Six-year-old Tyler had developed a strong crush on me when we first met. And when I’d seen him the other night in the hall, he’d told me he wanted to come home with me. He was a smart little boy with so much charm, I was pretty sure he could hold his own with the grown-ups.
His five-year-old twin sisters, Jessica and Jennifer, were adorable, as well, but much more shy. The girls were actually Tyler’s cousins, but Lisa and Henry had adopted them when their parents were killed in a boating accident a few years ago.
Derek grabbed the tray loaded with napkins and cups to take back upstairs. He had decided to grill vegetables, so he remained on the roof to prepare the grill and arrange the patio furniture while I stayed downstairs to set the dining room table.
The grilled vegetables reminded me of a little-known fact I rarely shared with the world. Namely, Derek had turned out to be a much better cook than I could ever hope to be. This, despite his having been raised in a large home with a mother who employed both a housekeeper and a cook.
I understood that men in general were endowed with some kind of weird gene that allowed them to grill meat without any prior knowledge or experience. But it didn’t seem fair that Derek was also capable of throwing a complete meal together despite never having ventured into the kitchen while growing up.
I, on the other hand, had been helping my mother in the kitchen since I could walk. But in all that time I hadn’t soaked up one lousy thimbleful of cooking ability. Nope, my sister Savannah got it all and became a Cordon Bleu chef just to rub my nose in it.
Lately, however, I’d been trying to improve my cooking skills. I could now make a passable pasta sauce and a yummy coleslaw. I had a signature dessert, too! Maybe I wasn’t the greatest cook yet, but to give myself some credit, I had been blessed with a truly awesome talent for eating food. And if you could be good at only one part, I much preferred it to be the eating one.
It helped that I wasn’t a picky eater; I loved food of all kinds. The thought of Derek’s grilled vegetables was almost as thrilling as the thought of Alex’s cupcakes. I would be mocked for saying so out loud, but grilled vegetables could be very exciting. To me, at least.
Derek had already slathered olive oil and a dash of pepper and sea salt on zucchini, red peppers, skinny Japanese eggplants, fat red onions, and curly radicchio. The rest of the meal—all sorts of fabulous treats we’d ordered from Piccolo—had arrived: three different pasta salads, plus a Caesar salad; thick slices of cold, rare tri-tip roast; a big antipasto platter; and lots of chunky, crusty bread and butter.
I had transferred everything to pretty serving bowls and platters, and now it was all in the refrigerator, waiting for our friends to arrive. Not that I expected to fool anyone by using my own bowls and plates. Even my newer neighbors had somehow learned that I couldn’t cook, so every single person I’d invited had promised to bring a side dish. It was demoralizing, but I would live with it.
The doorbell rang and I jogged out to answer the door.
“Hello, neighbor,” Alex said. She looked smashing in black jeans, a silky green tunic, and gold-flecked flip-flops.
“Hi. You look great.”
“We both look fabulous,” she said with a quick grin.
I stepped aside as she pushed a three-tiered serving cart into my house. “Good grief, how many cupcakes did you bake? And thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Four dozen,” she said, grinning. “We had a new-client meeting yesterday at work and it got testy, so I came home and went a little crazy in the kitchen.”
“I’m sorry about your meeting, but . . .” I homed in on the top tray. I could see its contents through the clear plastic top. “Oh, God. Are those red velvet?”
She laughed. “Yes. Aren’t they pretty?”
“They’re . . .” I stared, mesmerized, unable to speak for a long moment. I itched to try one right away but managed to control myself. “They’re beautiful.”
“They taste good, too.”
“I believe you.” I led the way back to the kitchen. “Still, I’m sorry you had such a bad day yesterday.”
She shrugged. “It’s a small thing about the meeting. I was just hoping to promote one of my newer brokers to deal with this client, but he’s not going to be able to manage the guy.”
“So you’ll have to handle him?” I realized what I’d said and slapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, dear. I didn’t mean . . .”
She burst out laughing and grabbed me close in a friendly, one-armed hug. “I love you, Brooklyn.”
“As do I.”
I whirled around at the sound of Derek’s deeply distinctive voice. He stood a few feet away with one eyebrow raised in speculation.
I smiled and held out my hand to draw him near. “Derek, come meet our new neighbor.”
I introduced them formally and they shook hands. For the briefest moment, they stared as though sizing each other up. After an awkward second or two, they both seemed to relax. Was I imagining things? Was I the only one who felt awkward? What was that confrontation all about?