“You’re bragging,” I replied. “Nobody, not even you, can eat six grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Is that a dare?”
I laughed. “No. It’s not. You can have seven if you want.”
He seemed to be thinking it over. “I could eat seven, but then I’d probably go to sleep and the after-dinner portion of the evening’s entertainment would suffer because of my lack of consciousness.”
“Golly. Maybe you are a poet.”
With an almost-inaudible snicker he turned toward the mudroom to feed the dogs. That was my cue to pull ingredients out of my restaurant-grade refrigeration column and an iron skillet out of the cabinet for use as a griddle.
When Keir was finished feeding the dogs and returned to the kitchen, I was still standing with the refrigerator door open.
“What are you doing, love?” he asked.
“Staring at the Kerrygold pure Irish butter blocks.”
“Why?”
“I can’t decide whether to use the silver, which is unsalted, or the gold, which is salted. Do you have a preference?”
“Here. Let me.” Keir closed the refrigerator then gently guided me toward one of the Hemingway barstools and encouraged me to sit. I did. He then reached for one of Olivia’s plain black aprons, which I thought looked scrumptious on him, and grabbed the silver, unsalted butter.
It didn’t escape my notice that I’d spent decades being the caregiver to a husband and daughter who didn’t reciprocate. It wasn’t just that they didn’t do things for me. I was inclined to believe that neither of them gave much thought as to whether I also needed kindness, comfort, nurture, or any sort of reassurance that I was loved. Loved more than if I’d been hired domestic help.
Lately, since I’d moved to Hallow Hill, Evie had begun to show signs of maturity in the sense that she seemed interested in me and my well-being. Someday the relationship might gradually turn into primal connection plus friendship. That would be nice.
In any case, Keir’s demonstrations of affection through acts of service warmed my heart all the way down to my belly button.
“I really do know how to make grilled cheese sandwiches,” I said lamely.
“No one questions that, love.”
I looked at the fireplace and said, “Light.” The house, understanding my desire, which would have to be called very cool in anybody’s book, caused a flame to jump to life under the fire Olivia had set. Within seconds that was followed by the little ‘poof’ of perfectly arranged tinder catching all at once.
Looking back at Keir’s operation, I said, “You’re using yellow and white cheese?”
“I thought I would. Is that alright with you?”
“That… sounds amazing. Now I’m really glad you’re the one making dinner.”
He smiled as he shook his head slightly and reached into the refrigerator to get a glass jar of Molly’s tomato soup. I liked it so much, especially on cold days, that Olivia kept it stocked in my refrigerator. Sometimes instead of tea, I’d have a cup of pub made fresh tomato soup. Good no matter how you pronounce it. Sometimes, if I was hungry, I’d add a little cream and turn it into tomato bisque.
Keir poured half the jar’s contents into a saucepan and set it on the stove atop the modest gas flame that fanned out when he turned the dial.
Stretching my neck upward to oversee what he was doing, I said, “That doesn’t look like enough for both of us.”
“It’s not,” he said. “This is just for me. If you want some, get your own.”
I laughed. “I have questions.”
“Hmmm?”
“About the thing.”
“If it’s about the butter, the reason why I chose unsalted is because…”
“Don’t be a smart aleck. It’s not about the butter. It’s about the Diarmuid thing and you know it.”
Fen and Frey came running in, tails wagging. They’d eaten, gone outside, and come to the kitchen to shake snow off their coats. As snowflakes were thrown off by the violence of coat-shaking, they became big droplets of water in the warm air, landing on me, and everything else around.
“Arghhhhh! Dogs!” I intended to be cross with them but ended up laughing instead. “Go to the mudroom.”
I don’t know what part of that sentence had become the signal command they understood, but they’d come to know what it meant. They raced off to the mudroom to wait for me to drag big towels out of the overhead cabinet and dry them off. They loved it and I suppose they thought it was a game. Certainly, since someone else fed them that night, drying them off and giving them some attention was the least I could do.
When I appeared back in the kitchen, I said, “Is something wrong with the weather?”
Keir looked away from the skillet long enough to ask, “What do you mean?”
“The dogs were wearing fresh snow.”
“Why does that mean there’s something wrong with the weather?”
“Because it snows in the afternoon. Not at night.”
He turned to flip sandwiches before finally saying, “I don’t think it’s a rule.”
“Okay. I’ll be back. I’m going to put on dry clothes.”
“Hustle. Grilled cheese is only good right off the griddle.”
“Yes, boss.”
I threw the dog-spray clothes on the bathroom floor and shimmied into fresh ‘at leisure’ or ‘at home’ or whatever may be the current term for I-don’t-care-I-want-to-be-comfortable clothes.
On my way back to the kitchen I heard…
Don't turn around, oh oh
(Ja, ja)
Der Kommissar's in town, whoa oh
I opened the door without looking to see who was there. After all, I had two wolfdogs, a sephalian, a magical house, and possibly a car to protect me.
Maggie stood on the porch wearing a clover green wool coat topped with a tartan shawl, looking pretty with snowflakes in hair that was a mix of white and fading auburn.
“Maggie,” I said.
“Have ye heard?” She sounded like she might’ve run the full sixteenth of a mile to my house.
“Heard?”
“About Diarmuid?”
I opened the door wider and pulled her in. “Not the whole story. Keir was just about to fill in details. Come in and take off your coat. We’re having grilled cheese and tomato soup. Sound good?”
She looked toward the kitchen. “Well. Do no’ mind if I do. We had tourists throughout the day. I worked right through, I did.”
“Well. Let’s get you fed then.” I closed the door. “Keir!” I called. “We need more tomato soup. Maggie’s staying for supper.”
Maggie turned to head toward the kitchen.
Don't turn around, oh oh.
Ignoring the musical instruction, I turned around and opened the door before more could be sung.
“Lochlan. Hi.”
“Good evening, Magistrate. Heard some interesting news. So, I hurried right over.”
“Sure. Come in. Where’s Ivy?”
“She and her sisters are doing something or other with mandrake plants tonight.” He shrugged. “Girls only.”