The knock came very close to noon. Steve got up from the sofa, grabbing the cane that was leaning against the armchair and crossed slowly to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the dead bolt off and opened the heavy wooden door.
As he expected, a grinning Mike Stone was on the stoop. What he wasn't expecting was seeing his partner standing very erect, his right arm no longer in a sling, although his shoulders seemed unnaturally high, as if shrugging. "Hi," the older man said brightly, though a slight tinge of trepidation seemed to be haunting his eyes.
Steve's left hand travelled to the back of his own neck and he raised his chin, taking a deep breath and glancing up, as if afraid to make eye contact, afraid he couldn't keep his own unexpected apprehension under control. It seemed such a long time since he had looked into the familiar blue eyes, and he wasn't sure he could trust himself to remain on an even keel. The past two days with Olsen had proved more emotionally draining than he was prepared to admit.
"Hi," he finally managed to get out, "um, ah, come in." He took a step back and gestured towards the room.
"Ah," Mike held up a finger, "I'm, ah, I'm gonna need a hand getting all this stuff in." He pointed down, and Steve's eyes followed the movement. There was a large black duffel bag and several paper grocery bags on the stoop at Mike's feet.
Steve looked up, his brow furrowed. "What the hell is all that?"
"Well, give me a hand bringing it all in and I'll tell you." Without bending over, he squatted and, looking out of the corner of his eye, grabbed the top of a paper bag. He glanced up at his partner and raised his eyebrows. "They have me in a figure-8 brace, they call it. I'm sort of at permanent attention now. I can't bend over," he explained.
"Ah, I was wondering why you seemed taller, and appeared to be shrugging," Steve replied with a grin and a nod. "Well, ah, between the two of us, we should be able to accomplish this. Pass me the bag, if you can."
"Oh, I can, I just have to be careful. It still hurts like hell," Mike said, gritting his teeth as his picked up one of the paper bags with his left hand and held it out for the younger man to take. "Slow but sure… It's a good thing we're not pressed for time."
Steve grabbed the paper sack and took a step back to put it on the floor just inside the door. "How about we do this in two parts? Let's get everything in and then we can ferry it into the kitchen, where I presume it's going?"
Mike was reaching down for another bag. "You presume correctly."
As Steve reached for the bag, he glanced out at the street, not seeing Mike's car. "You didn't drive here, did you?"
Mike passed over a bag. "Oh, god, no. I can't drive yet. Lenny dropped me off. He was my chauffeur this morning – a trip to the doctor for the brace and then to several grocery stores and sundry shops. I really put him to work," he finished with an almost evil chuckle.
Everything safely inside, Mike closed the door behind himself. When he had picked up the duffel bag, metal objects had clanked about, and the younger man gave him a curious look. "You brought frying pans?" he asked, recognizing the sound.
Smiling a little sheepishly, Mike nodded. "Well, I've never done too much cooking here, other than just warming stuff up, and I wasn't sure if you had everything I need."
"Need for what?"
"Remember me telling you Jeannie bought me a cookbook for my birthday?"
"Yeah, you mentioned something about using me as a guinea pig, if I recall correctly."
"You do, and yes, this is the day." They were moving the bags into the kitchen, covering all the spare counter space and the entire tabletop.
Steve couldn't resist a goofy grin. "You're gonna cook me a gourmet dinner?"
Undoing the zipper on the duffel bag that was lying on the floor, Mike looked up with a warning glare. "Just so you know, I'm not doing all the cooking; you're gonna be helping too. There's a lot of work to be done."
Still grinning, Steve leaned his cane against the counter and starting unpacking one of the bags. "I'm game, just tell me what to do." His eyes widened as he watched Mike take a large, fairly thick book with an aquamarine cover out of the duffel and set it on the table. He angled his head so he could read it. "Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child… you've got to be kidding me, right?"
Mike's narrow-eyed glare shut him up quickly. "For your information, hotshot, this is one of the best cookbooks around and the recipes are delicious."
"I bet they are," the younger man said haltingly, trying to sound impressed, "but my experience with French cooking revolves around things like crepes Suzette, escargot, coq au vin and quiche Lorraine. I've never been a big fan…well, except for the coq au vin, that's kinda good," he finished lamely.
"Ah ha," Mike said triumphantly, getting slowly to his feet with the help of the table, "I'm about to make you a believer, or at least a convert."
"So… ah, what are you making?"
Mike smiled enigmatically. "You're a detective, right?'
"So I've been told," came the facetious reply.
"So, you're gonna have to figure it out yourself when you see all the ingredients, Mr. College Education."
"Hey, I majored in Criminology with a minor in Psychology; I never went anywhere near a kitchen. How am I supposed to figure out the main course from the ingredients?"
Mike tapped his temple with a forefinger. "It's called logic, my boy – there are only going to be so many conclusions you can come to, so put your thinking cap on and suss it out." He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "What? Don't you think you're up to the, ah, challenge?"
Steve smirked and lowered his chin, staring at his partner under a furrowed brow. He started to nod slowly. "All right," he said languidly, his curiosity and innate love of competition piqued. "You're on. But -" He raised a finger. "- can I consult the cookbook after I see all the ingredients?"
Mike sighed heavily, thought about it, then nodded. "As a last resort."
Steve nodded in agreement, then gestured towards the other bags. "Okay, let's see what you brought."
With a doubt-filled snort, Mike started to empty the contents of the paper bags onto the table. "Oh, by the way, we're also making a salad and a dessert, so good luck deciding which ingredients go with which recipe," he snickered.
"Great," Steve sneered as he unpacked the bags on the counter. The more he saw, the deeper his frown. From the first bag he produced red and yellow bell peppers, garlic, green and yellow beans, a paper bag filled with mushrooms, another paper bag of new small potatoes, red and yellow tomatoes, one small white onion and a bunch of carrots. The second contained a bottle of black olives, a tin of anchovy fillets, a bottle of cider vinegar, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, a jar of pearl onions, a jar of Dijon mustard, a quart of milk, a small carton of cream and a small bottle of vanilla extract.
He glanced at the table, where Mike had finished unpacking the two large bags that were there. He could see a package of stewing beef, a large slab of a fish which looked like tuna, a tin of tomato paste, a brick of butter, a bag of flour, cooking onions, a package of bacon, a bottle of red wine, a carton of eggs, a large bag of sugar, and a large unidentifiable assortment of fresh herbs.
Mike was watching him as he studied the assorted ingredients. "Give up?" he said brightly.
"Ha ha, I haven't even started yet," the younger man retorted dryly. "Okay, so, you've gotta give me some time."
Mike pursed his lips, frowning, pretending to give the idea some serious thought. "You're right, I'm not being fair. Okay, let's say you have till we completely separate the ingredients for the different dishes, how does that sound?"
"What, you mean like, what, a couple of minutes from now? Come on, that's not fair. You have the upper hand here, you know. I know nothing about French cooking, or cooking in general, for that matter," he finished almost sotto voce.
Mike chuckled, as he folded up the paper bags and slid them alongside the fridge. "You should spend a little more time at my place and take some lessons from Jeannie – she'll have you cooking like James Beard in no time!"
"But I don't want to cook like James Bond."
"James Beard, smartass. If you spent less time chasing girls and more time on the finer things, you'd be very well-rounded, my boy. A real renaissance man."
"Does that mean I have to take up painting too?" The smirk that accompanied the remark was hidden by the turned away face, but he swung back quickly. "Oh, you mean a polymath, right?" There was a sense of triumph in the question, asked innocently with raised eyebrows.
Mike's smile disappeared quickly, replaced by a stunned confusion. "No, wait a minute, this doesn't have anything to do with arithmetic…" he began slowly, holding up a finger and frowning.
Steve's triumphant grin, figuring he had won this particular battle of wits, withered and died on the vine when he spotted Mike's wide eyes and tongue planted firmly in his cheek. "You know what polymath means, right?" he growled lowly, his shoulders sinking.
"They seem to use that word a lot in crossword puzzles," the older man grinned as he turned back towards the table, laughing quietly.
Chuckling, Steve took a step closer to the table. "Okay, you win. So, step one, I guess, we divide the ingredients into the three recipes?"
"Well, that seems to play right into your hands but, yes, I guess we kinda have to do that." He smiled. "However, personally I don't think that's going to help you one bit. Good luck!"
"Thanks," came the dry reply, rewarded with a cheeky chuckle.
Mike glanced around at the various items spread over the counter and table. "All right, divide and conquer. Let's put the ingredients for the main course on the table, the salad and dessert on the counter. I'll read out the ingredients for the main course and you can move them to the table; how does that sound? Pass me the cookbook," he asked as he picked up the slab of fish and stepped towards the counter.
Steve nodded with a facial shrug. "Works for me. Shoot." He reached for the heavy cookbook on the table but it slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor with a bang.
His back to the room, Mike flinched, grabbing the counter instinctively with both hands then gasped in pain and caught his breath. Steve, who had begun to bend automatically when he dropped the book, caught the uncharacteristic reaction from his partner and froze. Mike had remained facing the counter, but he had dropped his head slightly and was breathing heavily through his open mouth.
"Are you okay?" Steve asked quietly, and watched as his partner started to nod slowly, getting himself under control. Steve glanced down at the book on the floor then back up, realizing that the sound had been eerily similar to a shot. "It's okay… I, ah, I just dropped the cookbook. It's a heavy bastard…" he said with a slight chuckle, trying to lighten the sudden tension in the room.
Mike cleared his throat. "Yeah… ah, yeah, it sure is." He turned slowly away from the counter, looking embarrassed and a little strained. Steve had picked up the book and handed it to him. With a nod and clearing his throat once again, Mike turned back to the counter, put the book down and opened it to a page he had previously marked with a piece of paper.
Steve stared at the back of his partner's slightly downturned head. He reached out and put a hand on Mike's shoulder. He could feel the brace as his fingers gripped the older man's neck and squeezed gently. He felt and heard Mike take a quick, sharp breath.
They both hoped the banter and light-hearted mood would return. But reality had a way of thwarting the best of plans, the best of intentions. They still had a long road to travel, but from this point on, it would be walked together.