Page 118 of Homeport

“Andrew and I had a scene. He left. I don’t know where he’s gone, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You have to let him find his own level, Miranda.”

“I know that too. I need to put these in water.” On impulse she picked up her grandmother’s favored rose medallion vase, and taking it to the kitchen, busied herself arranging the flowers on the kitchen table. “I’ve made some progress, I think,” she told him. “I’ve put together some lists.”

She thought about the fax, wondered if she should tell him. Later, she decided. Later when she’d thought it all through.

“Lists?”

“Organizing thoughts and facts and tasks on paper. I’ll go get the hard copies so we can go over them.”

“Fine.” He opened the refrigerator, perused the contents. “Want a sandwich?” Since she was already gone, he shrugged and began to decide what an inventive man could put together.

“Both your lunch meat and your bread are on the edge,” he told her when she came back in. “But we risk it or starve.”

“Andrew was supposed to go to the market.” She watched him slice undoubtedly soft tomatoes and frowned. He looked very much at home, she decided. Not just helping himself to the contents of the kitchen, but preparing them.

“I suppose you can cook.”

“No one got out of our house unless they could cook.” He glanced her way. “I suppose you don’t.”

“I’m a very good cook,” she said with some annoyance.

“Really? How do you look in an apron?”

“Efficient.”

“I bet you don’t. Why don’t you put one on and let me see?”

“You’re fixing lunch. I don’t need an apron. And just as a passing observation, you’re a bit locked into regular meals.”

“Food’s a passion.” He licked tomato juice, slowly, from his thumb. “I’m very locked into regular passions.”

“So it would seem.” She sat and tapped the edges of her papers together to align them. “Now—”

“Mustard or mayo?”

“It doesn’t matter. Now, what I’ve done—”

“Coffee, or something cold?”

“Whatever.” She heaved out a breath, telling herself he couldn’t possibly be interrupting her train of thought just to annoy her. “In order to—”

“Milk’s off,” he said, sniffing the carton he pulled out of the fridge.

“Dump the damn stuff down the sink then, and sit down.” Her eyes flashed as she looked up, and caught him grinning at her. “Why do you purposely aggravate me?”

“Because it puts such pretty color in your face.” He held up a can of Pepsi. “Diet?”

She had to laugh, and when she did, he sat down at the table across from her. “There, that’s better,” he decided, pushed her plate closer, then picked up his own sandwich. “I can’t concentrate on anything but you when you’re sad.”

“Oh, Ryan.” How could she possibly defend her heart against these kinds of assaults? “I’m not sad.”

“You’re the saddest woman I’ve ever known.” He kissed her fingers. “But we’re going to fix that. Now what have you got?”

She gave herself a moment to regain her balance, then picked up the first sheet. “The first is an amended draft of the list you had of personnel with access to or contact with both of the bronzes.”

“Amended.”

---