Kristine Rolofson - The Husband Project

He smelled tomato sauce. Oregano. Coffee.

He inched down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen where Lucia Swallow stood in front of a microwave oven. Inside the oven a dinner plate rotated and sizzled, its wax paper tent flapping.

“I built a fire,” she said without turning around. She opened the microwave door and poked at the wax paper topping the food, then closed the door and turned the microwave back on. “It might take a while for the house to warm up, but the woodstove’s big and it should be fine for the night if you turn it down before you go to bed.”

“You carried wood?”

She turned and smiled at him. “How else would I fix the fire?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“My kids knocked you down.” Her smile had disappeared.

“Your kids didn’t break my ribs.”

“So who did?”

“It was an accident.” She stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He felt about ten years old. “At work. I was hit by an Arapaima.”

“A what?”

“A fish.”

She frowned. “A fish broke your ribs?”

“A very large fish. And it cracked my ribs, not broke them. Three of them. Hurts like he—heck.”

“I’m sure it does.” A little furrow sprang between those delicate wing-shaped eyebrows.

“I’m actually doing fine. Healing according to schedule.”

“Even after falling in the snow?”

“Yeah. Even after that.” He didn’t feel any worse now than he had a couple of hours ago. In fact, after the hot shower and donning warm clothes, he felt better than he had in days. “The pain pill has kicked in.”

The microwave stopped groaning and pinged. Yes, he definitely smelled oregano and garlic.

“I assume you’re hungry?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sit.”

He sat. She placed silverware and a napkin in front of him, then uncovered a plate piled high with lasagna and meatballs.

“You’re kidding me.”

“What? You don’t like Italian food?”

“It’s not that. It’s...the best thing I’ve seen in weeks.” Since a plate of pasticho in Brazil, but he’d been in too much pain to really enjoy that meal.

“I made coffee.”

“How did you do all this so fast?”

“I’m a mother. I’m efficient. I had Kim—the babysitter—bring over a plate of leftovers.” She shot him a quick smile. “And you take very, very long showers.”

He picked up his fork and tasted heaven, Italian style. Meanwhile Lucia Swallow shrugged on her jacket, which she’d hung by the back door, wound a striped scarf around her neck, tugged on her thick suede boots and pointed to a piece of paper stuck by a flower-shaped magnet to the refrigerator. “Jerry left you a list of contacts, including someone who’ll deliver firewood.”

He nodded, his mouth full of pasta.

“You’re welcome to our wood until you get your own. I’ll have the boys stack some by the back door for the morning.”

He swallowed and attempted to thank her, but before he could get the words out, she was gone.

Thank goodness.

* * *

“WAIT A MINUTE, say that once more?”

“He told me I smelled like alcohol and my kids were hellions.” Lucia laughed again just thinking about it. Curled up on her couch with three children, a dog and four bowls of popcorn, she was ready to talk over the afternoon with Meg. Her best friend had had little free time for phone calls lately, so this was a luxury.

“And you said?”

“Well, I told him I’d been to a bridal shower.”

“Seriously, Lucia, you are too nice.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, and since Lucia had heard that description of herself before, she didn’t take it as one.

“I know. I should have lost my temper and hit him with a piece of red fir. I was rude to him, though.”

“Lucia, sweetie, you couldn’t be rude if you tried.”

“Wait until you meet him. He’s hurt, so I get the ‘injured male’ frustration, but he won’t exactly fit in around here. I mean, he’s got major attitude happening.” She moved a popcorn bowl away from Boo’s sneaky nose.

“What does he look like? How old is he? Did he really look sick?”

“He’s handsome, late thirties, early forties, maybe. And he really did look as if he was in pain. I felt bad about that. You should have seen him, a body in the snow, with the kids jumping around and Kim taking pictures with her phone.” Now Lucia’s boys were entranced with a movie about a reindeer, one of their very favorites. The kids seemed like little angels, but she knew better.

“Handsome,” Meg repeated. “I knew I should have come home with you.”

“My life needs some excitement. I wonder how he got here?”

“Have Mike interview him for the new arrivals section.”

“There is no new arrivals section,” Lucia pointed out.

“He could make one up, just so we’d know who this guy is. Remember a couple of years ago? The man with the snowmobile?”

“The one who was hiding from the mob?”

“He had no credit history. And he wasn’t very friendly.”

Lucia lowered her voice. “I don’t want some mobster hiding out next door, but this guy doesn’t even seem like he knows what he’s doing here.”

“Jerry will know. He gets back tomorrow. I’m going to email him now. Have you done a Google search on the guy?”

“I will later. I’m going to frost another batch of cookies as soon as I hang up.”

“Can I come over?”

“Of course—if you want to watch Rudolph again.”

“Maybe not.” She paused. “I loved my party.”

“I know.”

“I loved all my gifts, even the frog sponge holder. Especially the frog sponge holder. I don’t know how you find things like that.”

Lucia climbed off the couch and retrieved the empty popcorn bowls. “It takes talent to be tacky.”

“It’s a real gift,” Meg agreed. “You’re a thrift shop queen.”

“No, I’m a boozed-up bad mother with a vicious dog.”

Meg’s howl of laughter rang through the phone loud and clear. “If he only knew.”

“I do feel bad about the kids knocking him down.”

“They’re too little to knock anyone down. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, the snow was slippery. Davey said the man lost his balance, and Boo didn’t help.”

“Stay away from him,” Meg said. “At least until Owen gets back and can check him out.”

“I left a message with Jerry,” Lucia admitted. “I asked if he’d done a background check on the guy.”

“I’m going to do a Google search on him. If I find anything I’ll call you back.”

“You’re not coming over?” Lucia tried not to sound disappointed, but winter nights were long and she’d looked forward to the company.

“There’s another foot of snow on the ground,” Meg said. “I think I’ll stay home, look at bridal magazines and admire my gifts.”

“Pick out a cake,” Lucia said. “I need design ideas.”

The next time the phone rang, Lucia was washing cupcake pans. She dried her hands and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mama.”

“Who is this man in the snow?” Marie didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What man?” When in trouble, feign innocence. Her kids had taught her that.

“On Facebook. I’m friends with Kim.”

“You’ve friended everyone in town.”

“It’s nice. All my friends in Rhode Island do it. It’s how we keep in touch.”

“The man in the snow is renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” Lucia explained.

“She was a nice woman,” Mama went on. “But no family. I always thought that was strange—not that I would say anything. But she was good to the boys, letting them come over and eat candy—not that I approve of too much candy. But it was good of her to be kind to them.”