Chapter Fifteen
Glenn was a decent cook. Not a good cook, he wouldn’t go that far.
Decent. He got the job done. It had been him and Lilah for so long, and her a picky eater, that his repertoire was limited.
Endless peanut butter and honey sandwiches.
Chicken or burgers for dinner. Sometimes he snuck in a green vegetable. Nothing fancy.
But tonight he’d stepped it up. Tonight Cassie was coming for dinner.
He wanted it to be low key—no noisy restaurant—just the two of them in his kitchen with a bottle of wine. Maybe two. Lilah was at a friend’s and Andrew was home with Cassie’s dad, and he had a roast in the oven and…holy Jesus.
Cassie smiled up at him as he opened the door, looking like a million bucks in jeans and a clingy black top.
“Um, you look incredible,” he managed. The last time he’d seen her she’d been in sneakers and leggings.
Not that she didn’t look good then, but this top was…
well…it hugged her in all the right places.
He stood there stupidly for a second, with Charlie milling around, until Cassie asked if she could come in.
“Yes!” He threw open the door. God, he was acting like an idiot. “Please, come in.” Then, before he could overthink it, he dropped a kiss on her mouth. Were they at that stage now? Apparently they were because her face lit, and she said, “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too,” he said with a hum of happiness.
He’d been nervous about this evening. Actually having a woman over to dinner.
Laying it all out there. This was who he was, where he lived.
The house wasn’t grand but it was his. He’d built the deck himself, painted every wall. And he was raising his daughter here.
Of course Lilah hadn’t picked up her things the way he’d asked.
He frowned as he led Cassie past the family room, where Lilah’s stuff was strewn all over.
Sneakers, a sweatshirt. Hair clips and other crap littering the couch.
And in the middle of the hallway, Charlie’s orange ball, which Glenn toed out of the way so they wouldn’t kill themselves.
“Sorry, this is as good as it gets,” he said.
Cassie seemed unfazed. “Are you kidding, this is nothing. I’m still finding stuff from thirty years ago at my dad’s house.
I have to sneak it out to the trash when he’s not looking.
” She paused to admire a picture Lilah had done.
A framed chalk drawing of a man in what looked like a space suit surrounded by bees.
The beekeeper in orange, the bees glowing like tiny red stop lights.
“Is that you?” she said. The beekeeper was impossibly tall, dwarfing the hive, even the trees.
“I think it is. I guess I used to loom large to her.”
She gave him a smile he couldn’t quite decipher. “I’m sure you still do.”
He opened the wine and she found a couple of glasses and he remembered again how easy she was to be with.
If someone had told him a month ago he’d be seeing a lawyer from New York, he would have said they were crazy.
He’d have pictured some hyper-caffeinated woman, charging across town in head-to-toe black.
In spite of everything going on in her life, Cassie wasn’t frenzied like that.
Sure, she worried about Alzheimer’s and her dad and Andrew—who wouldn’t?
But she had a contagious laugh and just being in her presence made him feel lighter, like he might not need to sweat all the little things.
And he liked the look of her in his kitchen.
Yes, he did. Leaning against the counter like she belonged there.
Over a glass of wine, she told him about the pinching incident. “Right up her skirt,” she said.
He winced. “Do you think he knew what he was doing?”
“Oh, he knew.”
“So what now?”
She gave a resigned shrug. “Now that he’s on the FBI Most Wanted List I doubt we’ll be able to find someone else.”
“At least Andrew’s there.”
“For now. Honestly, I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep my dad at home. He thinks he’s more capable than he is, that’s the hard part. The other day I found him trying to split wood. With an axe.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“You’re telling me.” They’d pulled out a couple of stools and were sitting at the counter with their wine.
“He always had to be in control. I couldn’t stand it growing up.
If I turned up a song on the radio, he’d harangue me that the song was terrible.
So the next time, I’d turn it up even louder just to irritate him.
I’m sure he thought I was being difficult, and maybe I was.
Or maybe I was angry over my mom and had no one else to take it out on.
” She let go a sigh. “I don’t even remember half of what we fought about anymore. It doesn’t matter.”
The timer went off, which seemed to reset her. “Anyway, enough of that depressing stuff. What can I do to help?”
“Dinner should be almost ready.” He opened the oven and stuck a meat thermometer in the roast, but it was nowhere near done. He tested the meat with a fork. “I haven’t made this in a while, I thought it would be ready by now.” Then a troublesome thought. “You do eat meat, don’t you?”
“Um…sometimes.” She’d found a slotted spoon and was busying herself turning the skillet potatoes.
He shot her a worried look. “Uh oh, that didn’t sound convincing.
” Why hadn’t he asked her? Not everyone ate red meat.
He was so used to doing his own thing, he’d forgotten to find out what she liked to eat.
He should have just made something simple like pasta.
She’d eaten pasta at the restaurant. Why hadn’t he just done that?
“No really, it’s fine. I don’t usually eat meat, but this looks delicious and—”
“You don’t eat meat, do you?”
“No.” She looked like she’d been caught cheating on a math test. “I’m sorry. I haven’t in years but the potatoes look great and I see you have green beans. I’ll be fine with that. I should have said something.”
“I should have asked,” he said glumly. He’d bungled this. Cooking a roast for someone who didn’t eat meat. He felt like a complete jerk.
“Let me see what else I have.” He rummaged through the pantry, but the pickings were slim. All he could find with any potential was a package of spaghetti and a can of crushed tomatoes. “I could make sauce or we could order takeout.” Takeout was starting to sound like the better option.
“No, don’t order takeout. Why don’t you eat the roast and I’ll have veggies? I do it all the time.”
“Lilah and I can have the roast tomorrow.” The idea of tucking into a hunk of meat while Cassie nibbled on vegetables felt indecent, like unwrapping a Christmas present in front of a kid who didn’t get one. No way was he going to do that.
“Then spaghetti sounds great. We can throw in the green beans and if you have lettuce, I’ll make a salad.”
“I have lettuce,” he said, relieved. “Cucumber and tomato too.”
“Excellent. If you tell me where everything is, I’ll set the table.”
He sautéed garlic for the sauce while she found plates and silverware. “Napkins?” she said.
“Just paper towels.” He nodded to the counter. “Over there.”
The garlic was sending up a fine pungent aroma, and he turned down the flame and threw in a little chopped onion.
She was a good sport and he was starting to feel better, like maybe the evening wouldn’t be a total disaster after all.
Now might be the time to toss in the green beans—or should he wait until he got the sauce simmering.
He was thinking hard about that, and should he chop up some of that fresh tomato, when he realized she’d gone quiet.
“They’ve started clearing that property.” She glanced up from the newspaper, which he’d left on the counter. “It must have just happened. I haven’t been by there in a few days.”
“Yup.” He felt a sharp surge of anger thinking of the earthmovers and how much they’d already destroyed. He couldn’t even look when he drove that way.
“What about the hives you keep there?”
“I brought them here for now.” He’d heard persistent rumors around town that Weber was after her father’s property too, which gave him a tight unhappy feeling. He knew she was under pressure but she wouldn’t do that. Would she?
The juice from the tomatoes had pooled on the edge of the cutting board and spilled onto the counter, making a runny mess. He mopped it up with a dishtowel. Talking about the development had taken the shine off his mood.
Cassie seemed to sense it. She set the newspaper back on the counter and touched his shoulder. “Hey, I’d love to see your hives.”
“You would?”
“I can’t imagine what three hundred beehives look like.”
“Like your dad’s, but a few more.” Her touch smoothed him out, and after he got the sauce simmering they took their wine out to the deck. The hives looked like pale barracks in the May dusk.
“Do I need a veil?” Cassie said.
“We should be fine. They won’t be too active now that it’s getting dark.”
They crossed the yard, the grass kept long to encourage the dandelions and white clover the bees loved. Other people might call them weeds, but he considered them forage. No one would ever accuse him of having an overly manicured lawn.
“So how many bees are in all these hives?” Cassie said.
“Anywhere from ten to fifty thousand per hive, depending on the season.”
“Good God, that’s a lot of bees!” She glanced around apprehensively. “Don’t you worry about them getting up near the house?”
“Their flight path doesn’t take them that way.
They tend to head up and out. The hives are in a good spot, morning sun and afternoon shade.
That’s pretty much ideal. And down there—” He tipped his chin toward the marsh.
“That’s wetland. Depending on the time of year there’s usually water there.
I didn’t know I was going to get into bees when I bought the place but I liked that the wetland can never be developed, even after my time. It’ll always be protected.”