A Home by the Sea. Christina Skye

hand, then cleared his throat and stood up quickly. A distance filled his face. Grace saw sadness drift through his eyes.

      “Noah?”

      He turned away as plates rattled in the kitchen. A chair slid out from the table.

      “You two coming back to eat? Because I may have to finish these dumplings before they get cold,” Noah’s brother called out, smiling when his wife, small and gorgeous, chided him and dug her elbow into his ribs. He leaned down to kiss her, while Tatiana urged more food on both of them. Reed’s daughter toddled toward him, then crowed with laughter when he held up a long noodle and made it wriggle like a worm.

      It was noisy, messy and achingly seductive.

      This was what a big family felt like. Grace hadn’t realized there could be so much energy and emotion contained in one small room.

      She felt a sudden sense of regret that she had not grown up in this kind of big, noisy family. Growing up, there had been no brothers to tease her and no sisters to confide in. There was no father to offer calm guidance and no mother to protect and steer her. After all, she had never known her father.

      And her mother was mostly a string of bad memories.

      Grace rubbed her forehead. None of that mattered. She was in control of her life now, perfectly content with her grandfather’s love and support. She had a wonderful job doing what she loved most.

      There was no room in her life for regrets.

      Noah leaned over and pulled an age-softened alpaca afghan around her shoulders. “Everything okay?”

      “Just daydreaming. Sorry.”

      “Did you like my mother’s dumplings?”

      “They were heavenly. I notice she added a little bit of sour cream to her dough. That’s unusual, no?”

      “You caught that?” Noah raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the arm of the couch. “It was a custom in her family. You really do know something about foreign food, don’t you?”

      Grace didn’t tell him that she had traveled through ten cities in Eastern Europe, interviewing cooks all along the way. She didn’t add that she was planning to write a book on worldwide varieties of dumplings someday.

      She looked up as Noah’s mother crossed the room, holding out a cup of hot tea. “You left this, so I made you another. It is nice and hot.” Her eyes were shining. It was clear that she was delighted by the presence of her family, happy to see everyone eating well, safe here within her house. “You are well, Grace? The little cats too?”

      “Wonderful.”

      “You must eat more! You only had one bowl of borscht and a few perogies. Even Reed’s little girl, in her highchair, can eat one bowl of borscht.”

      “No more for me, I’m afraid. Your poppy-seed cake smells wonderful, so I have to save room for that.”

      “You will have the first piece then.” Tatiana sat down beside her and held her hands out to the fire. “Did you enjoy your travels in that side of the world? Was there family to visit there?”

      “I had a distant cousin from Slovenia. He was held to be quite a good cook. I was very little when I visited with my grandmother, so my memories are blurred. But I remember his borscht above everything. He labored over it, coaxed it and talked to it. When it was done, he served it from a big tureen in blue-and-white porcelain bowls and his finest silver. I think he would have been very happy with your version of the recipe.”

      “I would like to have met him. It’s always good to talk about old times and recipes with someone who cares for the past. You have been back recently?”

      “Three years ago. I visited Austria and Eastern Europe on a cooking internship. I didn’t get to stay long in one place, but it was fascinating. I learned the common threads that make any cuisine great.”

      “I can tell you what those are.” Tatiana swept the table with a lingering glance. “Not salt. Not the best extra-virgin olive oil. It is love that melds the flavors and tenderizes the meat. It makes the thinnest of ingredients go down with wonderful flavor. Is it not so?”

      “All true. Even fine ingredients can be ruined by an angry chef or a cook trying to cut corners.”

      Tatiana McLeod squeezed her son’s shoulder and smiled slowly. “I like this young woman. You will bring her here to dinner often, Noah. I think she could teach me some things, and that I would enjoy very much.”

      “It would be my pleasure, Mama, but that is for the lady to decide.”

      Grace had been watching the box by the fire, and suddenly she saw the towel rise and begin to creep over the sides of the box, carried by two inquisitive kittens. The puppy was right behind them, awkward and stumbling on his small, wobbly legs. “Excuse me. I see trouble.”

      Grace lunged to collect her charges. One of the kittens mewed and climbed up against her chest, purring loudly. Grace didn’t move, swept by a feeling of contentment so rich and heavy that all movement was beyond her.

      Noah grinned as he slung one arm around his mother’s shoulder. “Hard to get irritated when they’re so cute. But that one could be trouble. He’s going to be a real explorer.”

      “Just like you,” Tatiana said quietly. “Always moving. Always curious about every little thing. ‘Why does it rain, Mama? What makes the sun set, Mama? How do you make your best borscht, Mama?’“

      Noah ran a hand through his hair. “I sound like a menace.”

      “Not a menace. A normal and very wonderful child.”

      “A menace,” Noah muttered, looking sheepish.

      Someone called for Noah’s mother, and she returned, pulling on a fresh apron as she headed through the kitchen.

      As three generations of McLeods laughed and joked and argued, Grace felt a sudden longing to be home with her grandfather, eating Swedish meatballs at the kitchen table, catching up on all the news at the animal shelter and the small population of Summer Island. Peter Lindstrom wasn’t growing any younger, and although he had always enjoyed perfect health, Grace knew that could change at any moment. And how could she bear that?

      A hand touched Grace’s shoulder. “Hey. Is everything okay? Do you need some help with your little climber?”

      “No, I’m fine. They’re all so incredibly cute.” The littlest one snuggled against her chest, rolled onto his back and heaved out a sigh of contentment.

      “They definitely know a good thing when they see one. Smart, all of them.”

      Noah reached down and rubbed the mother cat gently beneath the chin. She pushed at his hand, eyes slitted with pleasure, purring softly.

      “They all like you, Noah. I think you make them feel safe.”

      “We always had at least two pets running through the house when I was growing up. Controlled chaos, my father called it. What about you?”

      “We didn’t have pets at home. There was no time. My grandfather was a vet, and when I was fourteen he took over the care of the county animal shelter. Then when the county’s finances became rocky, he took personal responsibility for the shelter.”

      “He must be a very good man.” Noah leaned back, braced on one elbow. “How did he manage it? Food, rent, medicine—it had to cost an arm and a leg.”

      “It’s been difficult. Lately I think he’s been drawing from his savings, but he refuses to discuss it with me or anyone else. The animal shelter is a labor of love. I help out as much as I can when I’m home, but it isn’t enough. In fact, I’ve been thinking lately that I should choose my workshops by location. That way I can be home with him more often.”

      “It’s a hard call, but I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Growing up with an animal shelter sounds great.