Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

A FEW NIGHTS AFTER all the fun at the library gala, I invite Dr. Ben over for dinner, telling him that I'm doing the cooking for a change.

"What are we celebrating?"

"How about me walking away from Elise Parsons after she got the first swing in? My dad used to tell me that if a hockey fight was about to break out, I had to be the one to throw the first punch."

"I'm still shocked you did. Walk away, I mean."

"Not as shocked as I was."

He's very good in the kitchen, with an imaginative flair for cooking. What he doesn't know is that he's not nearly as good as I am. One of the many secrets I haven't shared with him.

But not for long.

When Ben arrives, he immediately tells me how good the house smells.

"So, what's for dinner? You've failed to mention that."

"Beef Wellington."

I've already poured the wine, and hand him a glass of Caymus, a Napa Valley cabernet far more expensive than what I usually spend on wine, no matter what the occasion. It just seems worthy of the meal I'm preparing.

I see genuine surprise in his eyes.

" You are making beef Wellington ?"

"Don't sound so shocked, Dr. Kalinsky."

"I just know how difficult it is to get beef Wellington right."

"You mean because of the chopping and dusting of the steak with the flour, frying it just right in oil, then slow-cooking the whole thing with the perfect blend of red wine and garlic and mushrooms and onions, before topping it with a puff pastry that only the bravest home cooks ever think about attempting? That kind of difficult, doc?"

He stares at me. "Who are you? Somebody must have taught you to cook."

"Martin."

"Who's Martin?"

"My second ex-husband."

I take a healthy sip of my wine.

"That sonofabitch," I say.