Swept Away by Michelle Dalton Page B

way past my usual lunchtime.
    â€œHow about . . .” He rummages in the fridge and pulls out a paper-wrapped packet. “Turkey?” He tosses it onto the counter. Then he reaches in and pulls out another packet. “Or ham.” He tosses that onto the counter too. “Or that old classic, PB and J. The J being Maine wild blueberry of course.” He pulls out the jars and places them on the counter, then peers into the fridge again. I have the feeling if I don’t stop him, he’ll empty its entire contents.
    â€œHam,” I declare, just as he holds up several plastic-wrapped cheeses. I cross and take what looks like Swiss from him. “And cheese.”
    He grins, and in the brightness of his smile all of my annoyance vanishes. “Mustard? Mayo? Lettuce? Cornichons?”
    â€œCornichons?” I repeat. “Who has cornichons?”
    He shrugs as he holds up a jar. “Pops is kind of into fancy food.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me!”
    â€œThat’s surprising to you?”
    â€œHe—he just never struck me as the gourmet type.” I frown. “Except this kitchen looks like it belongs to someone who knows food.”
    â€œYeah. He’s definitely a better cook than my mom.”
    â€œI heard that.” We both glance up and see his mom standing in the doorway.
    â€œUh . . . sorry, Mom.”
    I notice she has the same twinkly blue eyes as Oliver. “Don’t be. I agree with you. He likes cooking; I don’t. Though I can’t remember him doing any cooking when I was a kid.” Her voice changes as she adds, with less warmth, “It was a later interest.”
    She eyes the counter, now piled high with all the choices Oliver pulled out. “Hungry?”
    â€œJust being a good host,” Oliver explains. I can see that he and his mom get along and they like teasing each other.
    â€œPlanning on eating the peanut butter with a spoon?” She crosses to the sink and places her cappuccino cup into it.
    Oliver and I both look at the counter. He smacks his forehead. “Bread! I knew I was forgetting something.”
    â€œThat’s so something I would do,” I tell him. “Including the head smack.”
    He smiles again, obviously appreciating my mini confessions. It’s cool to meet someone I can tell embarrassing things to, and instead of making fun of me (yes, Justin, I mean you!), he thinks they’re endearing. At least, that’s how it seems.
    â€œHow’s the project going?” Alice asks.
    â€œWe’re going to apply the papier-mâché after lunch,” Oliver says. So that’s what’s on the agenda for the afternoon. Excellent! Something I know how to do. And very difficult to screw up.
    â€œSounds like you’ve got it all under control.”
    â€œWhere’s the cooler?” Oliver asks. “We’re going down by the river.”
    â€œDon’t track the mud in,” she warns as she steps aside and opens a very well-organized pantry behind her. She pulls a Styrofoam cooler from a shelf. “You know your grandfather.”
    â€œOutside is outside, inside’s in,” Oliver says, sounding as if he’s quoting a well-worn saying. He takes the cooler from her and tosses in some cool-packs he pulls from the freezer. Only he drops them twice before they land where they’re supposed to. I pretend not to notice.
    â€œExactly.” Alice opens a cupboard and takes out a plate, then narrows her eyes at the counter. “I’ll wait till you’re through in here.” She returns the plate to the shelf and once again tousles Oliver’s hair as she leaves the room.
    Oliver rolls his eyes and smooths his hair back down. “Moms, right?”
    â€œDon’t I know it.”
    We make our sandwiches—ham and cheese for me, turkey with, ooh la di da , cornichons for him—then stash them in the cooler. Oliver adds two sodas, a pair of