Page 8 of First Moon

Would she notice how large it was for just one person?

I’d bought the house not for the life I had now, but the life I yearned for. A house for a family. The family I never had growing up. I saw it all unfold the moment I’d toured it with the broker. The kitchen especially had won my heart. White cabinets to the ceiling, brass fixtures and a marble island big enough for homework and cookie dough and family arguments over card games. And a range built for feeding crowds. At the time, the designer had talked about flow and sight lines and entertaining, but I imagined Sunday family dinners rather than parties. Grilling by the pool, kids splashing and shouting as they jumped into the water on a hot day. Christmas in the big room with a tree tall enough to just skim the cathedral ceilings. An angel on top of the tree that my wife and I had picked out for our first holiday together.

So far, it was just me and my cat Oscar. He’d technically been my girlfriend Lisa’s cat, but she left us both for another man. Now Oscar was my constant companion when I was home. I know, it’s kind of sad that it’s just him and me in this big old house and that we both got left, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. Lisa left, but I got Oscar out of the deal, so it was worth it. When I was on the road, Marcus, my assistant and driver, who lives in the mother-in-law apartment on the property, took care of him. It always took Oscar at least half a day to forgive me for leaving. But unlike my dad, I always came back.

My house was at the end of a long driveway, about forty-five minutes south of Nashville. I’d wanted something out in the country, away from the lights and noise of the city. But sometimes, when I was here alone at night, it felt too big and way too empty. Even though Oscar did his best to keep me company, he wasn’t the same as a human woman.

Continuing my project, I rolled the dough thin, cut it into strips with a knife, and carried the board to the stove. I tasted the broth first. Not bad, but it needed another spoonful of salt. After I’d added that, I dropped the dumplings into the simmering broth. They sank, rose, and floated.

“Flat, not fluffy,” I told them. “Do not let me down.”

The dumplings did not answer, which I took as a good sign.

I turned the heat down until the broth barely simmered. Every recipe agreed on one thing: do not boil the dumplings to death. They needed to cook gentle and slow, soaking up the flavor without falling apart. Which seemed simple enough until I was standing over the pot hoping for a biscuit miracle to impress the most beautiful woman in the world.

The first few minutes, nothing much happened. The strips floated there, pale and suspicious, looking more like scraps of an old flour sack than supper. I resisted the urge to stir them. One recipe had warned against that in all capital letters.

Instead, I nudged them carefully with the back of a spoon, making sure none of them stuck to the bottom. Steam rose up in clouds, smelling of chicken and black pepper and butter, making the kitchen suddenly smell like someone’s home instead of just a nicely decorated showpiece.

Oscar sat in the doorway, one paw still dusty with flour, watching me with a look in his green eyes that told me he thought I should have made bologna quesadillas instead.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “You should believe in me.”

He blinked.

“You eat those nasty smelling treats,” I said to him. “So don’t judge.”

After ten minutes, the broth had changed. It wasn’t thin anymore, but thickened by the flour from the dumplings until it clung to the spoon in a way that looked right. Not too heavy. Not gluey, God forbid. Just rich and golden, with pieces of chicken tucked between the vegetables and those flat little strips Ivy’s mother may have invented herself for all I knew.

I fished one dumpling out and set it on a saucer to cool, cut off one end with the side of my fork and tasted it. Tender, a little chewy, but not fluffy. Cooked all the way through too. “Thank you, Jesus,” I said out loud.

Oscar lifted his head and let out a long meow.

“I wasn’t thanking you.”

The dumplings needed a few more minutes, but not many. I gave the pot one last gentle push with the spoon, then set the lid on crooked so steam could escape. That was another thing the recipes disagreed about—lid on, lid off, lid half on, no lid at all. I’d chosen halfway because it seemed like a good compromise. I’d had no idea chicken and dumplings was so controversial.

The clock on the range read 6:46.

If the car left Nashville at 6, she would be here any minute. If she was on time, which I had the feeling she might not be.

I turned the burner down to its lowest setting. I’d ladle it out when she got here. All of the recipes had agreed about that too.

I went to the front windows and looked out at my curved driveway, but I didn’t see the car. Marcus, my driver and house assistant lived in the mother-in-law quarters over my garage. In addition to lodging, I paid him a good wage to take care of things while I was gone as well as driving me places when I didn’t feel like getting behind the wheel, which was most of the time. Growing up in such a small town had left me with no love for traffic. Marcus was a riot. He’d grown up in England and was extremely old-fashioned about everything, including treating his job like he served the king of England instead of Jack Wilder. Although he could be slightly stiff, despite the boys and me trying to loosen him up, he was reliable and trustworthy. He was not one to blab all around town about me. He’d never shared his own story, but, given the lines in his face and a slightly sad note in his eyes, I had a feeling it was a doozy. But I paid him well and provided a nice place for him to live, so that gave me comfort.

I glanced at myself in the mirror that hung near the entryway. Flour on my T-shirt. A smear of broth on my wrist. Hair at the back of my head damp from sweat. I ran upstairs to change into a new shirt and run a comb through my hair. Shoot, looking at myself like this, it was obvious I was long due for a haircut. I liked it a little long, but I needed a trim. Too late now.

After I’d made myself presentable by washing my face and hands, and changing shirts, I went back downstairs. It was already five past seven. I was right. She was going to be late. I had a feeling I’d need to tell her to get ready thirty minutes before we actually had to leave or we’d be tardy for everything. I mean, if we had a second date.

Hopefully she was just late and hadn’t changed her mind.

Five minutes later, I heard a car coming down the drive and looked out the window. It was Marcus in the town car. In the back seat I spotted a blonde head.

I practically ran out of the house, reaching her just as Marcus opened the door of the town car for her, offering his hand, which she took. She wore a yellow sundress the same color as her hair, paired with sandals instead of boots, so I got to see the full glory of her gorgeous legs. Her hair was down and loose, and she was flushed pink. Like a rose in full bloom. A straw bag was looped over one arm and a handbag in the other.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said. “Poor Marcus had to wait downstairs on the street for me.”

“It was no problem, Miss James.” Marcus adjusted his tie. He wore a suit when he drove the car, which was not necessary. Especially because I was pretty much always in jeans and T-shirt. But it was important to him, so I kept my mouth shut.