New Year's Wedding. Muriel Jensen

Then he opened the bottom drawer in the stove that held a barbecue apron his mother had given him that he’d never used. He handed it to her. She slipped her head through the neck hole and tied the strings behind her. Born to Barbecue was printed in rough red lettering above a caricature of a man in front of a barbecue, his chef’s hat on fire.

      She looked down at herself and snickered. “Now here’s a look for the catwalk. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

      Two places were set at the breakfast bar. She’d found two placemats he never used along with dark blue cloth napkins stored in the same drawer.

      She poured coffee and brought him a cup. “This might be a little girlie for you. It’s Colombian coffee with dulce de leche flavor. I have a pound in my bag whenever I travel.”

      He took a sip. “Definitely girlie, but good.” It was wonderful to have coffee ready when he got up. Even girlie coffee. Since she clearly didn’t want to talk about the news, he observed, “You’re making pancakes?”

      “Crepes,” she corrected. “Fewer calories. I found frozen blueberries in the freezer, cooked them down with sugar and made a compote for topping. Is that all right?”

      He leaned his forearms on the bar and looked into her bright eyes. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. She looked remarkably fresh, if sad.

      “No,” he replied with a straight face. “I want the same old, dry fruity flakes and past-the-pull-date milk I always have in the morning.”

      “No!” She pulled a plate out of the oven. “Tell me you don’t really eat fruity flakes.”

      “I would, but it would be a lie. I’m sure they have nothing of nutritional value in them, but then, the bad guys don’t really care how trim I am, and I have a maple bar midmorning to keep up my strength.”

      If she thought that was a bad idea, she kept it to herself and brought him a plate of crepes and a steaming pitcher of compote. Butter was already on the bar. The aroma made him salivate.

      “You can cook, too,” he said in wonder, pouring blueberries on the crepes and passing the pitcher to her as she sat beside him with her own plate.

      “I grew up without a mother,” she said. “My father was gone a lot and nannies aren’t always good cooks. I loved my cooking class in high school, and I watch food shows. It’s amazing what you can pick up.”

      “Are models allowed to eat this stuff?”

      “There are antioxidants in the blueberries.” She elbowed him. “I’m on a break. After the wedding, I’ll go back to fasting.”

      “Sorry. You hear stories, you know, about how you guys eat only lettuce and lemon juice and work out six hours a day.”

      “Exaggerated.”

      “We’ll go to the market and get whatever kind of food you want.”

      “Actually, I have to go clothes shopping. Doesn’t have to be fancy, but I have nothing for underwater living.” She pointed to the kitchen window beaded with rain, the trees beyond it swaying in the wind.

      He turned to her. “Winter in Oregon. Some people adjust to the wet and some people don’t.” He cut a bite of crepe with the side of his fork. “It’ll probably be harder for you...”

      She frowned at him over the rim of her cup. “Why? Because you think I’m used to bigger and better things, and take pleasure in abusing all the ‘little people’ in my life? That isn’t true.”

      “That’s not what I—”

      “I’m the first to admit I live a very good life, but no one escapes problems.”

      “That’s for sure.”

      “You’re wondering what kind of problems a model could possibly have.”

      Now she was acting a little like a diva. Or maybe she was just upset by her appearance on the news. Who wouldn’t be in her position?

      He smiled. “Well, all that mind reading you’re doing has to be a problem, for one thing. Can you read everybody’s or just mine?”

      Her eyes ignited. “You’re laughing at me.”

      “Just a little. Anyone who presumes to know what someone else is thinking is fair game.”

      Sipping at her coffee, she met his eyes, but the easy camaraderie they’d shared since they’d escaped Querida together wavered.

      “I’m sure one of the problems,” he said, trying to defuse her anger, “is that everything in your life, however private or personal, can be recorded, replayed and streamed for all the world to see. That’s pretty awful.”

      She relaxed a little, heaving a sigh before she said, “It doesn’t matter that the interpretation of what happened is incorrect, entertainment and internet reporters put the most salacious or embarrassing spin on their news. I’ve avoided much of it, but they seem happy to have a juicy tidbit now.” She shook her head at him.

      “Were you upset about the Sports Illustrated cover? I mean, there has to be more prestige in being on the cover than just inside it, right?”

      “My behavior had nothing to do with the Sports Illustrated cover!” she shouted at him. She stopped a moment, drew a breath and went on in a measured tone. “I’m sorry. I...I don’t know if you know that just before I went to Ireland, my father was stuck in Bangkok during a coup and we had no idea if he was all right or not. The pictures on the news were scary. He’d gone there to work on the computers for the government. On special jobs, he always goes himself. That’s what built his reputation as one of the best IT men in Europe. I was terrified.”

      “Yes. That had to be awful for both of you.”

      “Well, I’d just learned the day before that he was all right. And the following day he called to tell me that my siblings, who I’ve been separated from most of my lifetime, were in Texas and wanted me to join them.”

      “Yes.”

      “I had to finish the shoot before I left, but the makeup artist was making me crazy.” She tipped her head from side to side self-deprecatingly. “Clearly, I wasn’t looking my best, the wind was blowing my hair, and she was determined to make these false eyelashes fit and stuck her finger in my eye. She wouldn’t stop.”

      He looked empathetic.

      She put a hand out in front of herself about three feet away. “Here in the US, the three feet surrounding you are considered your personal space. You feel challenged and a little touchy when people invade it.”

      Unsure where she was going with this, he nodded to assure her of his attention.

      She continued. “Okay. So, try to think of yourself as a model. Hair and makeup people are always right in your face—” she fluttered her fingers an inch from her cheeks “—touching you, pushing you here and there so they can work on you. I know it isn’t their fault because you’re sort of their canvas. So you’re like a thing, not a person, to them in that moment. Designers fitting you into their clothes don’t even see you as a person, you’re just a place to hang their clothes and they’re always turning you, pushing you, ignoring you and seeing only the clothes. I’ve been modeling since I was sixteen, so most days I accept it’s just part of the process.

      “But, when I’m tired, worried, frightened, they’re like some buggy invasion and I feel like I’m going to go insane...” She sighed and pushed her plate away. “Or say something awful. Like, ‘Are you deaf?’” She put her head in her hands and groaned. “Of course, I didn’t really know she was deaf. I ran away so I wouldn’t go over the edge before I got to meet my family.”

      She dropped her hands and looked at him with a wince. “It’s all part of a bigger problem I’ve had most of my life, and modeling just exaggerates it.” Without clarifying, she continued. “I did go back and apologize to everyone involved,