assessment of what was in his fridge and freezer at home. “You like grilled chicken?”
“Sure.”
“I like grilled chicken,” said Kiki. “And macaroni and cheese. And pie and milkshakes.” She smiled. “I like fowl roasted over a spit, too. That’s what pirates eat when they’re looking for treasure.” In a serious tone, she explained, “Fowl means bird.”
Moriah smiled wide, his teeth sparkling like an ad for toothpaste. “A girl after my own heart.” Then in a singsong voice, he belted out, “It’s a pirate’s life for me! Aye, aye! A pirate’s life for me!”
“I like pirates!” Kiki cried. “I was a pirate at Halloween.”
Moriah nodded. “I like them, too. They get to ride on cool ships and look for treasure. They never have to be home at a certain time. They just wander.”
Gideon wished it wasn’t so, but Kiki was looking at Moriah with a contented, dreamy expression, like she thought he was the most handsome man around. The truth was, he was. Gideon sucked in his jealousy, slapped Moriah on the back, and offered a small smile. “Good, good,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why.
I n his apartment kitchen, Gideon washed russet potatoes to roast, patting them dry and then covering them with dabs of butter and sprigsof fresh rosemary. He’d seen a chef on the Food Network make potatoes this way and ever since then had made his own. Finding a pack of frozen peas, he decided to add them to the menu. He’d spice them up a bit with some oregano and onions. “You still like peas?” he called out to Moriah, recalling a toddler in a high chair cramming peas into his miniature mouth.
There was no reply, so Gideon entered the living room where earlier Moriah had been stretched out on the sofa, his shoes off, his bare toes wiggling. The room was still—there was no sign of his brother. He checked the bathroom, both off his bedroom and the half bath in the hallway. “Moriah?”
Back in the kitchen, Gideon opened the oven to make sure the chicken was browning. He removed the pan, stirred the pieces and then added pepper to them.
Peering out his kitchen window, he hoped to see his brother, perhaps on the grassy common area beside his apartment building. Maybe he’d gone out for a cigarette. But although he craned his neck to scan as much of the view as he could, Moriah was not on the lawn.
Half an hour later, just as Gideon was about to take the chicken and potatoes from the oven, Moriah sprung open the front door to the apartment. A six-pack of Coors dangled from his hand. “Hey,” he grinned. “I thought we could use something good to drink.”
Moriah placed the cans on the kitchen table and opened one. Handing it to Gideon, he said, “Here you go.”
“No, thanks.”
Moriah took the beer and lifted it to his lips. “You’re missing out.”
Gideon merely stated, “Beer makes you fat.” He was not about to tell Moriah his own obsession with drinking when he was first loose from the reins of his parents. Upon his arrival in Twin Branches at the age of fifteen, he had drunk so much he fell asleep in an alleyway. The next morning he was discovered by a child on her way to school. The child called her mother to come look at the homeless bum. Never, he vowed, would he humiliate himself that way again.
Moriah ate like a famished mutt Gideon had once seen by the Dumpster outside the repair shop. “You’re a great cook,” he said as he chewed his last bite of chicken. “Where’d you learn?” Retrieving his paper napkin off the floor, he used the edge of it to wipe his mouth.
“TV shows. Emeril Lagasse and Gordon Ramsay.” He doubted his brother had a clue as to who these culinary masters were, but Moriah surprised him.
“That Gordon Ramsay sure knows how to help restaurants that are in trouble. I saw a few shows on how he helped failing restaurant owners get back on their feet.”
“I’ve
“Sure.”
“I like grilled chicken,” said Kiki. “And macaroni and cheese. And pie and milkshakes.” She smiled. “I like fowl roasted over a spit, too. That’s what pirates eat when they’re looking for treasure.” In a serious tone, she explained, “Fowl means bird.”
Moriah smiled wide, his teeth sparkling like an ad for toothpaste. “A girl after my own heart.” Then in a singsong voice, he belted out, “It’s a pirate’s life for me! Aye, aye! A pirate’s life for me!”
“I like pirates!” Kiki cried. “I was a pirate at Halloween.”
Moriah nodded. “I like them, too. They get to ride on cool ships and look for treasure. They never have to be home at a certain time. They just wander.”
Gideon wished it wasn’t so, but Kiki was looking at Moriah with a contented, dreamy expression, like she thought he was the most handsome man around. The truth was, he was. Gideon sucked in his jealousy, slapped Moriah on the back, and offered a small smile. “Good, good,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why.
I n his apartment kitchen, Gideon washed russet potatoes to roast, patting them dry and then covering them with dabs of butter and sprigsof fresh rosemary. He’d seen a chef on the Food Network make potatoes this way and ever since then had made his own. Finding a pack of frozen peas, he decided to add them to the menu. He’d spice them up a bit with some oregano and onions. “You still like peas?” he called out to Moriah, recalling a toddler in a high chair cramming peas into his miniature mouth.
There was no reply, so Gideon entered the living room where earlier Moriah had been stretched out on the sofa, his shoes off, his bare toes wiggling. The room was still—there was no sign of his brother. He checked the bathroom, both off his bedroom and the half bath in the hallway. “Moriah?”
Back in the kitchen, Gideon opened the oven to make sure the chicken was browning. He removed the pan, stirred the pieces and then added pepper to them.
Peering out his kitchen window, he hoped to see his brother, perhaps on the grassy common area beside his apartment building. Maybe he’d gone out for a cigarette. But although he craned his neck to scan as much of the view as he could, Moriah was not on the lawn.
Half an hour later, just as Gideon was about to take the chicken and potatoes from the oven, Moriah sprung open the front door to the apartment. A six-pack of Coors dangled from his hand. “Hey,” he grinned. “I thought we could use something good to drink.”
Moriah placed the cans on the kitchen table and opened one. Handing it to Gideon, he said, “Here you go.”
“No, thanks.”
Moriah took the beer and lifted it to his lips. “You’re missing out.”
Gideon merely stated, “Beer makes you fat.” He was not about to tell Moriah his own obsession with drinking when he was first loose from the reins of his parents. Upon his arrival in Twin Branches at the age of fifteen, he had drunk so much he fell asleep in an alleyway. The next morning he was discovered by a child on her way to school. The child called her mother to come look at the homeless bum. Never, he vowed, would he humiliate himself that way again.
Moriah ate like a famished mutt Gideon had once seen by the Dumpster outside the repair shop. “You’re a great cook,” he said as he chewed his last bite of chicken. “Where’d you learn?” Retrieving his paper napkin off the floor, he used the edge of it to wipe his mouth.
“TV shows. Emeril Lagasse and Gordon Ramsay.” He doubted his brother had a clue as to who these culinary masters were, but Moriah surprised him.
“That Gordon Ramsay sure knows how to help restaurants that are in trouble. I saw a few shows on how he helped failing restaurant owners get back on their feet.”
“I’ve
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