Read Online The Coach House by Florence Osmund - Free Book Online Page B

saucy little wench.” She sat sideways on his lap, raised her eyes to meet his, and kissed him, relaxing into the warmth of his touch. He held her in his arms, then stood up and retreated into the bedroom. “Now for dessert!”
    * * *
    In their second year of marriage, Marie and Richard enjoyed many of the same things they had enjoyed during courtship, one of them being cooking together. Richard was the real cook. Marie just followed directions.
    “Should we make lasagna tonight?” Richard asked one afternoon.
    “Sounds great,” Marie responded. “It’ll bring back memories.” That had been the first meal they had cooked together at his apartment while they were dating.
    Richard walked into the living room with a glass of wine for each of them. “That day was one I would love to relive, Mrs. Marchetti.” He bent down to kiss her.
    “That was the day you had my car fixed while I was at work. You were pretty gallant back then, Mr. Marchetti.”
    “And I’m not now?” he teased.
    “I’ll let you know after dinner,” she teased back. She climbed the stairs to their bedroom to change clothes while he got things started in the kitchen. She emerged a few minutes later in a blue silky dress, the same one she had worn on the first day they met, and the same one she had worn to his apartment a few months later when they cooked lasagna together.
    Richard looked at her and smiled a smile that went straight to her heart. “Get your pretty behind over here.” He scooped her up in his arms and gave her a strong hug. “I am defenseless against that dress!” He kissed her passionately. “Just defenseless.”
    They spent the next two hours cooking, he guiding her as to what to do next…as usual. He cooked from memory and instinctive know-how. She needed a cookbook to boil water.
    Marie studied his physique while he stood in front of the stove, his broad shoulders narrowing down to a tight waist. He had pushed up his sleeves, revealing his strong forearms. The hem of his sweater rested gently on the top of his narrow hips with one side slightly askew. He hummed as he stirred the sauce. She remembered the first time she had looked at him in that way; the gentle strength about him arousing.
    As they constructed the layers of lasagna from noodles, sauce, bescia-mella, pieces of mozzarella, and grated Grana Padano, Harry James sang “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” in the background. The aroma of the baking lasagna gradually filled the air. They sat close to one another on the sofa while dinner cooked.
     
    Kiss me once, then kiss me twice
    Then kiss me once again
    It’s been a long, long time
    Haven’t felt like this, my dear
    Since I can’t remember when
    It’s been a long, long time
    “Hold that thought.” She dashed upstairs to where she kept a memory box. She retrieved the dried purple daisy he had stolen from his next-door neighbor’s yard the first time they had cooked together.
    She looked around the office, distracted by her recollection of how impressed she had been when she first saw these furnishings in his apartment: the antique roll-top desk; bookcases with leaded glass doors; and the Tchelitchew painting of peasant girls that had been a gift from the Rosas.
    She noticed a book awkwardly tucked behind a box of envelopes. Of Human Bondage, the book she and his father had discussed the first time she met his family. Well, that’s interesting. For some reason he felt compelled to read this book. She wondered why. At the time, he seemed abhorrently disinterested in her discussion with his father. She wondered if it bothered him that his father, for whom he displayed so little homage, had done something impressive, something he hadn’t done. The idea worried her.
    Marie shook off her thoughts, raced down the stairs, and sat next to her husband. “I saved this,” she said with a blissful smile, showing him the flower. “Do you remember what you confessed to me that night?”
    He shook his head.
    “I