Lydia Lane. Judith Bowen

things changed; some didn’t.

      Lydia put down her mug and Sam glanced up at her. “I have a lunch date tomorrow but I could come over in the morning, if you don’t mind me being here early, about nine,” she said. “Or we can make it midafternoon.”

      “Let’s go for the morning,” he said. “I’d like to do something with Amber in the afternoon, maybe take her to the Leafs’ game.”

      “Fine with me.” Lydia stood. “Time for me to be on my way. Thank you for the meal. It was very nice.”

      “And you’re very diplomatic, Ms. Lane,” he teased. He accompanied her to the hall closet, where he retrieved her coat. Here was a Domestica lesson….

      “You see?” she said, smoothing the wrinkles from her coat. “When your closets are overstuffed, like yours is, you can’t find things—am I right?”

      “Yeah, you got that right.”

      “And,” she continued logically, “when you do find something, it’s all wrinkled from being packed in—right again?”

      He laughed and smoothed the shoulders of her coat after she’d put it on, a teasing, caressing gesture that gave Lydia cramps in her toes. “There! All smooth again. Drive carefully.”

      “I will.”

      He opened the door and held it for her.

      “And, no question, you’ve passed the most important hurdle for the job. My daughter.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE ICE FOG SETTLED IN overnight. It was almost half-past nine by the time Lydia made it back to Parry Street the next morning. Traffic was hideous, plus she drove more slowly than usual due to visibility problems.

      “Lydia!” Sam opened the door and threw his hands over his face in an exaggerated gesture, as if he’d forgotten she was coming over this morning, but she knew he hadn’t. It was early and he clearly wasn’t a morning person. She was. She’d been up since seven.

      “Actually, I’m late. Sorry, the traffic was terrible,” she said as she handed Sam her gloves and jacket and watched him cram them into his hall closet. She took off her boots and slipped on a pair of moccasins. Today, she’d gone for a casual businesslike image and was wearing chino trousers and a blue sweater. Under her arm, she carried her project case.

      Sam, in jeans and a T-shirt, looked rumpled and sleepy—and sexy enough to want to kiss. If she’d been fifteen, she’d definitely have swooned.

      “You had breakfast?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. He’d obviously showered, but that was about it. “You won’t mind if I have some toast or something before we get started? I think I’m going to need fortification. How about you?”

      “I’ve eaten.” She followed him to the kitchen. Bare feet. Very sexy bare feet. “Ages ago,” she added.

      He gave her a humorous look and rummaged in the fridge, bringing out a loaf of bread. Lesson Number Two…

      “Is Amber still asleep?”

      “Amber? Oh, she’s at Tania Jackson’s. There’s some show they watch together on Saturday mornings—Binky or Batty? Biffy? I don’t know. Some girls’ type of show. It’s the Jacksons’ turn to have them.”

      Sam popped two slices of bread into the toaster that sat on the kitchen counter. “Barbara Jackson makes sure they get a decent breakfast. It’s a little competitive thing she’s got going with me. Coffee?”

      “Thanks.” She perched on a stool behind the counter, which ran partway into the kitchen, a sort of working island that separated the kitchen proper from the breakfast nook. At some time, this house, at least the kitchen area, had been updated. “Competitive thing? What do you mean?”

      “They get muffins and milk and juice here. Or something you can microwave. Like burritos.” He grinned. “Over there, it’s waffles, scrambled eggs, things with soy in them, the big all-out nutritious breakfast.”

      Sam ground some beans and there was a whoosh as he did something else with another machine, this one stainless steel. Suddenly there was a fragrant cup of coffee steaming in front of her. “Cream? Sugar?”

      “You do take your coffee seriously!” She laughed as she poured in some cream and stirred.

      “Yeah, if my law practice tanks I could always hire on at a Starbucks somewhere.” He made another cup, for himself, and turned to her, holding his high. “You know, there are very few absolute pleasures in life….” He inhaled deeply, his eyes half-closed. “Ahhh. Good coffee is one of them.”

      “What else?” she asked, sipping at her own coffee as his toast popped up.

      He buttered one slice before looking directly at her. “Sex. Chocolate. Fly-fishing. Not necessarily in that order.”

      Lydia set her cup down unsteadily. Well, she’d asked. “Have you ever noticed that your bread’s always stale, even when you’ve just bought it?”

      He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

      “The art of keeping house. What I’m here for. Last night I mentioned a few drawbacks to living with overstuffed hall closets. Today I’m giving you a tip about keeping bread fresh.”

      He laughed out loud, put his two pieces of toast on a plate, opened the fridge and retrieved a jar of jam. Then he pushed the door shut with one bare foot and came over to sit on the stool beside her, still grinning. “You take this stuff seriously, don’t you?” he said, echoing her earlier remark.

      “So should you, since you’re going to be paying me.”

      He inspected his toast. “Good point.” He took a big bite and looked attentively at her as he began to chew.

      “It’s knowing these little things that makes life pleasanter and easier. Good household management. I’m sure you find it vaguely irritating to always have stale bread.”

      “Definitely. How did you know? I’m always cussing out the bakery for selling me day-old.”

      “It’s not their fault. They sell you fresh. As soon as you put it in the fridge, you ruin it. Bread should never be refrigerated. Either keep it at pantry or shelf temperature, or freeze it.”

      “No kidding! I thought keeping stuff in the fridge meant things lasted longer. Doesn’t that make sense?”

      “It seems to make sense, yes. But not for bread. There’s data somewhere, I know I could find it in one of my books, that proves bread deteriorates fastest at temperatures just above freezing. Refrigerator temperatures in other words. One day in the fridge is the same as five or six days in a breadbox at room temperature.”

      He nodded, and once again seemed impressed by her knowledge.

      “You’re better off to buy it sliced and then freeze the part you’re not going to use right away. You can take out each slice as you need it and use the microwave or toaster to defrost it. You’ll always have fresh bread on hand.”

      “Really?”

      “Really. Of course, there’s a limit to how long you can keep it in a freezer.”

      “But that’s another lesson, right?”