“I could certainly learn a thing or two from you,” said Lucy, studying the great room that extended beyond the kitchen island. There a couple of over-stuffed white love seats with colorful flowered accent pillows were set at right angles around a low coffee table holding a neat stack of magazines and a fresh flower arrangement. A coordinating entertainment center probably held the TV and DVD player, but its louvered doors were discreetly closed. Lucy sighed, thinking of her family room, where the huge TV held center stage because Bill didn’t want to have to fuss with a lot of doors and things when he collapsed into his battered corduroy recliner to watch Monday night football.

“Are you planning to redecorate?” asked Frankie, who was busy slicing and chopping an assortment of vegetables and arranging them on two plates.

“Not anytime soon,” said Lucy. “We’ve got one daughter in college and two more coming.”

“Maybe you should consider taking a real estate course,” said Frankie. “I’m sure you’d do quite well, certainly better than at the paper.”

“Most anything would pay more than the paper,” admitted Lucy. “But I love it. I couldn’t give it up.”

“Good for you,” said Frankie, setting the table with blue woven placemats, crystal goblets, and cheery napkins that matched the seat cushions. “How about we celebrate our good fortune with a glass of wine? I’ve got a nice buttery chardonnay.”

“Oh, why not,” said Lucy, throwing caution to the wind. She didn’t usually—make that never—drink wine with lunch but then she usually had peanut butter and jelly. This was a grown-up lunch and she might as well have a grown-up drink.

Frankie took a large bottle out of the refrigerator and filled the goblets right up to the brim before setting the bottle in a marble cooler. Then she brought the plates of salad to the table and gestured for Lucy to sit down. “Bon appetit!”

“This is really lovely,” said Lucy, spearing a piece of goat cheese. “Do you eat like this every day?”

“I try to.” Frankie shrugged. “I’m French, at least my family is, and this is the way I was brought up. Food, mealtimes, were always important to us.”

“No fast food?”

“My mother didn’t know the meaning of the phrase.” Frankie was lifting her glass. “She was all about slow food. Cassoulet that took days to prepare, pork pies, homemade sausage, fruit tarts…” She waved her hand. “I could go on and on.”

“My mother was more the ‘dump a can of Campbell’s cream soup into it and call it a casserole’ kind of cook,” said Lucy.