Holding the Dream

Chapter Twenty

She copped a bottle of champagne from the shop, then decided to go one better and attempt to cook a meal. She had a tacit agreement with Byron that he would cook and she would wash up, as he was light-years ahead of her in culinary skills. But since this was to be a celebration of a new stage of her life, she wanted to give it a shot.

She'd always considered cooking a kind of mathematical skill. She could handle the formulas, like calculus, calculate the answer, but she didn't particularly enjoy the process.

Wrapped in a bib apron, her sleeves rolled up past the elbows, she lined up her ingredients like elements in a physics lab.

First the antipasto, she decided, and warily eyed the mushrooms she'd washed. It couldn't be easy to stuff them with cheese, but the recipe claimed it could be done. She removed the stems and chopped them fine, as directed. Following the steps she cooked them with the green onions and garlic and found herself smiling at the scent.

By the time she'd finished with the bread crumbs and cheese and spices, she was enthralled with herself.

It wasn't long before she was happily smearing the stuffing mixture into the caps, then popping them into the oven.

There were cucumbers to marinate, peppers to slice, tomatoes to deal with. Oh, right - and the olives. She fought with the lid on a jar of plump black olives, cursing it as the oven timer beeped. Out came the mushrooms.

She was in control, she told herself as she sucked on the thumb she'd brushed against the hot baking dish. It was just a matter of efficiency. What the hell came next?

She sliced cheese, struggled over the perfect consistency for the basil and olive oil she wanted for the bread she intended to serve.

An emergency call to Mrs. Williamson, the cook at Templeton House, calmed her down enough that she could arrange the antipasto meticulously on a platter.

Where the hell was Byron? she wondered and nibbled her nails over the recipe for pasta con pesto. "Coarsely chopped basil leaves," she read. What the devil did "coarsely chopped" mean, exactly? And why the hell did you have to grate Parmesan when anybody with half a brain could buy a nice can of it in the market? And where was she going to find pine nuts?

She found them in a labeled canister in his cupboard. She should have known he would have them. The man had everything that had to do with eating, preparing to eat, and serving eats. The carefully measured ingredients went into the blender. Deciding that a little prayer couldn't hurt, she closed one eye, sent it up, and hit the switch.

Everything whirled satisfactorily.

Smug now, Kate put water on to boil for the pasta and set the table.

"Excuse me," Byron said from the kitchen doorway. "I seem to have walked into the wrong house."

"Very funny."

The dogs, who had been keeping her company, and keeping an eye out for scraps, dashed to greet him. Since he'd followed his nose and his curiosity straight into the kitchen, he still had his briefcase with him. He set it aside now to pet the dogs and grin foolishly at Kate. "You don't cook."

"'Don't' doesn't mean 'can't.' " Anxious for feedback, she took a mushroom off the platter and popped it into his mouth. "Well?"

"It's good."

"Good?" She arched a brow. "Just good?"

"Surprisingly good?" he ventured. "You're wearing an apron."

"Of course I'm wearing an apron. I'm not getting splatters all over me."

"You look so... domestic." He slid his hands over her shoulders, kissed her hello. "I like it."

"Don't get used to it. This is pretty much a one-shot deal." She went to the refrigerator to take out the champagne. "I remember when Josh went through this phase and wanted to marry Donna Reed."

"Donna Reed." After opening the door to let the dogs streak out, Byron settled on a stool. "Well, she did look pretty hot in those aprons, now that I think about it."

"He got over it and decided he'd rather go for Miss February." With a quick, efficient twist, she popped the cork. "Of course, he always wanted Margo anyway. Donna and Miss 42-D Cup were just distractions."

She took flutes out of the cabinet and turned back with a wicked grin. "Now, if I have the line right, I say, 'And how was your day, dear?'"

"It was good. This is better." He took the glass she'd filled for him, toasted her. "What's the occasion?"

"I'm glad you realize there has to be one for me to go through this mess." She blew out a breath as she looked around the kitchen. No matter that she'd tried to be careful, there was a hell of a cleanup in store. "Why do you do it? You know, cook."

"I enjoy it."

"You're a sick man, Byron."

"Your water's boiling, Donna."

"Oh, right." She picked up the clear canister of pasta, frowned at it. "You take this stuff out of the box and put it in here. Okay for aesthetics, I guess, but how am I supposed to know how much is ten ounces?''

"Estimate. I know that goes against the grain for you, but we all have to live dangerously now and again."

He watched her worry over it, started to tell her she was putting in too much, then shrugged. It was her dinner, after all. In any case, he found himself easily distracted by the way the neat bow of the apron strings accented her tidy little butt.

Just how would it look if she was naked under that sturdy white apron?

At his laugh, she glanced around. "What?"

"Nothing." He drank more wine. "Just an unexpected and slightly embarrassing fantasy. It passed. Mostly. Why don't you tell me what happened to set you off on this domestic campaign?''

"I'll tell you. I was - Shit, I forgot the bread." Her brow furrowed as she slid the pan into the oven, adjusted the heat and timer. "There's no way you can hold a conversation and deal with all the details of a meal in progress. Why don't you put on some music, light the candles. Do that kind of stuff while I finish this."

"All right." He rose, started out, turned back. "Katherine, about that little fantasy..." Amused at himself, he shook his head. "Maybe we'll try it later."

Too preoccupied to pay attention, she waved him away and got back to business.

She thought she'd managed very well when they were settled at the table, scents wafting, candles flickering, and Otis Redding crooning on the stereo. "I could handle doing this," she decided after she'd sampled and approved the pasta. "About once a year."

"It's fabulous, really. And very much appreciated. It's quite a feeling coming home to a pretty woman and a home-cooked meal."

"I had some excess energy." She broke bread, offered him half. "I thought about just dragging you up to the bedroom when you walked in, then I figured that could wait until after dinner. Anyway, I was hungry. My appetite's definitely improved in the last few months."

"So has your stress level," he commented. "You've stopped popping aspirin and antacids like candy."

It was true, she admitted. She had. And she certainly felt better than she remembered feeling in years. "Well, I've done something today that is going to either keep me on that same route or send me back to the pharmacy." She took a hard look at the bubbles in her wine, swallowed some. "I turned down the partnership."

"Did you?" He laid a hand over hers, toyed with her fingers. "Are you okay with that?"

"I think so." Out of curiosity she said, "You don't sound very surprised. I didn't know I was going to turn it down until I was sitting in Mr. Bittle's office."

"Maybe your head didn't know it, but your gut did. Or your heart. You've wrapped yourself up in Pretenses, Kate. It's yours. Why would you give it up to be a part of something someone else had built?"

"Because it's what I've always wanted, always aimed for." A bit unsure of him, she shrugged her shoulders. "It turned out it was enough just to know I was good enough. It's a little scary, changing directions this way."

"It's not that radical a change," he corrected. "You're partners in a business, in charge of accounts."

"My degree, all that education - "

"You don't really believe that's wasted, do you? It's part of who you are, Kate. You're just using it in a different way."

"I just couldn't go back to that office, to that - life," she decided. "It all seemed so rigid. Margo was in the shop today with the baby. People were fussing over him, and Margo was sitting there with the cradle beside her, and Laura had to look for this winged dragon, and I boxed a pocket watch and put away shoes..." Embarrassed, she trailed off. "I'm babbling. I never babble."

"It's all right. I get the drift. You're having fun working there, being part of it. You're enjoying the surprises of something you helped create."

"I never liked surprises. I always wanted to know the when, where, and how, so I could be prepared. You make mistakes if you aren't prepared, and I hate making mistakes."

"Are you doing something that feels right to you?"

"It looks that way."

"Well, then." He lifted his glass, touched it to hers. "Go for it."

"Wait until I tell Margo and Laura." The idea of it made her laugh. "Margo was gone when I got back, and Laura had to run pick up the girls, so I didn't have the chance. Of course, we're going to have to make some changes. It's ridiculous not to have a regular posted schedule of our work hours. And the pricing system needs to be completely overhauled. The new software I've just installed will completely streamline our - " She caught herself and found him grinning at her. "You can't change overnight."

"You shouldn't change at all. That's the kind of thing they need you for. Play to your strengths, kid. Which apparently include Italian cooking. This pesto is terrific."

"Really?" She sampled more herself. "It is kind of good. Well, maybe I could throw something together. On special occasions."

"You won't get an argument from me." Thoughtfully, he twirled pasta on his fork. "Speaking of special occasions, now that you're going to continue to be self-employed, you should be able to flex your schedule a bit. For a variety of reasons, I'm not going to be able to get back to Atlanta for Christmas, so I'm making plans to take a few days for the trip over Thanksgiving."

"That's nice." She refused to acknowledge the thud of dis appointment. "I'm sure your family will be happy to have you, even for a few days."

"I'd like you to come with me."

"What?" Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"I'd like you to come to Atlanta with me for Thanksgiving and meet my family."

"I - I can't. I can't just fly across the country like that. There's not enough time to - "

"You have the best part of a month to arrange your schedule. Atlanta's not Bora Bora, Kate. It's Georgia."

"I know where Atlanta is," she said testily. "Look, besides the time factor, Thanksgiving's a family holiday. You don't just bring someone and dump them on your family on Thanksgiving."

"You're not someone," he said quietly. Oh, it was panic in her eyes, all right. He could read it perfectly. Though it irritated him, he determined to follow through. "It's traditional where I come from to invite the woman who's important to you to meet your family, to have them meet her. Particularly if it's the woman you're in love with and want to marry."

She jerked back as if scalded, nearly knocking over the chair as she sprang to her feet. "Wait a minute. Hold it Whoa. Where did that come from? I cook one stupid meal and you get delusions of grandeur."

"I love you, Kate. I want to marry you. It would mean a great deal to me if you'd spend a few days with my family. I'm sure Margo and Laura would be willing to adjust the work schedule to accommodate a short trip over the holiday."

It took several tries before the sounds coming out of her mouth could be fashioned into words. "How can you sit there like that and calmly talk about scheduling in the same breath as marriage? Have you gone insane?"

"I thought you'd appreciate the practicality." Not sure who was irritating him more, himself or Kate, he topped off his wine.