sink, my hands braced on the edge of the counter.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I’m a lot of things, but okay hasn’t been one in a long time.
My back still turned, I straighten enough to say, “Yeah. Thanks for dinner.”