cones,” he said.
“The perfect winter dessert.”
He fixed her three fist-size scoops, ignoring her when she protested the size. Then they sat down on the sofa, and both dived for the remote control. He beat her to it, and even though she whined, he refused to watch Project Runway, insisting instead on a classic rerun of American Chopper. Tucking the remote between his hip and a sofa cushion, he said, “Now you can’t accuse me of being too nice.”
She licked her ice cream and watched the careful, intricate assembly of something called—in tones of reverence—a master cylinder. Her eyes started to glaze over.
“Can’t we compromise?” she asked. “Maybe watch one of those crime investigation shows?”
“You mean the ones that make police work look noble and sexy?”
“What, it’s not noble and sexy?” she asked.
“Honestly, it’s detail work. I spent half the day inventorying cruisers, which was completely depressing, since the budget doesn’t allow for equipment upgrades for another two years. Either the city administrator is an idiot, or he’s Scrooge.”
“Matthew Alger, you mean.”
He nodded.
“Then why do police work if it’s all boring details?” she asked.
“Because it’s my job,” he said simply, staring at the TV screen.
“But why is it your job? You could have picked anything you wanted, gone anywhere. Instead, you picked this little mountain town where nothing ever happens.”
A commercial came on, and he turned to face her. “Maybe I’m waiting for something to happen,” he said.
She was dying to ask him to elaborate but didn’t want to seem too interested. “And here I thought being a cop was one adventure after another.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not noble and sexy. Now, making buttermilk pie and raspberry kolaches—that’s sexy.”
“Well, then, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t do the baking.”
“So? You’re still sexy.”
In spite of herself, Jenny grew flushed. It was stupid, at her age, getting flustered over something some guy said. Especially a guy like Rourke McKnight. She tried to pretend she wasn’t affected, even though she felt a sting of heat in her cheeks. Good lord, were they flirting? This was getting complicated but … irresistible. “Now, what part of protect and serve is that?” she asked, trying for a light tone.
“It’s got nothing to do with the job. And you’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure you are. I like it. I like that I can make you blush.”
And with such pathetic ease, she thought. They had a rhythm still. They always had. She’d spent years trying to forget but it all came back. “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re really easy to please, Chief McKnight.”
“I always have been,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”
Pine Box Traditions
It’s a Polish wedding tradition to give a new bride a supply of starter for sourdough rye bread. I suspect it’s a combination of tradition and desperation on the part of the bride. It just doesn’t seem fair to add the pressure of making a good bread right out of the gate to everything else the poor girl is juggling.
My grandmother told me that the day before her wedding, when she was just a scared girl of eighteen, her mother gave her a carved pine box, just like the one that had sat on a shelf above the kitchen stove all her life. It’s kind of nice, really, thinking of that chain of women, spanning the decades and centuries.
Now, the reality of today’s world is that new brides don’t give a hoot about making bread. However, if the breadmaking mood strikes you, here’s a recipe with a starter that only takes one night to set up. The process begins somewhat mysteriously. Flour, buttermilk and onion meld together in the beginnings of a hearty bread.
Polish Sourdough Rye Bread
2 (.25-ounce) packages active dry yeast
1 teaspoon white sugar
2 cups water
1 thick slice onion
4 cups rye flour
1 cup buttermilk, room temperature
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon salt
8 cups bread flour
1 tablespoon caraway seeds (optional)
The night before making the bread, in a medium-size mixing bowl, dissolve one packet of yeast and the sugar in the water. Let stand until creamy, about 10 minutes. Stir in rye flour until mixture is smooth. Slip onion slice in. Cover and let stand overnight then remove onion.
The next day, dissolve remaining package of yeast in buttermilk. Add rye flour mixture, baking soda, salt, 4 cups of the bread flour and stir to combine. Add the remaining 4 cups of bread flour, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring well after each addition (you may not need to add all the flour). When dough has become a smooth and coherent mass, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and supple, about 8 minutes. Sprinkle caraway seeds on dough and knead them in until evenly distributed throughout.
Lightly oil a large mixing bowl. Place dough in the bowl and turn to coat with the oil. Cover with damp cloth and let rise in a warm place for about 1 hour or until volume has doubled. Preheat oven to 350°F.
Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide into three pieces. Form each piece into a loaf and place in 3 lightly greased 9 x 5-inch bread pans. Cover and let rise until nearly doubled, about 1 hour.
Bake at 350°F for about 35 minutes or until the loaves sound hollow when tapped.
Six
Summer 1988
Rourke McKnight tried not to act too excited about going to summer camp. He was afraid that if he showed even the smallest amount of pleasurable anticipation, his father would forbid him to go. During the limo ride down Avenue of the Americas to Grand Central Station, Rourke sat quietly, watching the traffic through tinted, bulletproof windows. It was raining, the hard, summer kind of rain that caused geysers of steam to rise from the asphalt.
His best friend, Joey Santini, was riding in the front seat with Joey’s dad. Mr. Santini had been the McKnight family driver since the beginning of time, as far as Rourke knew. It was just a total stroke of luck that Joey was
