Page 68 of Bonetide

He watches me for a moment, that ghost of a smile cracking into something wider, into something like affection, and I realize he’s humoring me because only I would get excited that someone has the same book about lichens as me.

Calm down, you frigging nerd, I tell myself, but I know I’m hopeless.

Instead, I run my fingers along the spines of one shelf because I can’t help myself. The leather is so soft, thin and worn, and I bet the paper inside is the kind of paper that doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t dare pull a book out though, lest it crumble in my hands.

He shows me the kitchen next. It’s smaller and warmer than I expected, with a fire going too, banked low. There is a small brass kettle on the hearth, and a long wooden table scarred with decades of use. He opens a small side door that leads to a small kitchen garden full of bolted lettuce and a stand of leeks and herbs gone wild, rosemary like a small tree, lemon balm climbing toward the door.

“You grow herbs.”

“Some. Not as many as your garden.”

“You cook?”

“For myself. Aye.”

“Will you cook for me?”

He looks at me, brows raised. “If you’ll let me.”

“Oh, I’ll let you. I’m a terrible cook, and the only proper meals I’ve had are at the pub.”

He chuckles. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but somehow I’m not surprised.”

I punch him lightly on the shoulder. His muscle is rock hard and I try not to wince. “Show me what you’d cook.”

“For you? Now?”

“Yeah, why not? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

I know I’m being a little pushy but I’m curious; anyway, he said the day was mine.

He thinks for a second, then goes to the door and looks out at his garden. He picks rosemary and lemon balm and brings them in and sets them on the wooden table. He goes to a stone larder room I had not seen and comes out with butter and a small piece of cheese wrapped in linen and a loaf of bread that he says he baked two days ago—he fucking bakes—setting all of it on the table and standing back as if to say, tada.

“Bread and cheese?” I ask, trying not to offend.

“Aye. With the herbs.”

It’s not exactly cooking.

“You know I can also make myself bread and cheese.”

“I’m sure you can. But I’m going to make you bread and cheese the way I would make myself bread and cheese. Sit.”

I sit on the bench at the wooden table and watch.

He toasts the bread over the fire on a long iron fork, browning each slice slow, then cuts the cheese into careful slices with a knife so old the handle is worn to fit his palm. He puts the lemon balm on the back of the hot bread and layers the cheese on top until it melts slightly, then adds sprigs of rosemary on top. He puts the small open sandwiches on a rustic glazed plate and sets it in front of me. Then he uncorks a small bottle of amber liquid and pours it into two tiny crystal glasses. Then he sits across from me on the bench and watches me eat.

The bread is incredible. So is the cheese, with a subtle smokiness. The rosemary is the right amount, and the lemon balm leaf he has tucked under one slice is the small bright note that makes the rest of it come together.

“Oh, hell, this is good,” I say, trying not to moan.

“It is.”

“No. This is literally the best bread and cheese I have ever had in my life.”

“Aye, foxglove. I know. Your face doesn’t hide much.”

True that. I eat the second piece slower because I want to savor it. He watches me eat and has a sip of his drink.