Page 25
“That good?”
“I need a minute.” Erin opened her eyes and gave a wink.
Claire laughed, and the enormous kitchen felt less empty. She took her own bite and nodded once, satisfied.
“What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?” Erin asked, pointing her fork at her.
“A seventy-dollar omelet in Milan that tasted like they got it from under the heat lamp at a gas station.”
“Seventy dollars for eggs!”
“It was near the Duomo. I should have known.”
“My answer is a slice of pizza from a place on Colfax that advertised authentic New York style.” Erin shook her head. “The crust was three inches thick and sweet. Sweet, Claire. Like someone had put sugar in the dough and then decided that wasn’t enough, so they had also drizzled honey on it.”
“Is this going to become a longer speech about Colorado’s version of New York style pizza?”
“It deserves one. The pizza here commits crimes against real pizza on a daily basis. I’ve had slices with ranch dressing. Ranch. On pizza.”
“So you have very high pizza standards?”
“I’m from Queens. Of course I do. Thin crust, proper char on the bottom, cheese that pulls but doesn’t fight you. You fold it. That’s not optional.”
“Noted. What do you do on your days off when you aren’t folding pizza slices?”
Erin leaned back. “I sleep until I wake up. I make real coffee, not the instant emergency kind we survived on. I read on my sun porch for at least an hour before I do anything productive. Sometimes I drive to Ridgway to meet friends for brunch. Sometimes I don’t leave the house at all. What do your days off look like?”
Claire paused long enough to confirm Erin’s suspicion. “I have a list.”
“Of course you do.” Erin laughed.
“It begins with the farmers’ market, followed by—”
“It begins with a market? At what hour?”
“Seven-thirty.”
Erin pressed her hand to her chest. “On a Saturday?”
“The six a.m. early birds are gone, and the eight o’clock crowd hasn’t arrived yet. The good produce disappears by nine.”
“So your relaxation day starts at seven-thirty with competitive vegetable shopping.”
“It isn’t competitive.” Claire’s mouth twitched. “I simply arrive prepared with strategy.”
Erin grinned and reached across the table to steal a potato from Claire’s plate. Claire watched her do it without objecting, which felt like its own kind of intimacy.
“Where have you traveled that you’d go back to?” Erin asked.
“Lisbon. Without question. I spent five days there after a conference in Madrid and regretted booking only five.”
“What made you fall in love with it?”
“The food. The sight of the city at night. I ate dinner alone at a restaurant overlooking the Tagus and didn’t feel lonely for a single second.” Claire turned her glass slowly. “That was unusual for me. What about you?”
“I’d go back to the Amalfi Coast. My father took us when I was sixteen. He wept at a plate of pasta in Positano. Actual tears. My mother pretended not to notice. My brother and I still bring it up at Thanksgiving.”
“Your family sounds wonderful.”
