Page 72 of Boomer
The man’s grip was warm, unhurried. “Dr. Alaric Hoffman,” he said. His voice was low and dry, almost worn smooth by time. “Taylor’s father.”
Boomer gave a nod. “It’s an honor, sir.”
“Let’s not overdo it,” Alaric replied mildly, a smile ghosting across his mouth but his eyes were sharp. Pale gray. Watchful. Not skeptical. Just...quietly aware.
He looked at Boomer like a man who saw everything he needed to see in the first thirty seconds and then made you prove the rest.
Boomer respected that.
The man moved to his chair at the far end of the table, opposite his wife, like it had always been his seat. But he didn’t carry the air of someone trying toholda kingdom, just one who lived there, and kept it standing.
He sat back down, taking in the meal. Taylor’s mother had outdone herself. Roast duck, glazed with citrus and honey, carved so perfectly it looked sculpted. Braised cabbage with juniper. CreamyKartoffelgratin. A spring salad with shaved fennel and blood orange. Boomer didn’t even like fennel, but this…this was a different experience entirely.
He’d held his tongue through most of the small talk, letting Taylor field her mother’s cool dissection of international policy and local wine vintages. But then he took the first bite.
He stilled. Chewed slowly. Swallowed, then he spoke, voice low and reverent. “Ma’am,” he said with exaggerated care, “I gotta tell you something.”
Gretchen arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Taylor’s head tilted just slightly. Alarmed curiosity already on her face.
Boomer set down his fork carefully, the explosion of flavors on his tongue make his heart clench, and his throat tight. He’d been chewing slowly, not because he was trying to be polite, but because something about theKartoffelgratinhad hit him sideways. Like memory warmed and baked golden.Oma.
He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, if you’ll let me say…this dish right here?” He gestured to the gratin. “It took me back.”
Gretchen glanced up, guarded. Taylor stilled across the table.
Boomer nodded once, grounding himself. “My Oma used to make something like this. Same potatoes, thin, not mushy. Cream slow-cooked till it thickened, not separated. Garlic just barely there, like a whisper.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes on the dish, not her, like he was letting the food speak first. Gretchen blinked. Taylor’s mouth parted. He didn’t stop. His voice had gone softer now, almost intimate.
“But yours?” He looked up now. “Theleek.That’s your signature. Subtle, but brighter. Less rustic. That hint of nutmeg? Elegant.” He gave a small smile. “Oma’s was heavier. Richer, sure. But yours has more restraint. More intention.” He picked up his fork again, ready for more.
“They’re different,” he said softly. “But both were made with care. With memory. One tasted like childhood. The other tastes likecraft.” Gretchen stared at him. For the first time sincehe’d walked through the door, she looked…unmoored. “There’s a reason people say food is art,” he continued, shifting his gaze to Gretchen with honor.“At a certain point, it’s not just about feeding the body anymore. It’s about feeding the soul. This?” He gestured toward his plate. “This is the kind of cooking that does both.”
Gretchen took a soft breath. “I mean, just look at the care in the glaze, the balance of texture, the way the flavors carry through each course without ever competing.” He leaned back slightly, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “You and your daughter… you both have that. That ability to create somethingmeaningfulwith your hands, made with love. Love doesn’t always taste the same but you know it when it hits the tongue.”
Gretchen’s lips parted, then closed again. Her cheeks pinked. A slow, unmistakable flush crept up her neck and settled just beneath her high cheekbones.
She looked down at her plate. Silence fell like silk over the room. Even Ansel stopped moving. Gretchen blinked once. Her fingers tensed around her water glass. She looked down. Then she murmured, not looking at anyone, “My mother used to grate the nutmeg fresh.”
Boomer smiled. “I tasted that, too.”
Taylor stared at Boomer like he’d just pulled a dove from his sleeve and handed it to her mother on a silver platter. Her fork had paused halfway to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, the lines around them soft with disbelief.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t look at her, not yet. He picked up his fork again, casual as hell, and took another bite of duck like he hadn’t just rearranged the emotional furniture in the entire room.
Gretchen finally spoke, her voice oddly hushed.
“Thank you,” she said, and the words landed like they’d scraped on the way up. “That’s…very kind.”
Boomer just gave her a slow nod. “Just honest, ma’am.”
Alaric set his wineglass down with the careful precision of a man who didn’t waste movement. He’d been watching Boomer the way a professor studies a promising but dangerous thesis, thoughtful, reserved, quietly intrigued.
“Boomer,” he said at last, the name rolling off his tongue with faint curiosity. “Such an interesting name.”
