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“No,” Harry called, before I could even set foot over the threshold of the kitchen.
I sighed, but I knew the rules. Trudging back to the door, I left that heady scent of onions and cognac and Harry all disheveled and steamy to shuck off my good wool coat and step out of my brogues. I even took long enough to put them neatly on the shoe rack so he wouldn’t grumble at me later.
“Happy?” I asked, drawn back by the rich smell of chicken and thyme. I could tell from the smell what he was cooking — what he always cooked at least once this time of year — an old coq au vin recipe with pancetta and little pearl onions. I’d say it was a family recipe, but they didn’t count as family.
“A little,” he murmured, but he wasn’t really paying attention, lost in the steam and the stirring and the smell of caramelizing veg. I was supposed to cook tonight, but I wasn’t going to remind him. Some nights, Harry needs to cook, needs it like he needs to breathe in the heat of the Incendio-burners and the way fresh garlic tastes in the air when it first hits butter in the pan.
I walked over to him, careful to give him a wide berth. He didn’t like people in his kitchen when he cooked, and I knew that, but I also knew that he probably hadn’t moved from this spot since he’d started. I put a gentle hand on his back, right on the spot over his right hip where there’s an inky sprig of rosemary. It was just a simple touch, all the hello I could offer him, and then I was reaching for the cabinets and drawing out the good plates and two wide wine glasses.
He surprised me on my way back, leaning his head back to catch my cheek with a quick kiss. His beard was soft against my chin, a welcome brush. I got a little warm in the cheeks and probably a bit pink, the way my fair skin always does when I’m around him.
Once the plates were out, I poured myself a glass from the bottom of the Burgundy and sat down atop the kitchen island, well out of his way, my socks up against the cabinets. I knew from experience that our little kitchen didn’t have enough space for two to tango when the stove was on. I also knew that sitting back always benefited me in the end; whatever rich dish Harry spoiled me with would be well worth the lack of a hello kiss.
I babbled on about work, if only to amuse myself. Really, I was watching him, watching the lean lines of his shoulders, so assured as he stirred the veg, as he tasted it and did his not-quite-right eyebrows and his what’s-missing? frown. He reserved that little triumphant smile, the one that crinkles in his crow’s feet and hints at his smile lines to come, for when he's found the last ingredient.
Later, over the good china with the chip on the edge of the plate and the wine that sat open for just a little too long, he let me run my hands all over his bare forearms to touch my favorite tattoos. There were the inky tomatoes, vining up around his bicep and deep with the flavor of kissing him in summer, and the garlic cloves at his elbow, like the taste that clung his hands in the dead of winter, and the slice of lemon right at his wrist, like licking salt from the sensitive skin there and biting into a tart bit of yellow. Loving Harry was like learning what home-cooked food tasted like and realizing that I’d been gnawing on magical mockeries for my whole life.
“I’m not mourning her,” he said, serving the chicken out for us both.
“I know that,” I answered, and he knew that too. He said it every year anyway, on the anniversary. I’m not sure if he needed to remind himself or me.
It was hard to stay thinking about ghosts when the smell of perfectly cooked potatoes and chicken, steeped in wine and perfectly browned, filled my mind and steamed out any other thoughts. He took pride in putting the bigger piece on my plate, pouring out the roue, adding a little sprig of fresh rosemary on top.
“Looks beautiful,” I said finally, meeting his bright, earnest eyes, but I wasn’t sure if I meant the meal or the man.