Page 71 of The Husband Diet
At five, my doorbell rang. I opened the door and started. Julian, loaded with grocery bags. I’d totally forgotten about our cooking lesson.
‘Hi, Erica. I got some leanfilettoand some articho—’
I shot him a glance as I stepped aside to let him in.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. ‘What happened?’ he asked as his hand caressed my cheek.
I flinched at the pain and his mouth formed a grim line.
I led him into the kitchen, almost resigned that we were going nowhere all too fast. I enjoyed his company. He was a good cook, willing to learn, fun, confident and had an aura of security around him that attracted me like a magnet.
He gently took my arms and made me sit on a stool by the island and peered down into my eyes. ‘Who did this to you?’ he said gruffly.
‘Catfight at work,’ I replied.
He fetched a terry cloth (good thing I’d just changed them) and got some ice from the freezer, coming to crouch in front of me, his fingers gently dabbing at my bruised face.
‘You always seem to be in the right place at the right time,’ I whispered, wincing at the cold contact, but he said nothing, his eyes searching mine, so close I lost myself in his dark eyes.
Long moments passed before he whispered, ‘How’s that?’
And I whispered back, ‘Better, thanks.’ But he wouldn’t stop studying me. ‘I’m OK, Julian. Really.’
‘OK? You gothurt. What happens when he really picks up that baseball bat? You wouldn’t survive that one, Erica.’
I blinked. ‘What are you talking about? You think Ira did this to me? No, I told you – I tried to break up a catfight. At work. Couple of brain surgeons, believe it or not, fighting over a male colleague.’
He looked at me gravely, with a mixture of anger and doubt, but finally exhaled, his mouth tight.
‘OK,’ he said, his voice so gentle I wanted to cry.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked me square in the face, his expression softening. There we were. This was it. Something was happening and I couldn’t stop it.
‘Hi, Mr. Foxham. Like Mom’s shiner?’ Warren asked as he walked in, not surprised, or disturbed, in the least to see his principal there for the umpteenth time.
Rumors at school must have stopped, because Warren seemed much happier now.
‘You keep an eye on your mum, alright?’ he said softly, and Warren nodded.
I ruffled Warren’s hair and he put his arms around me. One of his rare moments. I sat still and enjoyed the feeling as Julian watched us.
I turned to him. ‘Come on, you. Wash your hands. I want to see you doing justice to this fantastic food. You’re making stuffed artichokes andfilettoin mushroom sauce.’ I could get used to having my own personal chef at home.
Julian eyed me, then the kids, and finally reached into the grocery bags.
In thirty minutes, he managed to get the food in the oven.
‘Why do you think you need lessons?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
He checked the timer. ‘I told you. I’ve wanted to learn all my life. And now that I’ve found an expert—’
‘I’m no expert. Zia Maria is.’
‘She’s great,’ Julian agreed. ‘But I’m only interested in you.’
‘So it was just an excuse for round three?’
He grinned. ‘You make it sound like a fight.’
