An hour or so later, Liv was tasting the best pea risotto of her life. One bite and she saw delicate young shoots and careening swallows and the gorgeous vermilion roses that burst forth along the back fence every May, unbidden and relentlessly alive. God, this winter had been long. Soon it’d be warm enough to eat dinner in the backyard under the old willow tree. If she could bring herself to pull out the one thousand weeds.
“Do you like it, Mom?” Ben was bouncing with excitement. “I shucked hundreds of peas.”
Ben’s interest in food prep was a surprise. His grief counselor said this would be a marathon, not a sprint. In some ways, Ben would never get over losing his father. The disruption to the family unit would play out his entire life: his attachment style, his choice of partners, maybe even the way he parented himself. The last three months had been fraught; Ben couldn’t sleep alone or with the lights off. He was prone to anxiety and tantrums. Pay attention to difference, said the counselor. To change.
Cooking wasn’t a Goldenhorn tradition. But it wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sight, the handsome caterer helping Ben stir a pot of simmering risotto.
“It’s delicious,” Liv told her son, accidentally looking at Sam instead of Ben as she added, “Well done, sweetie.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Sam replied, deadpan.
Liv laughed out loud. She honestly could not remember the last time she’d done that. She’d find out later that Savannah was currently stuck on a stalled L train with no reception, panicking. At that moment, Liv didn’t care where she was.
Sam put the last of the bowls in the dishwasher. There were some strands of silver in an otherwise full head of dark hair. He was over six feet tall, but his posture was as relaxed as the old T-shirt he was wearing. If height was power, Sam didn’t feel the need to dominate. Eliot, at five seven, had always carried himself with the straightest spine possible and wore shoes with risers.
“Right, the lasagna needs another thirty minutes in the oven. Apps are here”—Sam gestured to a platter of brightly colored dips and finger foods—“and you’ve got enough risotto for a week.”
“Can’t we shuck more peas?” Ben whined, trailing him to the front door.
“Can’t, champ,” Sam said, “got to get home to my own family.”
Hot, hard disappointment punched Liv in the belly. The reaction was deeply embarrassing. She was too old to have a crush, or be the subject of one, and besides: he was married. Of course he was. Sam was gentle and funny, and his warm brown eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled.
“Your partner’s lucky,” Liv said, as they reached the door. “My, um, ex was a pretty bad cook. I’m not much better.” It felt odd calling Eliot her “ex”: she wanted Sam to know she was single but not the reason why.
“Oh, my ex-wife is a great cook. It was monogamy she sucked at.”
She surprised herself with a girlish giggle. Get a grip, lady. You’re a middle-aged widow with saggy tits and a mild drinking problem.
“Yeah, it’s just me and Dottie.” Sam slipped a tan leather jacket over broad shoulders. “My daughter. Little younger than Ben. Not as into Spider-Man.”
“Ha!” Liv’s heart was pattering. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Well, thanks for the food, and the cooking lesson, and for not being a home invader.”
“No worries.”
She rubbed at her forehead, pulling the wrinkles with her fingertips. “Look, I should mention… Things fell apart a bit workwise last year.”
“Yeah, I know. Think I read something about pigeons and bees?”
Screw the internet, seriously.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled at her. Sam’s eyes were the color of butterscotch pudding, of brandy, of warm, delicious things. “Guess I’m willing to take the risk.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
“Sounds great.” The only caterer in New York willing to work with her ambled down her front steps. “Night, Liv.”
The early evening was unseasonably balmy. The air almost felt silky on her bare arms. A handful of stars twinkled in the lavender sky, delicate as fine jewelry.
“Night, Sam.”
Liv closed the door after him, letting the lock click into place with deliberate slowness. Her house was redolent of butter and onions. It smelled like a home. Enjoying the way the smooth wooden floorboards creaked under her footfalls, Liv wandered back into the kitchen. It was, impossibly, completely clean.