Miracle On 5th Avenue (From Manhattan with Love 3)

“Some of it. Some of it I’ve been collecting for a while.”

“Do you actually drink any it?”

“Of course, although some bottles are valuable. I’m saving them for a special occasion.”

“If I had good wine, I’d drink it. But then I guess you’d say I’m more of a ‘live for the moment’ kind of girl.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and he tried not to think about which moment he’d like to live in with her right now.

“The soufflé you made last night was good.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She picked up her pen and scribbled on the pages in front of her. “I’m trying to decide what to make tonight. Any requests?”

“You choose. Which cookbooks do you use? Or do you rely on the internet?”

“Neither. I use my grandmother’s recipes, or I make them up.” She must have seen something in his face because she smiled. “Relax. I’m not making anything for you I haven’t made a hundred times already. You’re not a guinea pig and I’m not going to poison you. Have you ever written that in one of your books? A killer who poisoned his victims?”

He wondered why she thought the killer had to be a man.

“No, but it’s something I’m considering.”

“How do you decide on the crime?”

“It comes from the personality and motivation of the killer. Jack the Ripper was good with knives, which was what led people to speculate that he might have been a surgeon.”

She returned to her cooking. “No wonder you have trouble sleeping at night. You spend your entire working day thinking about horrible things.”

“I find them more interesting than horrible.” He watched, transfixed, as she sliced some garlic, drizzled oil and added a pinch of salt. She was astonishingly skilled with a blade. “Who taught you to use a knife?”

“Not Jack the Ripper.” She threw him an amused look. “My grandmother, and then I worked in a few kitchens straight out of college. It’s a skill you develop pretty fast unless you want to lose a finger.” She scattered the ingredients over a baking tray and slid it into the oven alongside the other tray. Strands of hair wafted down over her face and she pursed her lips into a round O and blew them away gently as if she was blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

“What are you making?”

“I’m roasting tomatoes and peppers, which I’ll then turn into soup. When you’re busy, you can take a portion out of the freezer, add a chunk of crusty bread and have something nutritious in less time than it takes you to open a whiskey bottle.” She gave him a pointed look that he chose to ignore.

He decided that the creative process behind cooking was not so different from his writing. She started with an idea, added a bit of this and that, adjusted it according to instinct and then served up something intended ultimately to please.

“Now, for breakfast would you like my special eggs Benedict or buttermilk pancakes?”

He was about to tell her once again that he didn’t eat breakfast but the sound of pancakes was too good to turn down. They took him right back to his childhood and family holidays spent in Vermont.

“Do the pancakes come with a side of bacon?”

“They could, if that’s what you’d like.”

“It is.” It was the first time anyone had used the kitchen, and she’d used every available inch. The counters were piled high with glossy fruits and vegetables. It looked haphazard, but he had a feeling it wasn’t. “Do you always sing when you cook?”

“Singing is good for the mood. So is walking, but it doesn’t look as if the weather is going to let me do that anytime soon.” She put bacon in the frying pan and made pancake batter without weighing anything or consulting a recipe. “I might go for a stroll later if it eases.”

The relaxed atmosphere vanished. “You’re not leaving the apartment in this storm. They’ve canceled bus services, announced a ban on driving and shut down the subways. The bridges and tunnels are shut and there are no flights leaving from any airport.”

“I don’t want to fly, drive or use the bus. Just walk.”

“Have you even looked through the window today?” He stood up, found the remote control and flicked on the TV that was concealed in the living room.

The news channels were dominated by the blizzard as the news anchor warned everyone, in serious tones, to stay indoors. “The storm has flooded low-lying beaches, brought down trees and power lines leaving thousands without electricity…”

“Oh, those poor people.” There was distress in her voice and Lucas flicked off the TV.

“Are you convinced?”