Snowbound

home.”

“So I see.” His face relaxed.

“Good cookies,” the guest remarked.

“Glad you think so.”

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

John stole one longing look from Fiona to the bedroom

door. Then, with resignation, he said, “Spaghetti.”

Fiona hid her smile. She had probably sampled his

entire repertoire. Let’s see. Spaghetti today means stir-

fry tomorrow. Or was she misjudging him?

The reader nodded with apparent satisfaction and

went back to his book, oblivious to John’s frustration.

“I suppose I should get dinner started,” he said finally.

Fiona swallowed the last of her tea. “I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to. If you’d rather read, go for a

walk, take a bath…”

She almost wavered at mention of the bath. He had

one of those sinfully deep claw-foot tubs in his bathroom, too. But there would be time. Right now, she wanted to be with him.

“Never turn down help,” she told him cheerfully.

A flash of humor had that amazingly softening effect

on his face. “Even when they break dishes?”

“Not even then.” She stood. “Shall I chop?”

It felt like old times, except that it was other kids—

not hers—who wandered in to see what was cooking

and whether they could snitch an illicit, before-dinner

goody. Fiona immediately recognized the thirteen-yearold girl from his description. Hair veiled much of her face, her lower lip pouted, and her eyes rolled at everything the boy with her said. The parents were apparently out cross-country skiing, likely enjoying the break from

their delightful offspring.

When dinner was ready, guests filled the long table.

John and Fiona ate quickly at the counter, keeping an

eye on the diners so they could respond to requests. The

youngest boy spilled his milk. Fiona smiled at him, told

him not to worry, and mopped it up. The teenage girl

dipped her hair in her spaghetti and snapped at her

father when he mildly suggested she put it in a ponytail.

The gentleman who’d read all afternoon in the kitchen

remained solitary, as did the middle-aged woman from

the living room. Otherwise, conversations crisscrossed,

quieter ones between couples and family members,

more general observations and questions a little louder.

“Sky felt like snow this afternoon.”

John nodded. “We might get some. Just an inch or

two, if the forecast is to be believed.”

“Would you pass the garlic bread?”

“What wonderful spaghetti!”

“Can you recommend another trail for tomorrow?

We’d love to get up higher.”

John was hardly effusive, but he answered questions

and remained patient, just as he had with Fiona’s students.

He cut pie and she served as he set pieces on small

plates.

No, he was sorry, no television, he told the sulky girl.

“Not even in there?” She jerked her head toward his

room.

“Gretchen!”

In fact, Fiona knew that he had a television and DVD

player, although she doubted he bothered often with

movies. She waited with interest to hear what he’d say.

John met the teen’s challenging gaze. “Those are

my private quarters.” With no more comment, he moved

away to get coffee for someone.

The girl said loudly, “This sucks! A hotel with no TV.”

Her brother braved her scathing glance to say, “I

thought it was fun to play games.”

“Why don’t you come out with us tomorrow?” her

dad asked. “It was beautiful along the creek.”

“And cold. ”

He sighed and shook his head. Fiona hoped Gretchen

wasn’t enrolling in Willamette Prep.

Gradually the guests wandered out after compliments on dinner, and she and John worked in tandem cleaning up. In one way, it was so comfortable; they’d

done it before, and she seemed to fall into the rhythm

as if she’d spent weeks or even months here before,

rather than mere days. But in another way…well, she

kept thinking about when they could close up the

kitchen and retreat to his apartment. When they’d finally

be alone together.

The reader closed his book at last, stood, stretched,