Page 22 of All She Wants

“Come see the kitchen. I need your help.”

Erin followed Claire into the kitchen, set the paper bag on the island, and drew out a bottle of Cabernet. “I brought wine. I hope you like red.”

“You didn’t have to bring anything.” Claire studied the label. “This is lovely. I already opened a Bordeaux, so we’ll save yours.”

Erin slipped the bottle into an empty space in the wine rack.

Claire took two glasses from the cabinet. “Would you like some while we cook?”

“I would love that.”

Claire poured the wine and handed her a glass. Erin’s fingertips slid over hers before closing around the stem.

Erin took a sip and surveyed the ingredients arranged on the island. “You planned an impressive dinner for one person.”

“I had picked everything up before the storm. I figured the grocery stores were going to be closed, and I refused to spend Christmas eating leftovers.”

“A wise precaution. My plans involved pasta.”

“For Christmas dinner?”

“It was going to be excellent pasta.”

Claire smiled as she unwrapped the tenderloin. “Of course it was. I would expect nothing less from you.”

“It had garlic, fresh basil, and enough Parmesan to make loneliness seem joyful.” Erin set down her glass and reached for the green beans. “Where would I find the colander?”

Claire pointed toward a cabinet beside the sink. Erin found it, rinsed the beans, then opened a drawer and selected a paring knife. She worked through the ends quickly, dropping each trimmed bean into the colander.

“You handle a knife well,” Claire said.

“My father would disown me if I didn’t. He ran a restaurant in Queens for thirty years.” Erin nudged the growing pile aside and reached for another handful. “According to him, I could dice an onion before I could write my name.”

“Should I be concerned about his parenting?”

“He supervised. He also improved the story every time he told it. By the time I started kindergarten, I had apparently been preparing the dinner rush at four.”

Claire laughed and rubbed rosemary, garlic, salt, and pepper over the tenderloin. “Does he still have the restaurant?”

“He sold it when he retired. He lasted eleven days before he started showing up every morning to help the new owner.”

“Eleven days is respectable.”

“My mother expected four.”

Erin’s affection softened every word. Claire could picture the restaurant crowded on a Friday night, her father moving between tables he no longer owned while her mother watched from somewhere nearby, unsurprised by any of it.

“Do they still live in Queens?”

“In the house where I grew up. My mother says moving now would require deciding what to do with forty years of possessions, so they have agreed to leave that problem to their children.”

“Your mother found an efficient way to avoid the decision.”

“She usually does.”

Claire laughed again. She had done more of it in the past twenty-four hours than she had during the entire week before Christmas.

Erin finished the beans and set them in a pan to be quickly sautéed later. “What comes next?”