The Winter Lodge

“What look? What way I’ve been treating you?”

“You’re watching me like I’m a bomb about to go off. And you’re treating me with too much care.”

“I can honestly say that’s the first time a woman has ever accused me of being too caring. So I’m supposed to … what? Apologize?”

She wondered if she should bring up the pact of silence that had governed them for so long. At some point, they were going to have to discuss it. Not now, though. Right now, she was too tired to get into it. “Just cut it out,” she said. “It feels strange.”

“Fine. I won’t be nice anymore. Help me with the dishes.” He got up from the table. “Better yet, you do the dishes and I’ll see what’s on ESPN.”

“Not funny, McKnight,” she said.

They ended up loading the dishwasher together. She noticed a small, framed photograph on the windowsill over the sink. It was one of the few personal items in the house, and she wasn’t in the least surprised to discover it was a picture of Joey Santini, Rourke’s boyhood best friend—and also the man to whom Jenny had been engaged. The shot showed Joey, a soldier in the 75th Ranger Regiment, serving in the Komar Province of Afghanistan.

Against a desolate airstrip with a Chinook cargo helicopter in the background, he looked completely happy, because that was Joey—happy to be alive, no matter what. In his sand-colored BDUs, his elbow propped on a jeep, he was laughing into the camera, in love with the world, with life itself, even in the midst of the scorched earth of battle.

“I have that same picture,” Jenny said. “Or, had. It was in the fire.”

“I’ll make you a copy.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he ever thought of Joey, but she didn’t have to ask. She knew the answer: Every day.

“I have dessert,” Rourke said, shutting the dishwasher and cranking the dial. Apparently, he considered the subject closed.

“I’m not eating a Ho Ho.”

“Ice-cream cones,” he said.

“The perfect winter dessert.”

He fixed her three fist-size scoops, ignoring her when she protested the size. Then they sat down on the sofa, and both dived for the remote control. He beat her to it, and even though she whined, he refused to watch Project Runway, insisting instead on a classic rerun of American Chopper. Tucking the remote between his hip and a sofa cushion, he said, “Now you can’t accuse me of being too nice.”

She licked her ice cream and watched the careful, intricate assembly of something called—in tones of reverence—a master cylinder. Her eyes started to glaze over.

“Can’t we compromise?” she asked. “Maybe watch one of those crime investigation shows?”

“You mean the ones that make police work look noble and sexy?”

“What, it’s not noble and sexy?” she asked.

“Honestly, it’s detail work. I spent half the day inventorying cruisers, which was completely depressing, since the budget doesn’t allow for equipment upgrades for another two years. Either the city administrator is an idiot, or he’s Scrooge.”

“Matthew Alger, you mean.”

He nodded.

“Then why do police work if it’s all boring details?” she asked.

“Because it’s my job,” he said simply, staring at the TV screen.

“But why is it your job? You could have picked anything you wanted, gone anywhere. Instead, you picked this little mountain town where nothing ever happens.”

A commercial came on, and he turned to face her. “Maybe I’m waiting for something to happen,” he said.

She was dying to ask him to elaborate but didn’t want to seem too interested. “And here I thought being a cop was one adventure after another.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not noble and sexy. Now, making buttermilk pie and raspberry kolaches—that’s sexy.”

“Well, then, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t do the baking.”

“So? You’re still sexy.”

In spite of herself, Jenny grew flushed. It was stupid, at her age, getting flustered over something some guy said. Especially a guy like Rourke McKnight. She tried to pretend she wasn’t affected, even though she felt a sting of heat in her cheeks. Good lord, were they flirting? This was getting complicated but … irresistible. “Now, what part of protect and serve is that?” she asked, trying for a light tone.

“It’s got nothing to do with the job. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you are. I like it. I like that I can make you blush.”

And with such pathetic ease, she thought. They had a rhythm still. They always had. She’d spent years trying to forget but it all came back. “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re really easy to please, Chief McKnight.”

“I always have been,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”

Pine Box Traditions

It’s a Polish wedding tradition to give a new bride a supply of starter for sourdough rye bread. I suspect it’s a combination of tradition and desperation on the part of the bride. It just doesn’t seem fair to add the pressure of making a good bread right out of the gate to everything else the poor girl is juggling.

My grandmother told me that the day before her wedding, when she was just a scared girl of eighteen, her mother gave her a carved pine box, just like the one that had sat on a shelf above the kitchen stove all her life. It’s kind of nice, really, thinking of that chain of women, spanning the decades and centuries.

Now, the reality of today’s world is that new brides don’t give a hoot about making bread. However, if the breadmaking mood strikes you, here’s a recipe with a starter that only takes one night to set up. The process begins somewhat mysteriously. Flour, buttermilk and onion meld together in the beginnings of a hearty bread.

Polish Sourdough Rye Bread

2 (.25-ounce) packages active dry yeast

1 teaspoon white sugar

2 cups water

1 thick slice onion

4 cups rye flour

1 cup buttermilk, room temperature

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon salt