Galen had often thought she preferred cooking to sex. A revelation she kept to herself, for obvious reasons. Sex had always left her feeling…what? Agitated, somehow. Like there should be more, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what the “more” should be. It wasn’t that Vinnie was bad in bed as much as he just didn’t seem all that interested.
So much for the passionate Italian lover theory.
Instead, she found incredible satisfaction in making even the most intricate, complicated dishes from scratch. When she was in the kitchen, rolling out pasta, chopping herbs, layering cheeses and meats in obscenely expensive pans, she was at peace. Since she’d been married to an Italian, she’d learned to cook Italian. Learned to cook it well.
Even if she rarely had the opportunity to show off her talents.
A gaggle of shrieking, laughing children swooped past them, tossing huge armfuls of curled, crinkly leaves in a hundred shades of brown at each other, as Galen and Cora waded through the arboreous debris up to the house, a dusty-blue-trimmed white Victorian with a wide wraparound porch on three sides. The house was set far back on a large lot over-flowing with lush evergreens and the graceful skeletons of a dozen or more deciduous trees, slashes of charcoal against the sharp blue sky; a few blocks to Galen’s left, she could see the glint of water sparkling at the end of what looked like a park. She inhaled deeply, delighting in the pungent-sweet scent of moldering leaves and fireplace smoke, even as a strange, inexplicable mixture of contentment, apprehension and regret swirled around her heart.
“Cora!”
A laughing woman’s voice cut through Galen’s thoughts. They’d just about reached the porch steps; she looked up to see a petite blonde standing in front of the open door. Slung on the woman’s trim hip was a toddler in pink overalls and flyaway blond hair, guzzling something in a Sippee cup. This was one classy lady, Galen decided at once, feeling downright dowdy in her brown sweater and slacks, her hair pulled back in its standard clip. A finely knit, obviously expensive, heathery blue turtleneck sweater hugged the woman’s slender figure, dipped into matching wool slacks. She wore her pale hair pulled into a neat twist at the back of her head, a few wisps floating around her delicately featured face. Simple pearl earrings glinted in her ears; her makeup was understated, perfectly applied. Her lightly glossed lips, however, were pulled up into a broad, welcoming smile. She held out her free hand…which is when Galen spotted the Popsicle stick turkey, enthusiastically and messily painted, pinned to one shoulder.
“You must be Galen,” she said, her handshake firm and warm. “Welcome to the funny farm. I’m Elizabeth, and this is Chloe, my daughter, and I’m not even gonna try to introduce you to everyone else! It’s each person for him-or herself today.”
Just then, a dark-haired man with the brightest blue eyes Galen had ever seen poked his head out the front door, a single gold stud gleaming in one ear. “There you are,” he said to the blonde. “Wondered where you went.”
“I escaped,” Elizabeth announced. “Between your mother, my mother and Rod, that kitchen is way too crowded. Galen…Granata, isn’t it?” Galen nodded, impressed she remembered. “My husband, Guy Sanford. Well, come on in,” she said, sidling through the door, the baby beating on her shoulder with the empty cup. “We’re still waiting on a few stragglers. In the meantime, we’re setting everything up on the dining table.”
The scent of roast turkey and spices and just-cleaned house washed over Galen as they walked through the high-ceilinged entry hall, the ivory walls splashed with splinters of sunlight from the cut-glass panes in the transom over the front door. Elizabeth glanced at Cora’s foil-covered dish. “Green beans?”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you, Miss Nosybody?” And with that, she tromped off, leaving Galen standing alone with Elizabeth, feeling abandoned and awkward. Guy had also disappeared; Elizabeth lowered the fussy toddler to the floor, who headed toward the living room, a warm, cluttered collection of leather furniture and antiques in shades of golds and dark reds. The baby was making fast tracks toward the largest, scruffiest dog Galen had ever seen.
“Chloe?” The baby pivoted around, her mouth tucked into a “who, me?” expression. “Be nice to Einstein, okay?”
Chloe babbled something completely unintelligible, then resumed the pursuit of her quarry, who seemed not the least bit concerned he was about to be attacked by twenty pounds of unbridled affection.
Elizabeth watched for a moment as the dog slowly rolled to his back so the little girl could pat his stomach, sighed, then turned her attention back to Galen. “I know he’s ten times bigger than she is, but those cute little hands of hers can be lethal. Come on back,” she said, her low-heeled pumps soundless on the Oriental-patterned runner leading back to the dining room, then glanced back at the dish in Galen’s hands. “More green beans?”
“Uh, no. Spinach and prosciutto pasta.”
Brows lifted, Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, lifted a corner of the foil covering the dish. “Ooooh…that smells absolutely wonderful.” She took the dish from Galen’s hands, carrying it over to the lace-covered dining room table herself. “Hey, you two!” she said to a pair of little boys, one blond, one dark-haired, black olives tipping all their fingers. “Go on, scoot! It’s not time yet—”
“Mama,” the darker-haired boy said, stuffing three olives in his mouth, then tugging on her sleeve. “Look what Micah did to the pumpkin pie—”
“I did not!” the blond kid shot back. “It was already like that!”
“Oh, yeah? Then how come your breath smells like pumpkin pie?”
“Boys?” They both looked up at their mother. “Go away.”
Exchanging half-hearted jabs, they did. Bracing Galen’s casserole against her hip, Elizabeth scanned the table, already smothered in assorted baskets and casseroles and plastic bowls. “Here—move those rolls over there—yeah, that’s right—and that bowl of…whatever it is, to the right of the Jell-O mold—” Galen smiled at the ill-concealed grimace “—there!” Elizabeth set the casserole down, clearly pleased with herself.
“Okay, where you want the ice?”
Galen whipped around to run smack into Del Farentino’s startled smile.
“Oh, great!” Elizabeth said. “There’s an ice chest…” She peeked around the corner of the table. “Ah. Right here. Just plop it on in there.” She looked up, then from one to the other. “Oh, uh…you two already met?”
Galen folded her arms against her ribs, quickly taking in Del’s unbuttoned, untucked plaid shirt casually framing a torso-hugging T-shirt disappearing into the waistband of a pair of worn jeans. “Del picked me up from the airport the other day,” she said, silently pleading for him not to say anything else.
“Oh, that’s right. Cora told me.” Elizabeth snatched an olive herself, then headed toward the swinging door which Galen assumed led to the kitchen. “Where’s Wendy?”
Del grinned. A little unsteadily, Galen thought. “God only knows. She saw the kids playing in the leaves, took off like a shot.” Galen saw his glance swerve toward the table, after which he let out a long, low whistle. “Man oh man, that’s a lot of food.”
“Nobody’ll leave here starving, that’s for sure,” Elizabeth agreed, then vanished through the door, leaving it swinging in her wake.
Leaving
