“And your mother?” Eric asked.

“She’s not exactly a material girl, either. But . . .” I swallowed, thinking of the farmhouse. Of Great-grandmother’s quilts and Granny’s china and Amy’s craft projects, all lovingly preserved. “She likes to hold on to stuff.”

“It falls to her to make the home,” Eric said. “It is important for the children to have their things around them.”

I remembered the photos in his sons’ room, and my heart melted a little more.

We ate. The wine went to my head, or maybe it was Eric’s attention. I found myself talking about everything and nothing: about my sisters and the goats; about running in the city; about my AP English teacher, Mrs. Ferguson. He was a good listener. His eyes never once glazed over the way a guy’s do when they wish you’d shut up and have sex. Like I was interesting enough simply being myself. Well. Mostly myself. I didn’t tell him about my blog. I asked about his family. His father had retired from the military. His parents still lived in Germany, near his mother’s family. His older sister was a vice president for international relationship management at some bank.

“My sister works in a bank, too. Worked in a bank,” I corrected myself. “Before the twins came along. She’s an awesome mother. And daughter. And sister. And wife. I don’t know how she does it all, honestly.”

“She is happy, your sister?”

I hesitated. “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Meg had said. Living for others, that was Meg. Except . . . She didn’t seem so happy lately. I’d texted her on my way over, asking if I could call, and she messaged me back. Sorry. Really busy. Maybe later?

Meaning, Later, maybe. She was really busy. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk to me. Which was totally unfair. I wasn’t the one questioning her choices.

“She’s a better person than I am,” I said, dodging the question.

“You seem like a good daughter to me,” Eric said. “A good sister.”

“I mean, I couldn’t give up my career to have a family.”

“You could have both.”

My heart stumbled. “That’s not what you said before. Cooking is your passion, you said.”

“I love to cook,” he said promptly. “When I was starting out, I worked twelve, fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. But I don’t have to make every plate anymore. I don’t need to be on fire, in the heat, on the line, all the time.” He reached out, his hand covering mine, clutching the fork. “Maybe I can learn to love more than one thing now, yeah?”

Warmth flooded my cheeks from his touch or the wine or the fire. I jabbed randomly at my plate, ridiculously happy.

After dinner, we did the dishes together. While he made coffee, I studied the shelves above the wine rack, where his cookbooks stood side by side like old friends. Alice Waters, The Art of Simple Food. Ferran Adrià’s El Bulli. Dornenburg and Page’s The Flavor Bible.