Fools Rush in(52)

“What should I do?” I asked Curtis. “He looks upset.”

“Hmm. Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. It’s five after eight. Joe is unacceptably late. Feed the cop. If Joe does eventually come, he’ll see that you’re not just sitting around waiting for him. If he doesn’t, then at least your dinner won’t go to waste.”

“What should I tell Sam? That my un-boyfriend blew me off?”

Curtis sighed dramatically. “No, Millie. Don’t tell him that. Just say you made dinner for a friend who had to cancel at the last minute and you’re glad he came.”

“Okay. That sounds good. Can you say it again so I get it right?”

“Millie, you’re such a sweet dope sometimes. I have to go. Love you! Kisses!”

I heaved a sigh. Curtis was right. I was a dope.

“Millie,” Sam said as I reentered the kitchen, “I’m really sorry. I can see that you have plans and—”

“Actually, Sam, my friend just canceled, so it’s great that you’re here. Otherwise, all this food would go to waste. Sit down.” I gave him a smile and pulled out a chair.

He hesitated, then took off his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks near the back door. “Thanks,” he said, sitting at my kitchen table.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I poured him a glass of fumé blanc (eighteen bucks a bottle, thanks a lot, Joe Carpenter) and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. Once again, he ran his hand through his military-short hair, a sure sign of distress. The lines around his eyes were more pronounced, and he stared distractedly at the floor.

“So what’s going on?” I asked, sitting with him.

He looked up and sighed. “It’s Trish.”

“Oh.” Of course it was Trish. I felt the decades-old irritation with my sister, ever the center of attention. Even from New Jersey, she was making waves. Tropical Storm Trish. I refilled my own wineglass and took a sip. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Sam looked out the window. “She wants Danny to do his senior year in New Jersey,” he said.

“What?” I yelped. “Why on earth would she want him to do that?”

Sam sighed again and swallowed some wine. “She says that Avery can get Danny into some swanky prep school down there that he went to, and it would be better for Danny to graduate from there instead of Nauset.” He met my eyes, and I saw the worry there.

“Well, I think it’s a crappy idea,” I said, reaching out and patting his hand. “I have to put the shrimp on…want to help?”

“Sure,” he replied, standing up. I went to the stove, turned on the étouffée mixture and got the shrimp out from the fridge. Sam leaned helpfully against the counter, watching me closely.

“Can’t say I ever saw you cook before, Millie,” he said, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “Who was this friend who canceled?”

“Well, Sam, I think I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.” I dumped the shrimp into the pan, where it hissed in a most satisfying way. I didn’t want to think about J.C. right now, and the wine buzz and Sam were doing a great job distracting me. “So what does Danny think about all this?”

Sam took the spatula out of my hand, nudging the quickly pinkening shrimp. “We haven’t talked to him about it yet. But Trish says if I put it to him in positive terms, he’ll see what an opportunity it is. Or something.”

“I think it’s a stretch to think that Danny would want to transfer,” I said. “He’s doing so well here, and he’s got so many friends, so much going on.”

“That’s what I said. There are a lot of good reasons for him to stay. He’s varsity baseball up here, he knows the teachers, straight As…I don’t think he needs Rich Guy Prep to get into a good school. But Trish says it’s a golden opportunity.”

“I’m with you, buddy,” I said. “Screw Rich Guy Prep! Now get out of the way so I can get this stuff on the table.”

With Sam’s help, I brought our meal into the little dining room. I lit the candles and we sat down, filling our plates with the rather beautiful dish that I had spent days planning.

“Whoever it was who canceled, Mil…he’s missing out.” Sam smiled at me across the table. “But it was kind of good luck for me.”

I smiled back, suddenly very glad that I was here for him in his hour of need. Sam deserved at least that from me. “Cheers.” We clinked wineglasses and started eating.

And guess what? It was fantastic! Definitely the best meal I’d ever made. We ate pretty much in silence, but it was comfortable. Peaceful, even, with the rain strumming on the roof, the music playing softly over the stereo.

“Great food, Millie,” Sam complimented, helping himself to more étouffée. “You really did all this yourself?”

“Except for dessert,” I confessed. “I wouldn’t be able to fool you on that one.”

I sat back and admired my work for a minute. I had really outdone myself. Granted, the wrong man was sitting across from me—I squelched the stir of dismay the thought caused—but I had pulled off a really nice dinner. The flowers on the table looked great, my new place mats and napkins matched the plates, the food was excellent, the wine was rapidly disappearing…. It felt good. And it was so cozy to have Sam here, good old Sam, so comfortable and solid and real. Irritation with my sister—she was still tormenting him—turned my smile into a frown.