Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

P oppy was up to something. She had that "I have a plan" look she always gets when she has a big idea, so I frowned at her to head her off and smiled at Max. "Thank you for turfing Norman."

"You're welcome," he said, his eyes on the lasagna.

Ozzie had loved my lasagna. I got a little verklempt over the pan while I was dishing up because he'd have been all over it. He was the reason I'd learned to really cook, not fancy stuff but good, simple food in trade for the refuge he'd given me and Poppy. It was a good deal.

Damn it, Ozzie, why couldn't you have lived forever?

Poppy took the plate I filled and handed it to Max.

"This is Ozzie's wake," I explained.

Max raised his eyebrows at me. "If I'm intruding?—"

"Not at all," I said, handing Poppy her plate. "We may swap a couple of memories if you don't mind."

"That's fine," he said as Poppy started filling bowls with salad. "I'm curious about Ozzie. And his wife and daughter."

"No, no," Poppy said, almost dropping the salad she was handing me. "Ozzie saved us and in return he got cheap labor and great food and I got a cranky fake grandpa. My mother is not married. Never has been. She's completely free. So, Max, tell us about yourself."

"I thought this was Ozzie's wake," he said.

"Poppy. Do not pry." I put my own filled plate down on the table and snagged the corkscrew from the drawer. "Max obviously does not want to tell us anything about where he comes from or what he's doing here or how long he can stay or what he wants for breakfast, so it would be impolite to ask." I fixed him with my best quelling look. "Unless, of course, he would like to supply any of the above."

Poppy nodded and began to fork up her salad as I popped the cork on the wine.

Max took the bottle as I sat down, poured the red into a glass, and handed it to me. He looked unsure about giving one to Poppy so I said, "She's had a glass with dinner since she was fourteen, go for it," so he poured one for her, too. I thought that was pretty nice considering all he had was a glass of milk in front of him.

But then he cut into the lasagna like a starving man. When he'd tasted it and looked at me, surprised, I said, "Four kinds of cheese and parsley and basil, all fresh, with some oregano and a lot of Italian sausage. Also, no-cook noodles, much better texture."

He nodded and kept eating without answering any of the questions, and Poppy pushed his salad bowl closer and said, "Don't forget your greens," and I handed him a chunk of garlic bread dripping with butter and then tucked into my own plate of pasta.

It was so good, the sauce dark and savory with herbs and studded with juicy little tomato pieces, and the four creamy cheeses—ricotta, mozzarella, parm, and goat cheese, Ina Garten's recipe—blended into thick, stringy heaven, spackling the tender noodles together, all of it dense and bubbly and hot and smelling like Italian paradise. I'm a good plain cook in general, but my lasagna is a work of art. Well, Ina Garten's lasagna, but I added the oregano.

"Remember the first time we made this for Ozzie?" Poppy said. "He took one bite, chewed, and then said, ‘You should make this every week.' It was love at first bite." She looked at Max. "Not for Mom, for the lasagna. "

"I remember when Norman came for dinner," I said, "and ate half the pan so there were no leftovers. That's when Ozzie barred him from the house."

Poppy and I swapped Ozzie stories, the funny ones, about the things he'd brought home—he used to drive around for days in the summer looking for garage sales and old houses that might have things he could buy on the cheap, but really he just liked driving around in the mountains—and the way he dealt with customers—Ozzie felt the customer was always wrong—and the way Poppy could wrap him around her little finger from the time she was born. "He loved you," I told her, and I got all verklempt again, but I did not cry because Max was sitting there, and he looked like it would make him nervous.

He was mostly quiet, listening to Poppy and me and devouring salad, bread, and two large helpings of lasagna like a starving man, which I was pretty sure he was. That bit about him being homeless had rocked me. He wasn't looking for sympathy, he seemed fine with it, but I didn't like it. People should have a warm place to go at night. I wondered if the Colorado address on the license was an old one. What was his story? I was really doubting now that he was in cahoots with Junior. They didn't seem like they'd bond.

Of course, there was a chance that Poppy and I were going to be homeless, too. If you're about to say I should have saved up for the eventuality, Ozzie hadn't paid me much to work in the shop, and since he was giving us free room and board I never complained, but it meant there was never any extra. At least that was one thing I didn't have to feel guilty about: Nobody could have put away savings while raising a kid on what I made. Fortunately, Poppy loved thrifting—"Secondhand is first rate," she'd told me when she was six, and I'd almost cried—and her only extravagance was animals in trouble, and if something big came up, like the hospital bill when she was born or when she broke her arm, Ozzie pulled out a wad of cash and took care of it. Ozzie was our savior. And now he was gone. Damn it.

We finished and I hadn't managed to do anything for dessert, so I cleared the table and Max stood up .

"That was excellent," he said. "Thank you. And now we have to be going?—"

"No," Poppy said firmly. "Maggs needs to stay off that paw for a while."

"What's a while?" Max asked.

"Several days at least," Poppy said.

Max shook his head. "Not possible. We need to be moving tonight. I have to finish the Trail."

"But you have Ozzie's room for the night," Poppy protested. "Although we do need to clean it up a little." She shook her head and used that voice she used whenever she got stern with me. "There is no way Maggs can walk on that paw tonight. Absolutely not."

Max raised an eyebrow and looked at me as if for help. I smiled and shrugged.

"I left my backpack south of town so I could carry Maggs here," he finally said. "I'd need to get that." He looked down at Maggs. "But we really should?—"

"I'll keep an eye on Maggs," Poppy promised.

"I can drive you to get it," I offered. "Ozzie's Pathfinder is out back."

"No, thank you, I can walk if we stay." He pointed to his feet. "New boots."

I nodded. I'd seen that his limp was a little better, and a night off the trail would help that, too, so I began to clean up, putting the leftovers in the fridge, pretty sure he'd stay the night. Max helped clear the table, which was sweet of him, and Poppy put the dishes in the sink to soak and went back to combing out Maggs' matted hair. Maggs had done a very polite job of hoovering up the dog food Poppy had poured out for her, so she was obviously feeling fine and that was good.

William just ignored everybody. Well, he's a cat.

I heard the door to the shop ring again and got up to go out to give the customer a Cheery Boost, another person who couldn't read a CLOSED sign, although it was really my fault because I had forgotten to lock the damn door after I let Max in .

Okay, we might not have a store once Barry opened Oz's envelope day after tomorrow, but for now we'd keep going. Besides, if the customer bought something good, I might have money for a better dinner tomorrow. Max looked like the kind of guy who'd appreciate a steak. Simple guy food. Twice-baked potatoes full of sour cream and cheese and butter and chives. Another green salad, this time with homemade Caesar. Maybe some dessert if I had time to bake. Cookies, maybe. So portable.

"You really should stay tonight," I told Max on my way to the front. "Give Maggs time to heal. Leftover lasagna for lunch tomorrow. It's no trouble if you stay, I just have to put clean sheets on Ozzie's bed."

He shook his head, and I backed off. Poppy was probably not going to let him take his dog anyway. We had a hostage.

I went out to sell the hell out of whatever this customer wanted, ignoring the other thought trying to claw its way out of the back of my mind:

Norman had known who Serena Stafford was.

I smelled zebra.