Page 16 of Frosted and Sliced

“Why don’t you still do it?” she asked.

He paused again. “That aptitude I mentioned, it became more necessary to do that than the other stuff. Plenty of spooks, not as many people who can do the things I’ve done. And before you ask, that’s all I can say about it.” He stared at the exposed wires inside the waffle iron and began touching and tweaking them. She thought that was the end of the conversation and returned to her book. Burke wasn’t exactly chatty, after all, but apparently this morning was different.

“What’s the book about?”

She set the book down again. “It’s a love story.”

He scoffed.

“Wait, the surly hobo doesn’t believe in romance? Shocker,” she said.

“Not that kind, the fake and frilly sort,” he said.

“Okay, you tell me. What is your favorite love story?”

Another pause and then, “Onodera Junai and his wife.”

“I’m not familiar,” Georgie said.

“Have you heard of the 47 Ronin?”

“Unless it was a type of croissant, they didn’t cover it in culinary school,” Georgie said.

“The 47 Ronin were samurai who took part in a murder. They killed in revenge for the death of their leader. They were so popular and beloved that instead of being killed they were given the choice to commit seppuku, to fall on their own swords with honor. Onodera Junai was one of the samurai. After his death, his wife committed seppuku so she wouldn’t have to live without him.”

Georgette blinked at him. “That’s it? That’s your favorite love story? A murder suicide?”

“People have been reading Romeo and Juliet for centuries, and that’s just two stupid teenagers. Mine has honor.”

“But it’ssad,” she lamented.

“Sometimes love is sad. Life doesn’t always end happily.”

Georgie watched him with a frown as he worked in silence. Whatever he did only took a few minutes. Soon he had the iron reassembled. He plugged it in, opened it, and touched the plates. “Fixed.”

“Thank you,” Georgette said. She hopped off her stool. Burke headed toward the stairs. “Wait, aren’t you going to stay and have waffles with me?”

He paused and swiveled to face her. “Would you believe me if I said I’ve never eaten a waffle before?”

“Yes, because anyone who enjoys stories where the hero dies on a sword has clearly never enjoyed waffles. Sit.” She pointed to the counter. Burke dutifully sat and watched while she made a waffle, as if fascinated by the process.

“How come you load it with so much stuff?”

“By ‘stuff’ do you mean butter, fresh blueberry syrup, whipped cream, and powdered sugar?” she clarified.

He nodded.

“You worry me, Burke, you really do. If you have to ask the question, you wouldn’t understand the answer.” She slid a waffle in front of him, along with a generous portion of bacon, and commenced making her own waffle.

“Does your brother really eat like this every week?”

“Yes, why?”

“He doesn’t seem the type to indulge,” Burke noted.

“He’s not, really. I think in his mind he does it to appease me, but really it’s for his own good. So we’ve kind of come to this point of mutual delusion. He thinks coming here is for my benefit, and I think coming here is for his benefit, but really it benefits both of us.”

“How so?” Burke asked, taking a generous bite of the waffle. Some of the whipped cream landed on his nose. On anyone else it would have been cute, but on Burke it merely looked out of place and vaguely menacing somehow, so Georgette reached across the counter and swiped it with a napkin.

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