“Someone else did,” Abby said carefully. “But I’ve kept it.”
Not her regret, exactly. The regret of the house itself—a creaky Victorian that had seen four generations of family dinners, burnt casseroles, and tearful arguments over unpaid bills. But mostly, the regret belonged to the man who had built the kitchen island with his own hands, then left her for a woman who couldn’t boil water.
They ate standing up, snow falling outside the window, the kitchen finally full of something that wasn’t memory. abby winters kitchen
Clara looked at her—really looked, past the apron and the defensive posture and the two years of stubborn solitude. “Good,” she said softly. “Some things are worth keeping, even if they come with a story.”
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m Clara. From 3B? The building next door? My oven died in the middle of baking this, and your light was on, and I thought—well, I thought maybe you’d let me finish it here. I’ve knocked on three other doors. You’re my last hope before I eat raw pie dough in the stairwell.” “Someone else did,” Abby said carefully
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.
Abby Winters’ kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret. But mostly, the regret belonged to the man
Abby, on impulse, ladled two bowls of tomato soup. She tore off a hunk of sourdough and set it between them like an offering.