Chapter 10: His Kitchen

You weren't. Sophie's two words followed me around the barn all Monday and all Tuesday, and I had no answer for them.

Tom called on Tuesday evening and asked whether I'd like to see where the chair would go.

It was an odd invitation, and I knew it.

I said yes before I could count the reasons I shouldn't.

He lived in a white two-story house at the edge of town, three streets behind the lumber yard.

There was a porch swing with a quilt folded over one arm, and a screen door that stuck.

He opened it before I knocked.

"I should warn you," he said. "I'm making dinner."

"Is that a warning?"

"Last time I made chicken, the smoke detector was the only one who finished it."

The kitchen smelled of garlic and onion and something slightly burned.

On the stove, a pan of chicken thighs was browning with more confidence than he had.

I took the wooden spoon out of his hand, turned the heat down and moved the pan off the burner.

"Another minute and that's charcoal," I said.

"You're a menace."

"You asked me to your house."

"I did."

We ate at a small table by the window.

The chicken was a little dry and the potatoes were wonderful.

He had put out cloth napkins, which I understood he had not done for himself in years.

The rocker's place was in the front room.

There was a bare square of floor by the window, with the faint outline of four chair feet pressed into the rug.