Page 37 of Hunter

She could see he was trying to eat neatly. When she saw a bit of juice clinging to the side of his mouth, she picked up her napkin and wiped her own mouth. He did the same.

“Will you tell me about your family?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, glad of the distraction. “I have a younger sister. My mom still works part-time as a nurse. My dad retired after forty years as an auto worker. We lived in a suburb of Detroit, so I had a typical Middle American upbringing. We didn’t have a lot of money. But we weren’t poor, either. And my parents gave us a lot of time and attention. Mom taught us stuff like cooking and sewing. And Dad taught us swimming and bike riding.”

“Tell me the best parts,” he whispered.

Her vision turning inward, she tried to capture the flavor of her childhood. She told him about dressing as a princess for Halloween, camping with her family in Canada, winning ribbons in swim meets, and curling up in bed with a purring kitten snuggled beside her.

He sighed. “It sounds likeFather Knows Best.”

“That’s one of the shows you’ve watched?”

“Yes. I like it. The people are happy. And the parents help the children solve their problems,” he said softly.

“Well, nobody’s life is quite that idyllic. But I guess I was pretty lucky.”

“Do you have a mate?” he asked suddenly.

She swallowed. “No, I’m not married.”

“Why not?” he probed, leaning forward across the table.

She thought about it for a minute, trying to give him an honest answer. “My parents had a great marriage, so I have high standards. I’ve dated my share of men. But I haven’t met anyone who would complete my life the way Mom and Dad did for each other.”

He nodded solemnly.

“Maybe I’m asking for too much.”

“No. You should have a man who cherishes you, a man who knows how lucky he is to have you for his life companion,” he said, his voice deep and rough.

“Maybe someday.” With a jerky motion, she picked up her plate and carried it back to the kitchen. After several moments, he came after her and set his plate on the counter next to hers.

Then it was time for apple pie à la mode. The look on his face when he took a bite of the warm pie with the ice cream melting onto the top was angelic. And his sigh of pleasure was almost gale force. “It is fantastic. Better than plain cherry pie.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It is warm and cool in my mouth at the same time,” he enumerated. “And crunchy and gooey and creamy and sweet.”

She could only nod, thinking how easy it was to give him a great deal of pleasure.

“Thank you.” He concentrated on the pie for several more bites, then looked up. “You have taught me many things today. Can you teach me how to talk like everyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“My speech is . . . wrong,”

“Not wrong. Sometimes a little stiff.”

“I know that. I hear it, but I do not know how to correct it.”

“It would help if you used contractions.”

“What are they?”

“You say ‘I do not’.” Most people would say ‘I don’t’.”

“Tell me more of them so I can hear the difference.”

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