Indelible Laurie Buchanan (sad books to read TXT) 📖

you. Most of my clothes are for work. I hope to add some casual pieces to my wardrobe while I’m here.”

“Oh, how fun! Have you been to the Pacific Northwest before, or is this your first time?”

“I’ve been to Portland, Oregon,” Fran says, “but this is my first time to Washington state. How about you?”

“I’ve been to Seattle a couple of times, but I’ve never been this far north. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, everything’s so lush and green. It’s quite different from the hustle and bustle of Boston.”

“I love that town,” Emma says. “I was there a few years ago to watch one of my brothers run in the marathon.”

Libby opens the door. “Hello. You’re right on time.”

“Me, too,” Cynthia says, joining them. Her tea-length raspberry dress looks stunning against her olive skin tone and white hair. “Something smells like heaven.”

“Just wait ’til you taste it,” Libby says.

Niall hears their oohs and aahs before the women reach the kitchen. Decked out in his bistro-striped apron, he greets them. “Ladies, you look like a beautiful bouquet. I can only hope this evening’s meal does you justice.” He gives an exaggerated bow from the waist while flourishing a wooden spoon.

“Do I detect garlic?” Fran asks, a hopeful smile on her face.

“Yes, you do. Tonight, we’re having lemon garlic chicken paired with Sancerre, a white wine produced in the eastern part of the Loire Valley in France. But first, we’ll enjoy a few appetizers. Please make yourselves at home. While you’re seating yourselves, I’ll bring them.”

Awake from his nap, Hemingway takes the opportunity to pop his head over the lower portion of the Dutch door.

“Hi, big guy. It’s nice to see you again,” Emma says, rolling over to pat his large wiry head.

All eyes, including Hemingway’s, follow the tray that Niall places in the center of the table. It’s brimming with baked zucchini cups topped with gorgonzola cheese, mini pearl tomatoes wrapped in fresh basil leaves, and Tuscan tomato-basil-garlic bruschetta topped with diced artichokes, Kalamata olives, and capers.

The next tray he sets down has antipasto kabobs with Italian meats, cheeses, olives, and pickled vegetables skewered in bite-sized pieces, and grape gorgonzola truffles rolled in toasted nuts.

“Oh, my blessed word,” Cynthia says. “This is the appetizer? There’s enough food here to feed an army.”

Mick and Jason enter the kitchen at the same time.

Libby, alone, is aware of the storm brewing behind her brother’s calm facade. She flashes him a quick, questioning glance, unseen by the others.

Mick reassures her with an almost imperceptible nod that conveys, We’ll talk later.

On the other hand, Jason’s glib smile resembles the cat who ate the canary.

Both men are well-dressed in a casual style. Mick is wearing a salmon-hued T-shirt that sets off his green eyes, a sand-colored linen blazer, chinos, and topsiders.

Jason’s navy blue shirt serves to highlight his gray eyes—pools of calculated indifference.

With them standing next to each other, it’s hard not to make a comparison. Both men are well-groomed and radiate personal power.

Mick, at six-foot two-inches, has wavy, collar-length, charcoal hair. Muscular, his demeanor speaks of quiet self-confidence and protection.

Jason’s five-foot six-inch stature is wiry and athletic. His salt-and-pepper hair is buzz cut. His bearing conveys arrogance and aggression.

Both men are capable.

Wine and laughter-peppered conversation flow as the group enjoy the delicious meal.

“Husband, this meal is cooked to perfection.” Libby raises her glass. “To great food, great health, and a great chef,” she says. Everyone around the table raises their glass, joining her toast to Niall.

After dinner, Libby suggests that everyone relocate to The Ink Well to continue their animated discussion. Before anyone can scoot their chairs back, Jason stands up and with a curt nod, says, “I’m heading back to my cottage. I’ve made great progress on my manuscript today, and I want to maintain momentum.”

No one seems disappointed as he strides down the hall and lets himself out the front door.

“We’ll join you soon,” Libby says, as Mick ushers the women into the comfortable room. She turns to Niall and whispers, “What do you think that was about?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad he’s gone,” he whispers back.

“Me, too.”

With his whiptail thrashing the deep sink in the mudroom, Hemingway gains their attention. The inquisitive look on his face says, Hey, what about me?

Libby gets him a biscuit from the jar. “No one forgot about you.” After unlatching the lower half of the Dutch door, she says, “Now sit for your cookie.” After scarfing it down, he gazes at her expectantly, hoping for another handout.

Libby digs her fingers into his wiry mane. “I know that Jason’s not fond of you, but since he’s gone, let’s go ask the others if you can join them.”

Hemingway gives a whole-body wag. After stroking his head and rubbing his ears, Libby taps a hand against her thigh and says, “Heel,” and they head into The Ink Well.

“Would it be okay if Hemingway joins you?”

“Who? That big galoot?” Mick asks, in a teasing tone.

“Yes, this big galoot.”

Through a chorus of “Yes,” “Oh please,” and “Of course,” Hemingway enters the room. He pauses to show off his best regal pose, eating up the attention of his feminine admirers.

“Hemingway, be polite,” Mick says.

On cue, the big dog sits in front of each woman, one by one, and holds out his paw.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Mick says. “He’s as much looking for treats as he is saying hello.”

When Hemingway gets to Emma, she strokes his head. He leans against her wheelchair waving his tail back and forth. After a short while, he eases down onto the floor, letting out a soft harrumph as he settles in.

As the group in The Ink Well finish sharing the day’s writing obstacles and triumphs, Niall enters with a bottle of Jackson-Triggs Vidal Icewine Reserve. “I think you’ll enjoy the fruit-forward aromas of papaya, mango, and apricot in this dessert wine.” After pouring, he says, “In Italy, a meal isn’t over until something sweet, or dolce, hits the tongue. And while this isn’t Italy, it is Pines & Quill, and