Page 27 of Dane

“You’ve said that,” Nadine noted with a sigh. “‘Course, you might want to knock on wood or something because once you say you feel fine is the moment you get sick.”

“I’m saying it again.” Tillie tilted her face up to the light. “Because it’s true, and I enjoy it.”

“She’s been like this all afternoon,” Eliza told me.

“I genuinely feel fine,” Tillie said, to no one in particular.

I bit my lip. “Has Pain considered it might be the chili?”

There was a pause. “The cook-off was three weeks ago,” Nadine said carefully, sounding like she was considering the suggestion. “Stomach bugs can --”

“No,” Eliza said. “Absolutely not. I’m defending my recipe and I will die on this hill.”

“You nearly did die,” Nadine said. “On your bathroom floor. At four a.m.”

“That was unrelated!” Eliza’s voice climbed. “My chili is a masterpiece. I’ve made it six years in a row.”

“And six years in a row,” Lavender said mildly, “someone ends up in the bathroom.”

“That’s… that’s circumstantial --”

“Tillie, was it the chili?” Hannah asked.

Tillie opened her eyes. She looked peaceful and healthy and deeply unbothered. “I couldn’t say. I feel perfectly fine.” She smiled. “Did I mention that?”

“Yep,” I said, still grinning.

“Three times,” Nadine added.

“Well,” Tillie said. “I think it bears repeating.”

I was laughing before I could stop myself. Lavender laughed too, and Eliza looked mortally offended and also like she struggled to hold in her own laugh. Nadine puckered her lips, clearly fighting to maintain her own composure.

We stayed in the little park-like area for most of the afternoon. I noticed Dane leaning against the wall out of the way, watching over the yard. He noticed me looking and lifted a hand. I smiled and stood, excusing myself from the women to go to him.

“You want to have a quiet dinner alone?” he asked. “I’ll cook.”

“You cook?”

“I might be offended if you knew me better. Of course, I can cook.”

Sometime around seven that evening, the smoke smell in Dane’s kitchen proved him a liar. Also, he currently stood over a pan holding a spatula, while whatever cooked in the pan made sounds like nails over a chalkboard. I stood on the other side of the kitchen island and observed. The pan was too hot. Whatever was in it had crossed the line between caramelized and carbonized. He was poking at it with a spatula like encouragement might help.

“What was it supposed to be?” I asked.

He didn’t turn around. “Chicken.”

“And now?”

“It’s still chicken.”

“Dane.”

“Blackened chicken.” He poked it again. “It’ll be fine.”

I moved around the island to look over his shoulder. The chicken was, in fact, not fine. “OK,” I said, and moved in front of him to the burner, dropping the heat and reaching for the lid on the counter. “Go sit down.”

“I don’t need --”