Blue Smoke

familiar.”
    “It hasn’t been a week,” Reena complained. “And I called two days ago.”
    “Oh, now I recognize you.” He lifted his hands, pinched her cheeks with doughy fingers. “It’s our long-lost daughter. What’s your name again?”
    “Wisecracks, all I get are wisecracks.” She turned to buss her mother’s cheek. “Something smells good. New perfume, and Bolognese.”
    “Sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”
    “I can’t. I’ve got a good-looking man cooking me dinner.”
    “The carpenter cooks?”
    “I didn’t say it was the carpenter. But yes, it is and he does. Apparently. Mama, have your children broken your heart?”
    “Countless times. Here, have some mushrooms. What if he burns the dinner?”

    “Just one. If we broke your heart, why did you have four of us?”
    “Because your father wouldn’t leave me alone and let me sleep.”
    He turned his head at that, chuckled.
    “Seriously.”
    “I am serious. Every time I turn around, the man’s hands get busy.” Bianca tapped her spoon on the edge of the pot, set it down. “I had four because as often as you broke my heart, you filled it. You’re the treasures of my life, and the biggest pains in my ass.” She tugged Reena toward the prep room, lowered her voice. “You’re not pregnant.”
    “No. Mama.”
    “Just checking.”
    “A lot of strange things on my mind the last couple of days, that’s all. Good mushrooms,” she added. “I’ve got to go.”
    “Come to dinner Sunday,” Bianca called out. “Bring your carpenter. I’ll show him how to cook.”
    “I’ll see how it goes tonight, then maybe I’ll ask him.”
    H e stuck with chicken because he felt he had a pretty good hand with poultry. He had stopped off for fresh produce, and had intended to swing by the bakery. But he’d built an arbor for Mrs. Mallory that afternoon, and when she learned of his plans for the evening, she’d given him a freshly made lemon meringue pie.
    He was still debating the ethics of passing it off as his own when Reena knocked.
    He had music on—some jazzy Norah Jones—and had taken a swipe at the dust. His intentions to do a more thorough sprucing job had been waylaid by his time at Mrs. M.’s. And his weakness for her cookies.
    But the place looked good, he decided. And he had changed the sheets on his bed. In case.
    When he opened the door and looked at her, he was really hoping they’d get to use the fresh sheets.
    “Hello, neighbor.” He moved straight in—why waste time?—cupped his hands on her torso and caught her mouth with his.

    She softened against him, just a little. Just a tantalizing bit. Then eased back. “Not bad as appetizers go. What’s the main course?” She handed him a bottle cheerfully bagged in a silver sack. “And I hope it goes with Pinot Grigio.”
    “We’re still on for chicken, so this is great.” He took her hand to walk her back to the kitchen.
    “Flowers.” She turned at the table to admire the Shasta daisies he’d stuck in a blue bottle. “And candles. Aren’t you clever?”
    “I have moments. It’s my grandmother’s stuff. I spent some time going through the boxes last night.”
    She followed the direction of his gaze, studied the display cabinet. There were more old bottles, interesting shapes, and some dark blue dishes, some wineglasses with etched cups.
    “That’s nice. She’d like you putting her things out.”
    “I never got much of that sort of thing on my own. Just more to pack up when you move.”
    “Which you do, regularly.”
    He opened the wine, got two of the etched glasses from the cabinet. “Can’t turn a place if you’re still living in it.”
    “Don’t you get attached?”
    “A couple of times. But then I’d see this other place and think, Wow, think what we could do with that. Potential and profit versus comfort and familiarity.”
    “You’re a house slut.”
    “I am.” Laughter warmed his eyes as he tapped his glass to hers. “Have a seat. I’ll get things moving here.”
    She slid onto a counter stool. “How about starting from scratch? Have you ever bought a lot and done the whole works?”
    “Thought about it. Maybe one day. Dream house deal. But mostly I like seeing what there is, how to make it better or bring it back from the dead.”
    When he checked something in the oven, she caught the scent of rosemary. And made a note to pick him up a couple of pots of herbs for his windowsill—if things progressed.

    “You said you could do