Page 120 of Borrowed Pain
"Corporate fraud consultation for me tomorrow," I said, turning onto Ma's street. "An accounting firm suspects embezzlement but can't prove how the money's disappearing."
"Exciting?"
"Satisfying." I pulled into the spot I'd started thinking of as ours—close enough to the house for easy unloading, and far enough from the driveway to avoid blocking anyone's exit.
"Michael," Miles observed, pointing to the familiar truck parked across the street. "Luna's probably driving everyone insane."
Sure enough, we heard barking before we reached the front porch. Charlie's deeper bass notes harmonized with Luna's higher pitch—a canine welcoming committee.
Miles knocked twice before using his key.
"Miles! Rowan!" Matthew's voice carried from the kitchen. "Thank God. Ma's been asking about you two every ten minutes for the last hour."
Charlie bounded around the corner first, gold fur flying as he skidded across the hardwood to greet us. Luna followed more cautiously.
"Hey, beautiful," Miles said, crouching to scratch behind Charlie's ears while Luna sniffed at my jacket pockets. She'd learned I sometimes carried dog treats—a habit that had earned me approval from the four-legged family members.
"We brought shortbread," I announced to the house in general, knowing the words would carry to the kitchen where Ma would make room for our contribution alongside whatever she'd already prepared.
"And wine," Miles added. "Plus your containers from last week."
"Good boys," came Ma's voice from deeper in the house.
We hung our jackets on the hooks beside the door. Six months had taught us the rhythms of arrival and departure.
The kitchen erupted with greetings as we crossed the threshold into Ma's domain.
Steam rose from three different pots on the stove while the oven timer counted down the final minutes on what smelledlike her famous garlic bread. Matthew stood at the island, methodically chopping vegetables while Alex leaned against the counter, wine glass in hand, providing side commentary on Michael's attempt to explain football strategy to Dorian.
"—and the Seahawks lost Wilson," Michael said, gesturing with a wooden spoon. "That changes everything."
Michael smiled when he spotted us. "There they are. Rowan, tell Dorian I'm right about the Hawks' passing game."
"I don't know enough about football to have an opinion worth defending," I said, accepting Alex's hug while Miles deposited the returned containers on the counter beside the sink.
"Smart man," Alex said. "Michael's been holding forth on this topic for twenty minutes. We're all starting to develop sympathetic brain injuries."
"Very funny." Michael rolled his eyes but grinned. "Rowan, you brought something that smells incredible."
I pulled the wrapped shortbread from my bag. "Lavender shortbread. Stress-baking experiment from last night."
"Stress about what?" Ma asked. She wore the apron Marcus had given her last Christmas—navy blue with "World's Most Dangerous Cook" embroidered in silver thread.
"Corporate fraud case tomorrow. Pre-interview nerves." I unwrapped the paper carefully, revealing the pale golden squares I'd cut with geometric precision.
Ma gestured toward the salad ingredients scattered across the cutting board. "Tomatoes need dicing. Small enough that Matthew won't pick them out."
"Matthew picks out tomatoes?" I asked, accepting the knife Miles handed me without being asked.
"Only when they're too big," Matthew said defensively. "It's a texture thing, not a flavor thing."
"It's a control thing," Alex corrected. "Matthew likes his food organized into distinct categories instead of mixed together."
"Says the man who eats cereal with a fork," Matthew shot back.
"Rowan, taste this." Ma appeared at my elbow with a wooden spoon loaded with marinara sauce. "Tell me if it needs more oregano."
I accepted the spoon. Ma didn't offer tastes to outsiders—it was a family privilege.
