A Taste of Merlot by Heather Heyford Page A

house.”
    She glanced over at his profile.
    â€œAnd then I’m going to make you a sandwich.”
    Her eyebrows shot up.
    â€œHow do you know I even like sandwiches?”
    â€œEver have a Cubano?”
    â€œA Cu- what -o?”
    He grinned with such self-assurance it was evident, even in the dimness. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”
    Â 
    Meri leaned back in Mark’s kitchen chair, hands spanning her full-to-bursting stomach. She stared with glazed eyes at the leftover roast pork, sliced Virginia ham, open jar of pickles, and half-eaten loaf of bread. Of the five senses, there wasn’t one he hadn’t satisfied tonight. Thank goodness for the elastic waistband on the pajama bottoms he’d lent her—even though blue wasn’t her best color.
    â€œI never ate so much in my life. Did you forget we already had dinner?”
    â€œWorked up an appetite.” Munching a pickle, he nodded toward her clean plate. “You didn’t have to finish it. No one was holding a gun to your head.”
    â€œBut it was so good ! Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
    â€œPretty much by default,” he said, voice muffled by pickle. She waited until he swallowed. “Grew up with a working mom. Not that she didn’t cook, too, when she could. She liked to cook—had a whole shelf full of cookbooks—but she didn’t have time. Retail has weird hours. In sixth grade, I renounced the sitter and started taking care of myself. I’d get a craving for pho, or meatballs. Didn’t feel like waiting for Mom to come home. So, I’d get out one of her books.”
    â€œYou make your own Vietnamese soup?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. It’s all about the broth. Mom loved my pho .” He shrugged. “Liked almost everything I made. Pretty soon, I was making dinner every night. She really appreciated coming home to a meal already on the table, and it made me feel like I was contributing something. As I got older, I started branching out. Let’s see,” he said, gazing at the ceiling. “There was my taco phase.” He counted down on his fingers. “My spaghetti phase. Of course, no one will ever forget my infamous bacon phase—put it on anything that would hold still long enough.”
    â€œYou and your mom must be very close. Does she live here, in the city?”
    A cloud crossed his features. He set his pickle down unfinished and rose, gathering up the used knives and plates.
    â€œShe got sick with a fast-spreading cancer. Died my junior year in high school.”
    Meri recognized it as a default answer, to be dragged out whenever the subject of Mom came up. She relied on some of those, herself.
    He carried the dishes to the sink, setting them down with a muted clatter. “At least by then, I was pretty self-sufficient.”
    She watched the lean muscles in his upper back work as he scraped and rinsed the plates. If anyone knew what it was like to be abandoned, she did. But she didn’t want to visit that painful place right now. She stood. Over the running water, he didn’t hear her walk over to him. While he squeezed dish soap into the sink, she slid her arms around his waist. “Someday we’ll swap horror stories, all right? But not tonight. Let’s not ruin tonight.”
    With the heel of his palm Mark shut off the water. Then he turned and returned the hug. “Sounds like a plan.”
    She pulled back to give him a sleepy smile.
    â€œI’m exhausted. Mentally and physically.”
    â€œYou wore me out, too.”
    â€œLet’s go to bed. I’ll help you clean up in the morning.”

Chapter 15
    M eri awoke to the smell of bacon frying and a strong hand holding out a tall mug of sweet-smelling coffee.
    â€œWakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
    â€œMmmmmm,” she murmured, stretching. Mark waited patiently for her to sit up and take the drink. She drew the sheet up over her chest,