Page 39 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“Hmm?” she said, shifting her focus to him.

“Just then, you looked so sad.”

“I was thinking I’m not a good cook,” she said.

“There’s plenty of time to learn.”

“I don’t think it’s my forte,” she said. She’d bought cookbooks. It was like reading Greek, only worse because itseemed like something she should be able to understand. But all the books assumed one began with a base layer of knowledge. Celeste had nothing. Not one foster parent had ever taken her into the kitchen and showed her what a measuring cup was or how to chop something, likely because they didn’t know. With few exceptions, she’d existed on a lifetime supply of convenience and takeout food.

“You seem like the kind of person who would be good at it,” Sam said.

Her eyes flicked up, meeting his. “I do? Why?”

“You’re thoughtful, purposeful, careful.Soulful.”

She felt herself blushing again and tried unsuccessfully to push it back. But no man had ever said those kinds of things to her before, had never made commentary on more than her looks.You’re hot, only seemed like a compliment until around age fifteen. After that she’d longed for more and never received it. Until now.

“How does any of that translate to good cooking?”

“Good people make good food. Everyone knows that. It’s science,” Sam said, nodding at the profundity of his own statement.

She laughed, feeling light and buoyant. “Then why can’t I cook?”

“I’m guessing because no one ever taught you how.”

Her amusement slid to suspicion. “How did you know that?”

“Because you don’t know how to cook?” he said, sounding confused. “I don’t think cooking is an innate skill. No one arrives into the world with a chef’s knife, thankfully for women everywhere. It’s learned, passed down through generations.”

“Yes,” Celeste said slowly, sadly. Everything came back to that, her feral upbringing, the one that left her with nothing—untaught, untrained, alone.

“But it’s not too late. Find someone to teach you. Avery, perhaps.”

“She seems to have her hands full,” Celeste said as they turned to watch Avery, bending at the waist to blow raspberries on her baby’s neck. It was a poignant sight, the kind that should be captured in sculpture somewhere as the baby squealed and Avery beamed, happiness shooting out of her smile like lasers. Sam seemed equally somber and she wondered if the vision of Avery and her baby made him miss his own beloved mother. It was strange how they were both yearning for the same thing—a loving mother—though he’d had it and she never had. That was perhaps one of the most painful things Celeste was learning, that it was possible to grieve for things she’d never had. She began to fear the voids inside her might never be filled, that the aching chasm of longing for the life she might have had would go on forever.

“You should have a baby,” Sam declared, startling her so badly she choked on air and had to take a few gulps of water before she could speak.

“What? Why would you say that?”

“Because you would be a good mother,” Sam said.

Celeste shook her head at him. “I would be a terrible mother.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Of course I would. I have no idea what to do with children, none whatsoever.”

“So? You learn. Just because you don’t know how doesn’t mean you’ll never learn. This defeatist attitude does not become you. You are Celeste fill in your last name. You worked for The Colonel doing fill in whatever you did. You can do fill in whatever it is you want to do.”

“Wow, good pep talk. I feel very fill in unidentified emotion.”

“Inspired. You feelinspired, Celeste,” Sam said, touching his finger to her hand again.

“I might feel that way, if I had any idea what should fill in the blank at the end.”

“Fill in the other blanks for me. I’ll help you decide,” Sam said.

She shook her head.

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