Page 22 of A Dark and Stormy Night

Gwen put the lid on the large, simmering pot. "Thank you! I confess, I did it all. It was a labor of love."

Cecily turned to face the living room. "That chandelier! I can't find the words!"

"I designed the whole house around that chandelier." Cousin Gwen came to stand at the railing beside Cecily, and she had this smug cast to her mouth. "Gesvold created it."

Cecily got the feeling only an idiot wouldn't know who this guy was, so she nodded as if she was impressed.

"I was lucky. He has a studio in Virtue Falls, I liked his work, so I commissioned him to create a dramatic lighting event. He was an unknown then, right on the cusp of fame. He fashioned the glass to look like dozens of balloons blown up and released at the same time."

Or sperm swimming upstream."So that was on purpose?"

"We both agreed it added an element of playfulness to the dramatic scenery. Then to create the space where the chandelier could float, we had the contractor level the walls between the two small ground-floor living areas and raise the ceiling. Our bedroom is above." Gwen pointed. "The kitchen, the pantry and the half bath are on this level, and down the hallway is—" She stopped suddenly.

"The guest bedroom?" It wasn't so much a question as an accusation.

Firmly Gwen said, "A very small guestroom with a tiny attached bath over the garage." At once she went on to say, "Of course Gesvold created the matching sconces on the wall." That smug smile was back. "Our house was featured in Sunset magazine, and within a year Gesvold was famous. I keep a copy of that Sunset if you'd like to look at it." Cousin Gwen pulled it out of a drawer and shoved it into Cecily's hand. "Page eighteen."

Cecily leafed through and cooed at the glossy photos of their deck and the kitchen and their chandelier and their stupid handrail and them—looking smug, both of them—in every shot. "I'm not familiar with this magazine. Is that for, like, AARP members?"

Cousin Gwen didn't even act insulted. "Sunset is the premier magazine for the western states." She checked her big pot, then hurried out to the grill, then came back in and checked a little pan.

Cecily handed the magazine to Landon. "Here, honey, you should look at this. It certainly makes our place look humble." When she thought of the leftover furniture and cramped quarters of that daughter-in-law suite in Minnesota, she got a bad taste in her mouth. "I had better sit down and eat soon. My joints are so painful, I'm feeling faint."

Mario held out a chair at the shiny black stone table. "Right here, Cecily. Landon, you sit there." He opened their matte black Sub-Zero side-by-side refrigerator—Cecily bet it cost five thousand dollars—and pulled out a bowl of . . .

"What is that?" She pointed to the mound of some kind of beans.

"Spicy roasted chickpeas. Wait until you try them. Gwen makes them herself." He shot a proud smile at his wife and brought out another plate. "We also have roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, tomato and avocado wheat toasts, and mushrooms and olives marinated in virgin olive oil and herbs."

Cecily wanted to burst into a rant about people who were too cheap to serve meat, when Gwen said, "Mario makes the olives and mushrooms. It's a recipe from his family in Italy." Cecily must not have hidden her feelings deep enough, for Gwen said, "I hope you're not allergic to mushrooms."

"As a matter of fact, I am. I'm so sorry." Cecily smiled at him. "I would love to indulge in Mario's specialty."

"No problem," he said. "I'm always aware of the possibility of allergies, so I made another bowl of olives that have never even seen a mushroom." And he handed her her own bowl of olives.

Now she would have to eat one of the revolting little black and green grease balls.

He watched proudly as she put one in her mouth and rolled it around. Oh, God. They weren't even pitted. She spit it daintily into her palm. "That is so good!"

Landon, that idiot, was tossing back chickpeas without a thought of what it would do to his digestion later. So much for his plans for a cozy fire.

Before anyone urged her to indulge in any more of this heathen food, Cecily hurriedly said, "Sadly, I'm also allergic to peppers. My digestion is so delicate!"

The house phone rang, a two-tone warble, and Mario groaned. "It's my office."

Gwen touched his arm. "I'll take care of it. You stay and entertain your cousins."

Cecily watched her grab the cordless and walk down the hall, talking with a brisk efficiency quite unlike her usual lighter, nervous tone.

"Should you let her talk to the customers?" Score one for Cecily!

Yet Mario frowned. "Gwen was the firm's original bookkeeper, receptionist and dispatcher. She's still the bookkeeper and our backup dispatcher. We go to the office together almost every day."

"But she can work from home?" Cecily asked.

"Yes, but only reluctantly. She is essential to keep our office running efficiently." He was obviously proud of his wife.

But he was a man. He must want more than that skinny piece.

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