Twenty-Five
Dinner, Matt could handle.
He’d buttered the ramekins for the gateaux au chocolat. From the sounds of it, the pot of salted water was close to a boil. The sauce for the pasta simmered, filling the kitchen with the aroma of late-summer Ontario tomatoes, hot chili, white wine, and basil.
No, it was the questions that worried him.
If only he had the book. The first edition would have distracted Charley, taken the heat off himself. But he’d spent the past few days giving books away, emptying the shelves. Carelessly, as it turned out. Hamadryads was gone.
He shot a glance at the digital clock on the oven. Just enough time to finish prepping the cakes. He reached for the sieve. A dusting of cocoa powder would stop the batter from sticking in the molds.
The doorbell rang, and he jolted. A cloud of cocoa powder rose into the air. Grabbing the cloth draped over the edge of the sink, he wiped up the worst of the mess.
Despite the rain that had picked up just half an hour ago, she was right on time.
Matt ran quick fingers through his hair on the way to the entrance. His pulse scrambled and it wasn’t just the interview that had his heart racing.
He swung the door open, a clever line all ready, but his tongue tangled.
Charley wore jeans, and a T-shirt the colour of cornflowers. Twists of silver dangled at her ears and she had her hair caught back in a clip. She’d done something with her eyes too, something dangerous that could have a man drowning in them, if he wasn’t careful. It took a second before he even noticed Cocoa. “Hi.” Smooth.
Charley grinned. “Hi.”
Behind her, water splashed off the porch gutter. Drops of moisture glistened in her hair and on Cocoa’s fur from their run from the car. She’d had to park her Jeep on the curb, then make a dash for the door because he’d forgotten to move his boat and trailer off the driveway. Mentally kicking himself, he moved aside. “Come on in.”
Cocoa nudged in ahead, tail wagging, and Matt grabbed for the leash before she tangled his feet.
The scent of the rain on Charley’s hair as she brushed past him, a subtle undertone of cassis and honey, had his brain stuttering again.
She glanced at the wooden storage bench and the loon carved in the lid — the result of his dad’s test run with the college cnc machine. He just hoped she didn’t also notice the scuff marks in the oak finish or the flaking paint on the folding closet door. Which he had no intention of opening while she was here. His dad’s out of sight, out of mind attitude toward cleaning, hiding the mess behind cupboard doors, had come in useful today.
“Sorry about my sister.” She bent to unhook Cocoa’s leash.
The dog sniffed the sneakers that he’d ditched by the door — probably should have moved those — then ran at him. But fending off her enthusiastic greeting gave him something to do with his hands. “Don’t be. I’m thinking she did me a favour.” He rubbed Cocoa’s ears, then glanced back at Charley. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “Just to be clear” — she dug in her purse, pulled out a notebook and ballpoint pen — “this isn’t a date.”
His lips twitched. “It’s almost a date.”
“I’m here for the interview, and —”
“My boyish good looks?” He tried for a winning grin.
She laughed. “I was going to say ‘chocolate’.”
“Good thing, it’s on the menu.” He led the way into the kitchen, more at ease surrounded by the simmering pots and the cutting board, stained green with herbs. The butter and chocolate. “Chardonnay?” He opened the fridge.
“Yes, please. It smells amazing in here.” Wandering over to the stove, she peeked at the sauce, breathing in the scents. “How soon can we eat?”
Enjoying her enthusiasm, he said. “I need a few more minutes, but soon.”
Cocoa roamed the room, sniffing at drawer handles, at the edge of the counters.
“Can I help with anything?” Charley asked.
“Next time I’ll put you to work.” He poured the wine into two long-stemmed glasses and handed her one. Raising his glass to hers, he said, “To dinner, and to your gallery opening.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She clinked her glass to his.
“Are you excited?”
A smile broke across her face, bright and disarming. “Ask a silly question.”
The lid on the pot clattered, the water reaching a rolling boil. He should put the pasta in. But it could wait, just one more minute. “So, you’re in Oakcrest for the summer. Where’s home?”
“Here.” It came from the heart, no hesitation. “But my apartment is in Toronto.”
Within driving distance, at least. “Which you’ll be going back to, after the exhibit’s over?” Casual curiosity? Probably better, if it was.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Because he saw her gaze slide to the bowl of chopped bittersweet chocolate, he moved it further down the counter, out of reach. “Appetizer’s on the table.” Wafer thin olive crisps he’d made last night. “Hands off my chocolate.”
Her laughter cruised along his skin. “How do you not eat half your profit?”
He looked at her seriously. “Self-control.”
“Not my strong point. At least, not when it comes to chocolate,” she confessed.
“In my books, that’s a good thing.”
“Says the owner of Chocoholic’s.” She took a seat at the table and chose a crisp from the bowl. Nibbling at it, she asked, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Linguini with prawns, cherry tomatoes and rocket. For dessert, individual chocolate cakes, warm from the oven.” He turned back to the stove.
“Ask me again to marry you.”
He shot a grin over his shoulder and shrugged. “You get turned down once.”
She laughed. Then her eyes moved past him and widened. “Cocoa, no. Down!”
On a surge of panic, he spun to see Cocoa, paws on the counter, stretching toward the baguette he’d just sliced. He lunged for it, but the dog snatched the end piece off the wooden cutting board. And ate it. All four feet back on the floor, she sat on her rump and flashed him the doggy equivalent of a grin. There were breadcrumbs on her nose. Aghast, he stared at the dog. “Does she do that often?”
“I’d like to say no, but I’d be lying.” Charley looked sheepish. “Sorry, I should have warned you. You might want to move the bread away from the edge of the counter.”
Bread in safety, he turned to Cocoa. “In my kitchen, there are rules.” She panted at him. “You want to stay” — he pointed a finger at her — “you’ve got to play by them.” She licked his hand, and he sighed. “She keeps you on your toes, doesn’t she?”
“She has a big personality.” Charley clicked her pen and made a note.
His brows rose. “What did you just write?” He heard the tension in his own voice.
She glanced up at him. “It’s not about you. It’s a reminder for myself. I have a long To-Do list tomorrow. We can start the interview now, if you want.”
“Yeah,” he muttered as he moved to the stove. “That’s all I want.” He set a small pot on low heat.
“Hey.” She aimed her pen at him. “No attitude. A deal’s a deal.”
“A man can sulk, if he wants to.”
“I took the time to come up with some good questions. And I’m really busy right now, so that’s saying something.”
“All right.” Resigned, he began heating the chocolate over the water bath. “Hit me with them.”
“Hamadryads,” she said and set his nerves on edge, “takes place in a post-apocalyptic world. What statement do you think your dad was making about the present-day society at the time?”
“Beats me.” He stirred cocoa powder and brown sugar into the melted chocolate.
“Not the answer I was hoping for.” She frowned at her notes. “What about the impact on the natural world? It’s telling that the title refers to the Greek mythological beings that live in trees.”
“Does it?” Working carefully, he mixed in the eggs, one at a time.
“Yes, they’re bonded with the tree.” Frustration filled her voice now. But that couldn’t be helped. “Liselle is a strong female character,” she said, “and the narrator of the story. Was she inspired by anyone your dad knew in real life?”
He opened the oven door, slid the ramekins on a rack, set the timer. “Haven’t got a clue.”
Charley put her pen down and crossed her arms. “You said you’d answer my questions.”
“Sure,” he replied easily. “But I can’t answer those.”
“Why not?”
“All of your questions are about the book.” He gave the pasta sauce one last stir, tasted it. Fresh and fragrant, good punch of heat from the chili. Just a little lemon zest now to finish. He felt her looking at him.
“You’ve never read it.”
“Don’t like sci-fi,” he replied. Transferring the pasta to a large serving bowl, he carried it to the table, Cocoa close on his heels. She danced around his feet, nose in the air, as he set the bowl down.
“But your dad wrote the book.”
“Couldn’t get into it.” He hadn’t even cracked the spine. “Pass me your plate?”
“But —” He could all but hear her grinding her teeth.
He served up the pasta. When he sat down, Cocoa rested her chin on his knee. He looked down at her. “Sorry, I don’t have a plate for you.”
As if she’d understood him, Cocoa heaved a sigh, turned twice, and curled up on the floor beside Charley’s chair.
“You’ve read the book,” he said, casually as he could, hating himself for asking. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it. It’s passionate, brilliant and —” She searched for the right word. “— riveting.”
“All that?” Matt picked up his fork. Relief, envy, and something else tore at him.
She twirled strands of linguini in a practiced move. “And more. You should read it.”
Not in this lifetime.
But, before he could come up with a reply, she said, “This” — she gestured at the pasta with her fork — “is my new favourite meal.”
He grinned. “If you want, I’ll give you the recipe.”
“Then I’d know all your secrets.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass and he wondered if that would be so bad.
“In that case, I’ll have to keep some to myself. Otherwise, you might not come back.”
“Speaking of recipes,” she said, “when I visited Thomas the other day, I found one.” Her eyes met his. “For nougat-filled Belgian chocolates.”
That made sense. “Everyone in the class got a copy.”
“But he kept his hidden in a sketchbook. And it was annotated.”
The way she said it caught his attention. “You make it sound like the recipe was blood-stained.”
“Maybe, in a way, it was.” And, leaning forward, she explained her theory. About the padlocked shed, the sketches, and the house.
“You think Thomas killed Andrew?” He hadn’t even considered the idea.
“It’s a possibility.”
They were valid points. But there might be a simpler explanation, too.
“You might be right,” he said, knowing he was about to be the bearer of bad news. “But Thomas hoped the class would give him an activity to do with his granddaughter. After trying it himself, he decided the techniques would be too complicated for her. He asked me how he could simplify the recipe.”
Looking disappointed, she leaned back in her chair. “That explains the annotations then.”
“What about Kayla?” Sometimes, I wish he was dead. The cold fury in Kayla’s eyes had been ruthless as the edge of a chef’s knife.
“She didn’t do it.” No second’s pause to debate or mull over the clues.
Still, he asked, “You’re sure about that?”
“Completely. We were —” She paused, rephrased. “— we are kindred spirits.”
The ties of friendship, strong and true? That single missed beat, the shift from past to present tense, told a different story. “Meaning?”
“From the first moment you meet a kindred spirit, you know that they understand everything about you, and you understand them. That they’ll have your back no matter what, for as long as the sun and moon endure,” she said it solemnly, as though reciting an oath of loyalty.
And maybe that’s exactly what it was. “She’s lucky to have you.”
She grinned. “I know.” Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “You briefly distracted me with the linguini and the questions, but I haven’t forgotten about the interview.”
“I had to try.” He smiled, but his heart thudded.
“What was your dad like?”
Mouth suddenly dry, he reached for his wine. “Stubborn. Distant. Busy.”
“So only good things,” she said wryly. “You’re not giving me much to work with here. If I return empty-handed, Meghan will come after you again.”
“And that’s a terrifying thought.” It actually was. “I wanted to show you the first edition, but I can’t find it right now.” She was right. Best get it over with. Still, he hesitated. “When it came to writing,” he said finally, “Nick Thorn was driven, prioritizing it over everything else. He escaped into it.”
“And left you behind?”
Taken aback, he admitted, “It felt like it at the time.” Unsettled, he forced himself to take another bite, to finish the plate of pasta. “He taught carpentry and renovation techniques at the college. Published a couple of articles on environmental factors. I can send you the links. You might be able to connect his theories to the book.”
“That’s a good idea. It’s more of a review than a story, but I can sell it to Meghan. Did he write any other novels?”
“Nothing published. Whatever else he wrote, he kept to himself.” Wasting all that time, with nothing to show for it in the end.
By now, the scent of chocolate had intensified, become richer. Matt started to relax. No need to look at the timer to know the cakes were done. “Ready to be impressed?”
“I’m prepared to be amazed.”
No pressure.
He took the cakes out of the oven. Firm at the sides, and molten in the centre, exactly the way they should be.
He let them cool in the ramekins for a minute, then carefully unmolded each one onto a plate. Added a few fresh raspberries and a drizzle of crème anglaise as the finishing touches.
Charley tasted the cake and closed her eyes on a hum of bliss. “Amazed doesn’t even come close. Also, I’m very, very happy.”
Grinning, he picked up his own spoon. “Studies have shown that chocolate has a similar effect on the chemistry of the brain to what we experience when falling in love.”
“I do” — she smiled impishly — “love chocolate.”
On impulse, he reached across the table, tangled his fingers with hers. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, lingering over the faint smudge of teal paint. “I’m glad you came for dinner.”
When they’d washed the dishes and Matt ran out of reasons to convince her to stay longer, he walked her to the entrance. Holding the door open, rain still heavy on the air, he handed her the Tupperware container. “Leftovers. For you,” he added, with a wry glance at Cocoa.
“I like you more and more.” Charley placed a hand on his shoulder and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek.
But he turned his head just in time, brushed his lips over hers. Felt her breath catch on his.
“Oops,” he murmured. Not completely innocent.
But before he could step back, she caught him by the shirt. “Want to try that again?”
The question jolted his system, like a thousand volts of electricity. Then he backed her against the door.
Mouth moving over hers, the hunger within him edged toward greed. The kiss was like tasting chocolate for the first time. Intoxicating, bittersweet, and addictive.