For the next hour, they moved around each other in the warm, fragrant kitchen like dancers learning a new step. Clara slid her pie onto the middle rack. Abby stirred her sauce and tried not to stare at the way Clara hummed while she washed her hands, or the way she leaned against the oak island like it had always belonged to her, too.
She stood over a simmering pot of tomato sauce—her grandmother’s recipe, the one written in fading ink on an index card stained with olive oil. The windows were fogged with steam. Outside, the first real snow of December was beginning to fall, thick and quiet. abby winters kitchen
Abby, on impulse, ladled two bowls of tomato soup. She tore off a hunk of sourdough and set it between them like an offering. For the next hour, they moved around each
Clara stepped inside, stamping snow off her boots. She smelled like cinnamon and something else—clove, maybe, or the kind of confidence Abby had forgotten she could borrow. She stood over a simmering pot of tomato
That was two years ago. Abby had since replaced the butcher block countertops, installed a brass faucet that didn’t drip, and painted the walls a forgiving shade of sage. But she couldn’t bring herself to replace the island. It was solid oak, stubborn as a mule, and she had learned to work around it.
The front door creaked open.
“Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside. “My kitchen’s a mess, but the oven works.”