Chapter 37

I got up early the next morning to find Cecelia fixing me something to eat. While we'd been sitting together on the sofa the night before I'd told Cecelia not to expect me at any particular time until further notice, since I was going to be watching my suspect. Of course she knows that my work doesn't go by a schedule, but it makes both of us happier if I tell her when there's something that will definitely make my hours irregular.

I had my jeans and shirt on, and tossed my socks at my boots before going into the kitchen barefoot. I saw her French bread on the counter, and ham, summer sausage, either pastrami or corned beef – maybe both, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. She was clearly making me sandwiches, and as I set foot on the cool tile of the kitchen floor she ripped another hunk off the loaf of bread, knowing that you don't slice French bread, not if you're civilized.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked as she layered meat and vegetables on the hunk of bread, which she'd torn open with her thin strong hands.

"You made sure of that," I said, and grinned when I saw the color coming up in her face.

"You are quite insane," she said, keeping her voice calm in spite of the blush. "Is it not sufficient that we know how well we enjoy our marriage, without speaking of it in public?"

"We're not in public, C, an' you know it."

She shook her head, unable to repress a small smile. "Darlia is in the house."

"Darlia's in her bathroom brushing her teeth, and we're speaking quietly. She won't hear a word."

She turned her head and looked directly at me. "I love you dearly, Darvin. Now shut up."

I grinned. "Right." I plucked the tea kettle from the stove, felt how heavy it was, and put it back down on the burner. I turned the knob all the way on and the gas lit with a quiet woof. Even I, who can only cook one thing well, and very little at all, know that you can regulate a flame far more precisely than an electric burner. I opened a cabinet and pulled out a fresh cup, got a tea bag out of the box that sat on top of the refrigerator, and set it in the cup with the tag hanging outside.

While the water heated I leaned on the sink and watched Cecelia. Her motions were precise and fast, and she cut slices of tomato and onion with a speed and deftness that I knew I could never match. It always looks like she's going to slice off her fingers, and yet in all the years I've watched her work I don't think I've seen her bleed more than three or four times while in the kitchen. She's gotten hurt worse playing with Darlia – I remember one time she landed wrong jumping off a bench and hobbled around for a while on a sprained ankle. Darlia, once her worry over Mommy was gone, giggled at how Cecelia just couldn't jump right.

When the kettle screamed I shut off the burner and poured water into my cup. When the color was right I pulled out the tea bag, grabbed the sugar and a spoon, and got the tea sweet enough. It would be too hot to drink right away, so I set it down on the counter to cool.

Cecelia looked over at me as she began cleaning up the sandwich fixings. "I have been trying to recall the last time you were silent for so long, and I have failed to do so."

"It was the last time you told me to shut up."

"You are aware, I hope, that I say that jokingly."

"Yeah, no problem there. I shut up jokingly too."

She waved a discarded lettuce leaf at me. "If you weren't my husband, you would pay for that. Come to think of it, I may exact payment even though you are my husband – perhaps especially because you're my husband."

"Threats don't frighten me, I'm married."

"You said that last night," Cecelia told me. "And I recognize the source of it too. But remember that I'm the one you're married to; my threats are neither idle nor empty."

"There is that," I said, watching as Cecelia turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a pan of her banana bread, which she'd slid as is into a big ziploc bag. She set the pan on the counter, slid it out of the bag, and began cutting it into squares – and not little squares either, but pieces big enough to satisfy a real appetite. "Hand me a plate," she said.

I was closer to that cabinet, and I handed her a plate, on which she piled the squares of banana bread. She put the pan into the sink and ran water into it, and set the plastic bag aside; she'd no doubt put the plate, with whatever banana bread was left, back into the bag.

"Since you don't eat breakfast," Cecelia said, "I suppose you won't want any of this." She put the plate into the microwave and punched in the time with such rapid jabs of her finger that I could follow only by looking at the display. It wasn't a long time, just enough, I knew, to warm the bread up.

"Well, banana bread is dessert, not breakfast," I said, "so I suppose I could eat some."

"Breakfast, my husband, is what I decree it to be. This is my kitchen, after all."

I grinned and put my hand on her shoulder. She was already dressed for taking Darlia to school, in a white silk blouse that floated around her thin body and a long white skirt that fell to the floor. I wasn't sure, but I thought she was barefoot under the skirt; she goes barefoot far more than I do. She'd used a length of white ribbon to tie her hair back, and the contrast between her clothing and her dark skin was wonderful to see. "Shoot," I said, "it's your whole house, bought and paid for."

"True, the title is in my name alone," she said as she pulled the plate of banana bread out of the microwave. "But I seem to remember a certain western gentleman contributing generously from his own funds to pay off the mortgage considerably ahead of schedule, thus saving me a substantial amount in interest."

I shrugged. "What was I supposed to do – leave that hangin' over your head? About the only thing I brought to the marriage was my face and my pickup truck, and the truck you never drove. It was my pleasure to help you pay the thing off."