Page 32 of Something Borrowed

He laughed and settled into her raspberry-colored velvet loveseat, putting his feet up on the matching ottoman. Across from him, separated by a dark walnut coffee table that looked solid but had a hinged top that raised to create a desk with storage in the trunk below it, was a plush mustard recliner with jewel-toned velvet throw pillows, complete with tassels, including one in the same color as the couch. It should be too loud for him or something, but it wasn’t. Three heavy brass candle holders of differing heights in the corner of the room held chunky vanilla candles. Cal would’ve sworn their homey flicker and glow made the room warmer.

The kitchen/dining room was part of the same space and had an L-shaped counter with upper and lower cabinets on the far wall. Carrie had found a small, round four-seater table in the same dark walnut as her coffee table, tying the room together.

The total effect was both warm and slightly glamorous—something that could describe Carrie too, he supposed.

“Have you finished up your bedroom and the bathroom too, then?” he asked.

Carrie half-turned from the fragrant sauce she was stirring on the stainless-steel stovetop. “Wow, it has been a while since you were here. I’ll show you after we eat.”

Cal nodded and a few minutes later, Carrie motioned him to the table and laid out a feast, as he’d suspected she would, despite her earlier words to the contrary.

A basket held chunks of thick, crusty bread. There were bowls of assorted olives and a platter of thinly shaved prosciutto and Italian cheese to share, plus small plates of roasted peppers on lightly dressed greens.

“Dig in,” she said, pouring them each a glass of Chianti.

“I sense a theme. Italian by any chance?”

She grinned. “You do know me, big brother. Thanks for giving me a reason to cook.”

“Well, it’s a sacrifice for sure, but what’s a guy to do? Family is family.”

“Guess what we’re having as our main course?” She sounded as excited as she had when they were kids and their mom let her take real food from the kitchen for one of her regularly thrown tea parties.

Cal didn’t want to guess in case he was wrong and have her think, incorrectly, that he was disappointed by whatever it really was.

“Italian Braised Chicken thighs.”

Cal’s mouth watered. “My favorite, as you know.”

“Next to pizza.”

They munched on the appetizers, finished a glass of wine each and started on another. Carrie served them generous portions of the garlicky chicken and olives in hearty tomato sauce. They weren’t Italian, but she followed the traditional way of serving the dish with potatoes to sop up the sauce, not pasta.

“I’m not going to be able to move to get out of here,” Cal said, digging in. “I’ll be too sedated.”

Carrie rubbed her hands together like a maniacal cartoon villain. “My plan is working.”

“Your plan?”

“Yeah. If you think you’re leaving tonight—or crashing on the pullout bed—without telling me what happened at Vic’s, you’re out of your tree.”

“Out of my tree? What are you, a 50s hipster?”

Carrie plucked a plump olive from the plate, popped it into her mouth, and waited.

Cal tried a different mode of distraction. “I shared the work list to you. I’ll tackle each task individually between bigger jobs, and you can invoice her separately for each one. She knows that’s the plan.”

“C’mon. You were excited about going to see her. It wasn’t just a quote for work. Admit it.”

Cal was glad Carrie had waited until after the meal was almost done for the inquisition. He suddenly felt too full. Uncomfortable. He folded his heavy cloth napkin and rested it beside his plate. Took a sip of wine, finishing his glass, then shrugged when Carrie offered another fill.

“Is your offer to crash here for real?”

“Yep.” She grinned and waggled the bottle.

“And you have Ibuprofen and Vitamin C?”

“Yep!”