Judith Bowen - Lydia Lane

“You can call her Lydia, honey. Uh, Lydia—” His warm dark eyes swept over her again. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Fruit juice? Water?”

Lydia hesitated a split second. “A glass of wine would be very nice.” She moved closer to the girl. “What are you making, Amber?”

“Some salad.” The girl stirred whatever she had in the bowl. Stirred salad? “It’s our special salad, me ’n’ my dad’s. We make it all the time. Even for picnics in the summer and at the lake when we go fishing.”

“I see.” Lydia stepped a little closer and saw that the girl was stirring shredded green cabbage, flecked with a few grated carrots and a bit of red cabbage. She noticed the empty cellophane bag marked “coleslaw” on the counter beside the bowl. “That looks yummy.”

“It is,” the girl said with a shy smile, giving the cabbage an extra stir. “Very yummy.”

“Tonight’s our big night to cook, right, honey?” her father said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of wine. “Riesling do, Lydia?”

“Just fine.” Her curiosity was aroused. “What else is on the menu, Amber? I’m presuming you’re the cook here and your dad’s just the helper.”

The girl giggled. “Yes. Dad!” she said importantly, addressing him. “I need the bottle out of the fridge, the stuff for the salad.”

“Ta-da!” He plunked a bottle of creamy coleslaw dressing on the counter and Lydia watched the girl glug at least half the bottle into the grated cabbage and start stirring vigorously again. “We’re having chicken and salad and little buns out of the fridge.”

Little buns out of the fridge? Sam poured wine into two glasses.

“Have you got a vase?” Lydia could see that no one was going to do anything about the flowers. She had the feeling it wasn’t because they weren’t appreciated, just that no one realized they’d die if they weren’t put into water immediately.

Sam reached into a cupboard over the refrigerator and brought down a dusty cut-glass vase. “Never been used,” he said with a smile, giving it a quick wipe with a paper towel. “I think it was a wedding present. I have no idea why Candace didn’t take it with her. It’s not my kind of thing.”

Lydia knew he was joking but his casual mention of his ex unnerved her. “Knife?”

“In the drawer.” Sam regarded her curiously.

Lydia pulled a carving knife out of the drawer he indicated and sawed off the bottom inch of the stems. The knife was dull. She ran warm water into the vase and thrust the flowers in, arranging them very hastily. It didn’t matter; they looked lovely. Shaggy and wild. She moved one cluster of chrysanthemums to a different part of the arrangement, then set the vase on the counter near Amber. “There!”

Sam silently handed her a glass of white wine.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No, thank you.” He picked up a glass himself and gazed admiringly at the flowers for a few seconds. Then, with a smile, he gestured toward the family room, which opened off the kitchen. The fireplace, with a fire blazing in it, was the source of the smoke she’d sniffed earlier. Sooty chimneys. She glanced around the room quickly. A very dead Christmas tree sagged in one corner. Other than that, it was a pleasant, comfortable room, but sadly in need of care. Dust on most of the horizontal surfaces, fingermarks on the woodwork, and the mirror over the mantel didn’t look as if it had been cleaned in a while.

Sam raised his glass and smiled. “To old friends.”

“To old friends,” she repeated, although it wasn’t at all true, and took a sip of the reisling, which was crisp and cold. They’d never been friends. She didn’t think she’d even spoken to him until now.

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” he asked. “You being Steve Lane’s kid sister?”

“Mmm.” Lydia perched on the edge of the loveseat that fronted the bay window. “Isn’t it? Steve and I aren’t that close anymore. He lives in Winnipeg, has a family.”

“I know. You’re what, three or four years younger than him?”

“Five.”

“Then Candace having you on her show like that.” He shook his head and smiled. He still had a killer smile…. “How are your parents, by the way?”

“Mom’s fine. She has a new boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” He looked rather shocked. “What about your dad?”

“Oh!” She realized he thought her mother was having an affair. “He lives in New York State. Albany. They’ve been divorced for ten years. Right after I graduated from high school, actually. I thought Steve might have mentioned it.”

“No.” Sam shook his head and studied her over the rim of his wineglass. Lydia wished he wouldn’t stare. She didn’t really want this visit to become personal in any way. Maybe she could hurry things up in the kitchen. “Do you want to talk business? Or is there anything I can do to help with the meal?”

Sam laughed. It was a very familiar sound, one that sent little skips of sensation down her spine. “Hell, no. It’s our usual Friday night supper, when we don’t eat out, that is. Cabbage salad, those pre-made biscuits in the refrigerator roll. Amber loves them—”

The buns out of the fridge.

“—and some chicken from a churrasqueira on Bloor Street. That’s my part.” He checked his watch. “I’m expecting the delivery kid any minute.”

“I thought you said this was your big night to cook,” she reminded him, taking another sip of wine. She sat back, feeling slightly more comfortable. What had she been so worried about? Sure, he was sexy and handsome as ever, but now that the initial shock had worn off, she knew she was fine. She’d met handsome, sexy guys before. Even the circus guy was handsome and sexy, although he sported a few too many tattoos for her taste.

“Hey, we are cooking—biscuits and salad.” He set his glass on a table beside him, the surface of which was littered with magazines and newspapers. “What can I say? At least it’s not pizza.” He made a face and she smiled. “Candace was pretty impressed with you the other day. She thinks you could probably do a lot for me.”

“And you don’t?”

He picked up his glass. “Damned if I know. I’ve had five housekeepers this year. Or six, I can’t remember. I’m game to try anything.”

“I’m not a housekeeper,” she warned.

“No.” He watched her carefully for a moment, then took a sip of his wine. “I understand that. But I’m not sure exactly what you do.”

“I teach people how to look after themselves in their own homes. That might sound strange, but a lot of people just don’t know how to do it anymore. They lurch from one crisis to the next, whether it’s no bread or milk in the house at breakfast time or no clean laundry when they need it. They’ve never learned the organizational skills to create the kind of quiet, efficient surroundings they want to live in and to maintain those surroundings with the least possible effort. They haven’t learned how to balance their busy lives with the requirements of a smoothly running household. And that’s what I teach them.”

“Wow.” He actually looked impressed, which Lydia found encouraging. It was her standard pitch. “The kind of things moms do,” he murmured.

“Some moms.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Maybe your mom. And mine, when Steve and I were little. In the past, yes, these were the skills passed down from mother to daughter. Life has changed.”

“Sure has.”

She crossed her legs. “People are different, too. It’s not one size fits all. Everyone wants a different kind of home. I try to design systems to suit my individual clients.”

“Sounds interesting. We’re not too formal here, as you’ve noticed.”