Angels Fall

and fully expected to see a vase of flowers and a couple pictures on the wall before too much longer.
    "I started your book." She lifted her gaze to his as she spoke, and his heart took one, quick lurch.
    The woman had a pair of eyes on her.
    "How's that going for you?"
    "I like it." She came around the counter to sit beside him, spread her napkin on her lap. "It's scary, and that's good. It takes my mind off my own nerves. I like Jack—he's such a screwup. Hope he doesn't end up in that grave. Plus, I think Leah can straighten him out."
    "Is that what women are supposed to do? Straighten men out?"
    "People are supposed to straighten people out, when they can, and if they care enough. She cares for him. So I hope they end up together."
    "Happily ever after?"
    "If justice doesn't triumph and love doesn't make the circle in entertainment fiction, what's the point? Real life sucks too often."
    "Happily ever after doesn't win Pulitzers."
    She pursed her lips as she studied him. "Is that what you're after?"
    "If it was, I'd still be working for the Trib . Cooking pot roast over a diner in Wyoming, or flipping buffalo burgers in that diner, isn't going to win you whatever the epicurean equivalent of the Pulitzer might be."
    "I thought I wanted that once, too. Important awards, acknowledg-nicnt. I'd rather cook pot roast." She paused a minute. "How's that going for you?"
    "I'd give you an award." He cut another piece, then followed it up with part of the biscuit he'd generously buttered. "Where'd you get the biscuits?"
    "I made them."
    "Get out." His disbelief was instant and sincere. "Like with flour?"
    "That would be one ingredient." She passed him the bowl so he could take another.
    "A lot of happy steps up from the Doughboy and Hamburger Helper that ruled in my house."
    "I should hope so. I'm a food snob." she said when he grinned at her. "Sue me. Let me guess what's in your larder. Frozen pizza, cans of soup and chili, cereal boxes, maybe some Eggos. Hot dogs, a couple of those Hungry-Man dinners. "
    "You forgot the mac and cheese."
    "Ah yes, the single man's staple. Dried elbow pasta and cheese powder. Yum."
    "Keeps body and soul together."
    "Yes, like paste."
    He speared one of the tiny roasted potatoes on his plate. '"Going to straighten me out, Slim?"
    "Well, I'll feed you now and then, which works for both of us. I can—" She broke off, dropping her fork when the quick blast sounded outside.
    "Carl's truck," Brody said calmly.
    "Carl's truck." She picked up her wine with both hands. "Gets me every time. I wish he'd get that damn thing fixed."
    "You and everyone else in the Fist. Do you ever write any of this stuff down?"
    "What stuff'"
    "Recipes."
    "Oh." She ordered herself to pick up her fork, to eat despite the tact that a fist was still kneading her stomach like a ball of dough. "'Sure. I was organized and a little anal even before I went crazy. I've got recipes filed on my laptop with two thumb drive backups. Why? Are you planning on trying your hand at buttermilk biscuits?"
    "No. I just wondered why you haven't done a cookbook."
    "I used to think I might, eventually, when I got a prime slot on the Food Channel," she added with a quick smile. "Something hip and fun and skewed toward the young, urban dinner party and Sunday brunch crowd."
    "Eventually's a myth. You want to do something, you do it."
    "No Food Channel slot on my horizon. It's just not something I could handle."
    "I meant the cookbook."
    "Oh. I haven't given that any thought in… hmmm." Why couldn't she write a cookbook: She had hundreds of recipes in her files and had tested all of them.
    "Maybe I'll play with it a little. Sometime or other."
    "It you put a proposal together. I can send it to my agent if you want."
    "Why would you do that?"
    He ate the last bite or meat on his plate. "Damn good pot roast. Now if you'd written a manuscript for a novel, the only way I'd read it would be if you held a gun to my head or slept with me. Under those conditions, if it didn't completely suck, I might offer to have my agent give it a look. But since I've personally sampled your cooking, I can make the offer without the gun or the sex. Up to you."
    "Seems reasonable," she replied. "Under those conditions, how many manuscripts have you sent to your agent?"
    "That would be none. The subject's come up a few times, but I've managed to slip through loopholes."
    "Do I have to sleep with you if I put a proposal together and your agent decides to represent