He knew she would accept. Her initial bashfulness was all a cute act. It made their interaction more interesting—exciting, even. They both enjoyed it.

At first, Gordon suggested going to one of the highly sought-after restaurants in Georgetown, but from his subconscious came another idea. “Or you could try my fufu and groundnut stew,” he suggested.

“Are you serious?” Josephine said. “You can make that?”

“I can. My late wife, Regina, taught me, so I learned from the best.”

“How could I possibly resist?” Josephine said.

In truth, it had been a long time since Gordon had made groundnut stew and he had to look up some recipes on the Internet to refresh his memory. The most important first step was to buy the least-processed peanut butter possible. The fufu wasn’t an issue since one could easily buy the powdered, just-add-water version. Real fufu involved strenuous pounding with mortar and pestle. He ran over to Afrik International Food Market in Hyattsville, MD, for the plantain fufu flour. There was more traffic than Gordon had anticipated and when he returned to begin cooking in his recently renovated kitchen, he found himself short on time.

He was therefore quite nervous at first when Josephine arrived—not as ready as he had wanted to be. He was split between conversing with her and finishing up the meal.

“Can I help at all, Gordon?” she asked.

“Well, it’s almost ready, actually.” He hesitated and then gave in. “Would you mind checking the fufu though?”

She was happy to do so. “A little more water and stirring,” she advised.

He thought how achingly lovely she was in a dark, formfitting outfit and heels. He had a thing for heels.

“This is a beautiful kitchen,” she remarked, as she shaped the fufu into a smooth, glutinous mass.

“Thank you,” he said.

They ate in the dining room. Gordon dimmed the lights and lit two candles. Josephine nodded in approval after trying her first mouthful. “You have really tried,” she said, the Ghanaian way of saying you’ve done a terrific job.

“Thank you,” he said. His chest was swelling with pride. He felt so good that she was here and that he had made this special meal for their mutual enjoyment.

“So, are you flying directly to Accra?” Gordon asked her as they tucked in. It really did taste good.

“No,” she replied, taking a dainty spoonful. “I’ll stop in the UK.”

“Ah. To see friends?”

“Yes,” she said. “And to see our son, Kwame.”

“Is he in school there?”

She smiled a little. “Actually, it’s an institution called Warwickshire Home. Kwame is autistic. He’s been there for many years.”

“Oh. How often do you get to see him?”

“Three or four times a year,” Josephine said. “I still feel guilty that it couldn’t be more often, but you see, in Ghana he wouldn’t receive adequate care. James—my husband—and I made the decision long ago to move him to the UK.”

“I see,” Gordon said, studying her and trying to read her emotions. A lot was there, but he sensed she was keeping it shrouded. “How is Kwame doing?”