Page 64 of Keeping Secrets

And yet… she felt so happy when she was near him. Her anxieties settled. And when he smiled, really smiled, she thought that there was no face in the whole world more beautiful.

Not even the catalog model of a man who stood in front of her, who winked as he walked backward out the swinging door of the kitchen.

In spite of herself, Keely giggled. She felt her cheeks color.

And then she got to work.

Wish me luck, she sent Travis along with a photo of her second round of appetizers. She had made pão de queijo with Parmesan cheese and tapioca flour. The spherical treats were crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside. After realizing that trying to balance the things on a serving tray would be a disaster, she found a big shallow dish and used that to carry them through.

“I didn’t say that there was no good wine in California,” Frances’s niece was saying. She gestured with her wine glass for emphasis, and her cheeks were pink. “I just said that it can’t compare to what you’ll find in Italy.”

“That’s absurd,” Guillermo shot back. He thrust a glass in Keely’s direction. “Try this and tell me it isn’t the best wine you’ve ever had.”

“Leave the poor girl be,” Sunday told him.

“I just offered her a drink is all.”

“Let her alone. She’s working.”

Keely gave Sunday a grateful smile. She set down the food she carried and retreated back to the kitchen.

Sunday’s son was there waiting for her, and she felt a small flare of annoyance.

She had work to do.

“Need a hand?” He had the self-satisfied smile of a man who knows exactly how handsome he is, someone who was used to making people swoon. She got the feeling that people didn’t turn him down very often.

“Sure, thanks.” She quickly plated the final appetizer, crackers topped with dabs of mousse that was bright green with fresh herbs. “You can take this through.”

When she had the kitchen to herself again, she breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a good kitchen. Spacious and modern, though the original flooring and an old wood-fire oven had been left in a nod to its roots. The antique oven was cold today, though, and Keely warmed the main course up on a huge and shining stove that was several times more valuable than her car.

The main course was an old-fashioned chowder made with black cod. After texting back and forth with Sunday for a couple of days about what Frances loved best, they had settled on chowder. It wasn’t quite the haute cuisine that Guillermo had anticipated, maybe, but Keely was more interested in pleasing the nonagenarian. According to Sunday, Frances often reminisced about the chowders and bisques that her grandmother would make all winter long.

She had made garlic bread too, which she put in the preheated oven just as the soup was beginning to simmer. She turned the burner off to let the soup cool a bit while the bread crisped up.

She was all nerves, but not in a bad way. The food was good. She knew it was.

Landing this job had been pure luck, and she still felt a sense of disbelief that she was being paid to cater a party, even a little one like this. Maybe she would be back in the library basement tomorrow, wrapping a new shipment of books that she hadn’t even gotten halfway through that day. But for now, she intended to enjoy the moment.

She had made a big salad to offset the richness of the chowder, and she brought that out first. It was gorgeous, with bright prisms of orange and grapefruit shining over a dark bed of green and purple lettuce. She’d included thin slices of fennel as well and dressed it at the last minute with gourmet lemon-infused olive oil and white balsamic vinegar that she’d found in Santa Cruz.

The chorus of anticipatory oohs and ahhs that rose from the table when she set the salad down made her smile. She left them to serve themselves, family style, and went to fetch the bread. After that, she brought the soup out in two trips, four bowls to a tray.

Maybe it wasn’t professional of her, but she hovered in the doorway on her way out, waiting to see Frances take her first spoonful of the rich broth.

Frances stilled, and a hush came over the table. She looked up and met Keely’s eyes across the room.

“This reminds me of my childhood. In the best way. Thank you.”

Keely dipped her head in acknowledgement and retreated to the kitchen.

Unsure of what to do with herself while everyone ate, she decided to have some food herself. Maybe that wasn’t professional either but, well, she wasn’t a professional. And she didn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t enjoy a bowl of the soup that she had made. Standing there inhaling the fragrant steam without tasting it felt like torture. And there was plenty left. She helped herself to a hearty serving and sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter.

Once she had finished her food, she peeked into the dining room and saw that they were wrapping up their dinner as well. Or they seemed to be. As soon as they saw her, they requested seconds of the chowder. She was happy to oblige, and grateful that she had erred on the side of too much rather than too little. There was plenty of soup left to go around, and everyone got a second bowl.

Then, finally, it was time for dessert.

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