A Thread of Truth. Marie Bostwick

came up behind me, wrapped one arm around my waist and, resting his chin on my shoulder, examined my over-cooked salmon.

      “There now, it’s not so bad. Not beyond all hope, at least.”

      “No? So you think I can still serve it?”

      “Well,” he said doubtfully, “not like that. What do you say to a nice salmon salad? Do you have some vinegar and capers, maybe a bit of fresh dill?”

      I nodded.

      Charlie clapped his hands together and grinned, back in his element, as delighted by the end of his culinary exile as a major-league pitcher who is called back to the mound after a season spent warming the bench. “Good! Get them out. I’ll need a mixing bowl and an apron too.”

      Glumly, I started looking for the items he requested, but Charlie interrupted my search, kissing me lightly on the lips.

      “There now. You’re taking this much too hard. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to salvage our supper.” His eyes twinkled as he hefted the fish poacher off the stove and poured the liquid down the sink.

      “Just like I did last Sunday.”

      I smiled as I turned the key in the lock and opened the shop door on Monday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the kind of morning that makes you think that the rest of the day will hold nothing but good.

      Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

      I had plenty of things to do besides worry about Ivy. The best thing to do was to act as if Friday had never happened and just get on with my day. One thing I knew for certain is that it was going to be crazy busy. But until I snapped on the overhead light and the telephone started ringing as if on cue, I had no way of knowing how crazy.