A Conard County Homecoming. Rachel Lee

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      “Dinner,” she said cheerfully. “I’m cooking it here, because I am not running back and forth with plates of food. I mean, really.”

      Nell closed the door, then the two of them followed Ashley into the kitchen.

      “Oh, good, coffee,” Ashley said. “I’ve been jonesing for a cup all day. Can I pour you one when it’s ready?”

      He could do it for himself, but for once he bit the irritable retort back. “Sure. Thanks. I didn’t mean for you to go to all this trouble, Ashley.”

      “Maybe not,” she answered as she unpacked her bag and the rice maker. “I seem to remember asking you. My idea. Not a problem.”

      She hunted around to find what was available. Kitchen utensils had been left there since his parents’ time, and he was reasonably certain that Carol had included them in her cleaning.

      Out came a wood cutting board, a chef’s knife, some small bowls, a measuring cup and a microwave dish.

      “I am so grateful for microwaves,” she said as she bustled about. “I’d starve to death if I couldn’t thaw and cook in one. That’ll do for the broccoli. But first the yellow rice.” She lifted a yellow bag. “Personal recipe.”

      He had to chuckle a little in spite of himself. “I think I’ve had that recipe before.”

      “Probably. Someone stole it from me and put it on supermarket shelves everywhere.”

      She dumped the contents into the round rice cooker, then began to dice a thick slab of ham. “Meals in minutes, that’s me,” she remarked.

      Soon she swept the ham into the cooker with the edge of the knife, added the water, plugged it in and pushed a button. “Maybe twenty minutes on that,” she announced.

      Then she headed for his refrigerator. “I hope you have butter.”

      “I do.”

      “Good, I like it on my broccoli.”

      After putting the frozen broccoli in the microwave dish and dotting it with butter, she pulled a spice container out of her brown bag and sprinkled it on the veggies.

      “What’s that?” he asked.

      “Mustard powder. It makes the taste milder, and anyway, it’s good.”

      He backed away until he was beside the table, watching her whirl around his kitchen with practiced ease. It had been a long while since he’d enjoyed the sight of a woman cooking, and she seemed to like it. She shortly proved him right.

      “It’s always better to cook for someone else,” she said. “Cooking for one is so boring. I make a lasagna, put most of it in my freezer in meal-size containers and then eat it forever. I also do that with other foods that freeze as well to try to give myself some variety. But... I slipped up the last few weeks, so tonight I cook. Nothing fancy, but if I’m going to do it, it’s nicer to share.”

      He was sitting there like a lump, he realized. At least he could try to make conversation. “So you don’t like to cook?”

      “Not for just me. Sometimes I cook for my friends, which is fun. A bunch of us gals get together regularly and take turns. Not doing that this weekend, though. I guess we’re meeting for coffee.”

      It almost sounded like an alien world to him. Meeting friends for coffee. How many times had making coffee meant freeze-dried crystals and water warmed over canned heat? When he had the crystals and dared to make even a small flame.

      Finally she brought two mugs of coffee to the table. “Black?” she asked.

      “Nothing else.” After all these years, he wouldn’t know what to make of any other kind.

      She handed him a mug then took the seat across from him. “I’ll clean up after.”

      “I can do that,” he said quickly.

      “Sure, if you want. It means I get to hang around longer waiting for my rice cooker.”

      His eyes popped to her face, and he realized she was teasing him. Teasing him. The fact that he hadn’t recognized it immediately, the fact that it had been so long since anyone had teased him when it had been a routine part of his life in uniform...well, he really had put himself in a long, dark tunnel. And maybe not all of it was necessary.

      But until he could trust his reactions, be sure some little thing wouldn’t just cause him to blow, he felt it was safest to protect others.

      But who was he protecting, really?

      Shaking his head a little, he remained silent while Ashley served dinner, giving him a plate heaped with yellow rice and a good-size portion of broccoli.

      “Thank you,” he managed to say. Did one ever get tired of always having to thank others? He sure did. He was used to taking care of everything himself, and his new status in life often irritated him.

      Yet, he reminded himself, this woman was guilty of nothing except kindness. He could have turned down her offer of dinner. He could have kept his fortress walls in place. But he hadn’t, so the least he owed her this evening was courtesy.

      The problem was finding something to talk about. God, he’d been so self-absorbed for so long he had only one subject—his own problems. Disgraceful.

      “How was your day?” he asked. That seemed ordinary and safe.

      “Pretty good,” she answered. “I used apples to teach fractions, which are always a pain to kids, but hey, they got to eat the results of the work.”

      He drew up one corner of his mouth. “How many kids in your class?”

      “I’m lucky. Nineteen. A pretty good size at that age. Not so many that we can’t do class projects. And Mikey seemed to be in a great mood today.”

      He nodded, eating some more rice. “This is great.”

      “I love it, too,” she agreed.

      “So, Mikey. How does that work when he’s quadriplegic?”

      She sighed, and her face shadowed. “His mom has to come with him every day. Bless her, she never seems to mind. But someone has to be able to turn pages for him and write his answers on worksheets. There are a whole lot of people working on a fund-raiser to get him a motorized chair he can control with puffs of air, and someone’s looking into mounting an ebook reader on one for him. I mean...well, you’d know. Independence isn’t easy to find. This world is not designed for the disabled.”

      “No, it’s not,” he agreed. Although he was pretty sure it was getting easier in some ways. But still. He thought of a fourth grader consigned to a future of quadriplegia and it pained him. Talk about the unfairness of life. At least what had happened to him had been a known risk of his job. All that kid had been doing was going for a fun horseback ride.

      “Anyway,” Ashley continued, “he’s adapting remarkably well. Very resilient. He impresses me.”

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