They had developed a rhythm in the kitchen. Abigail busied herself without being asked. Their paths moved and crossed with the ease of a dance.
Some nights they interrupted each other constantly, talking on end. Others they shared a comfortable silence among the dull clicking of knives and spoons on metal bowls.
“Are you going to tell me more about where we’ll be going?” More thyme leaves fell from Abigail’s fingers as their eyes met. “I know that look, but I still can’t read your mind.”
The skillet sizzled with a toss. “Isn’t it better to be surprised?”
Her eyes skimmed the floor. “Surprises aren’t always good.”
Fair. These days it was easy to overlook. They didn’t talk much about the past. Only the future. Only on his terms. Vague but always hopeful.
It wasn’t much. It wasn’t even something she hadn’t heard before. But it was enough to bring a lopsided smile.
Seeing her perched against the counter was one of his favorite images. It could be any kitchen, anywhere in the world. As if they were already waiting for Will to come in with the dogs.
Abigail reached up for a bowl just in time for him to scrape in the mire poix. “Will I be your sous chef or will he?”
“There’s always enough work to go around.”
“No one is going to dethrone you.”
It might have seemed patronizing if she didn’t believe it was true. “Not even Will?”
He’d be coming in right about now. Pink from his walk, smelling of fresh air.
Hannibal looked at her a moment as if she might answer. He tried to save the wistfulness until after she was asleep.
I want you to be happy. I want all of us to be happy.
“You really believe he’ll come, don’t you?”
He met her eyes without hesitation.
