Identity

“I—that sounds like a lot of trouble.”

“It’s really not.”

While Morgan carried the pitcher to the refrigerator, Howl raced in from the mudroom, wagged his way to Drea for a greeting.

“There he is.” Drea bent down to pet. If she wondered what it meant how easily Morgan worked in her son’s kitchen while he stood in ratty gym shorts drinking coffee, she tucked it away.

“How was the hike?”

“It was great.” Morgan brewed the espresso, got out a bowl. “I didn’t realize how much I missed hiking until I did it again.”

“And the ropes course?”

“You mean the ambush?” Tossing her hair back, she whisked half-and-half, sweetened condensed milk, and a little vanilla with the coffee. “More fun than I expected. Have you ever done it?”

“Family pride demands, and once was enough. Are those coffee ice cubes?”

Morgan shook the bag she’d pulled from the freezer. “Why dilute a good thing with water?”

“She says who adds a little coffee to her milk and sugar,” Miles pointed out. “And maybe I want an iced cappuccino.”

“I’m making enough.”

She got out two tall glasses, added the ice cubes, poured the coffee mixture over.

Drea took one sip, then another. “Maybe you should come live with me.”

“And I’m wondering why this is the first time I’m having this.”

“You drink black coffee,” Morgan reminded him. “Really hot black coffee. I figured I’d make these for tonight, post-dinner. We should probably do something with all these peaches, right? Like make something, for later.”

Miles pointed at his mother. “She says we have to share.”

“Well, that would be sharing, and there’s a lot of them. I don’t have a clue.”

“Peach cobbler,” Drea suggested.

“Even less of a clue.”

“Cobblers are cobblers because you cobble them together. Quick and easy. Not a stretch for somebody who just made a couple of iced cappuccinos in under two minutes.”

“Beverages, no problem. Food’s trickier.”

“I can show you.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got time before I deliver peaches to my parents, then go home and make coffee ice cubes. And you’re going to text me whatever you did in that bowl.”

“Deal!”

“I’m going to go work out.”

Miles deserted the kitchen. And he thought how she fit, just fit in his life as if the rest of his life waited for her to slide right in.

By the time he’d put in a solid ninety minutes in his home gym, showered off the sweat, dressed, he found his mother gone. Peaches filled a bright blue bowl on the counter in a seriously sparkling kitchen.

“I made a peach cobbler.”

“Okay.”

“No, this is big. I made it.” She pointed to the baking dish cooling by the stove. “Your mom just said, now add this, do that. I made a dessert from scratch. We’ll have to warm it up again before it’s served, she said. Maybe with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

“Okay. I’d’ve given you a hand with the kitchen.”

“Your mom helped. She wouldn’t take no. She said your dad’s going to worship her when she offers him an iced cap after dinner tonight so we’re even.

“I really like your family, Miles.”

“So do I, more than most of the time.”

“It shows. I poked around,” she continued. “I hope you don’t mind, but too late if you did, because I already poked. And I found these wonderful dishes. I forget what they’re called—all different colors.”

“Fiestaware.”

“That’s it. I thought we could use them tonight. They’re fun and casual.”

And what his grandmother always used for backyard parties, he thought.

“And you have perfect glasses for the sangria. Short, thick, colored stems and napkins in bright stripes I thought—”

She broke off when he pulled her in and kissed her.

“I take that as a yes.”

“Use whatever you want.”

“I think we’ll skip the Waterford and fine china. I know I’m obsessing, at least a little.”

“At least. Morgan.” She smelled of peaches. “Let’s sit down a minute.”

“All right. Wait! It’s nearly two. They’re coming around six for cocktails.”

“That’s four hours.”

“Yes, but I have things. A lot of things. I saw this summer table setting idea on HGTV I want to try.”

“Of course you did.”

“So flowers, vases, and candles and all of it. I’m in charge of the potatoes, then there’s serving dishes. And I have to get myself together so I look good.”

“You look good.”

“Please. I’m still dealing with the shame of this outfit when your mother dropped by looking like the cover of a magazine with the caption ‘Casual summer chic.’”

“Are you going to be like this anytime people come over here?”

“I hope not, but I think I have to get over this hump, successfully. It’s your house, your siblings, the chief of police. It’s a big hump for me.”

“Okay then. What’s next?”

She let out a long sigh. “Thanks.”

He shrugged it off as she went to get the napkins to practice some clever fold for the table look she wanted.

It could wait, he decided. What he wanted to say to her could wait. And he’d take more time to think.



* * *



It took damn near the four hours for her to satisfy herself with every detail. Flowers, candles, napkins. Her focus remained intense, though she chatted away while she prepped her potatoes, while he marinated chicken, the vegetables he’d roast, made the barbecue sauce.

And again, as they worked together, it struck how well she fit. How her anticipation of the evening had him looking forward to it all more than he’d expected.

She put on a dress—she sure had the legs for it. Just a breezy number in pale, pale green that made him give thanks for summer.

At last, when she stood outside, giving her tablescape a last, critical look, she nodded.

“It looks good, right? It all looks good.”

“It ought to. You know, you spent all that time fancy folding the napkins, tucking a nasturtium in each one—precisely—and people are just going to open them up.”

“The nasturtiums are pretty, and edible—so there’s that.”

“There’s that. I’m getting a beer.”

“Or,” she said as he started toward the copper tub where, at her insistence, he’d nestled beer and wine in ice, “you could sample the sangria.”

“I thought it was still blending.”

“It’s had six hours, so that’ll do. Just a sample,” she said as she headed inside. “If you don’t like, you don’t like.”

He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him. “I just want a damn beer. I folded frigging napkins. Dragged out the ironing board I barely remember I have so she could press the table runner that’s going to end up with barbecue sauce on it. I deserve a beer.”

Howl muttered back, and Miles heard sympathy. Maybe solidarity.

She carried the pitcher to the table with the copper tub, the glassware, cocktail napkins, flowers, more candles.

“I added some club soda just now for a little sparkle.”

She poured two fingers in a glass, walked over, and offered.

“Just see what you think.”

He took a sip, scowled.

“Not good?”