cooking after he’d had a chance to taste dinner. If it tasted half as good as it smelled, he doubted he’d have the heart to scold her.
“You wash up and I’ll get it on the table,” she said.
He noticed she had already set the small oak table with real dishes and place mats. She’d even plunked a vase of wildflowers in the middle. His little tomboy turning domestic? He wasn’t buying it for a minute. Then again, maybe she was as sick of those frozen meals as he was. Maybe she’d been desperate for something edible. He wouldn’t put it past her to take matters into her own hands. She was a lot like Val in that.
He took a quick shower, pulled on clean jeans and a T-shirt, then settled at the table. A steaming plate of food awaited him. Annie watched him expectantly. He cut a bite of the pot roast and tasted it. The meat almost melted in his mouth. It was even better than his mother’s, and it was her specialty.
“Well?” Annie demanded eagerly. “How is it?”
“Better than Grandma’s,” he said candidly.
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Taste it and see.”
She took a bite, then beamed. “Oh, wow! I did it. I really did it.”
After that, Slade didn’t have the heart to question whether she’d done it entirely on her own. She was too darn pleased with herself. He told himself that was the only reason he let it pass.
The next night, when he found real southern fried chicken on the table, along with genuine mashed potatoes and gravy, he didn’t want to spoil her obvious pleasure by getting into an argument.
He kept quiet the next night, too, when he found homemade spaghetti waiting for him, accompanied by a zesty garlic bread and a fresh green salad.
When the desserts started turning up, he could no longer ignore his suspicions. He’d long since detected Val’s hand in the increasingly elaborate meals, but his stomach had won out over his honor.
“The cake’s real good, honey,” he said as he savored the rich, moist chocolate with a frosting that might as well have been fudge, it was so thick.
“I know chocolate’s your favorite. I told...” She stopped herself and a guilty flush climbed into her cheeks.
“Who’d you tell?” he demanded, seizing the opening.
“Val,” she confessed in a whisper.
“Did she make the cake?”
“No,” Annie said adamantly. “I did.”
He leveled a gaze straight at her and waited.
“She just told me how,” she said finally.
“And the rest? Did she help with all of it?”
“She wanted to,” Annie said with a defiant lift of her chin. “It was her idea.”
“And whose idea was it not to tell me?”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
“Because I figured you’d get mad. You said I was taking advantage of her, even though I knew it wasn’t true. She likes to help.”
Slade sighed. “I’m sure she does, Annie, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“How?”
“Val and I are just friends,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “It’s not right to take advantage of a friend.”
“But she said—”
“I don’t care what she said,” Slade said, his voice climbing. “This is going to stop.”
“We’ll starve to death,” Annie muttered.
“We are not going to starve,” he snapped in frustration. “There’s nothing wrong with eating frozen dinners. Millions of people do.”
“It’s not the same as real food,” Annie protested. “Especially after you’ve ruined it, anyway.”
“Then we’ll go into town to eat.”
She jumped up then, practically quivering with outrage. “You do what you want. I’m going to live with Val.”
She flew out the door before he could think to stop her. “Well, hell,” he muttered, staring after her.
He waited a few minutes until his temper settled down, then went to look for her. He found her on the porch at Harlan Patrick’s, sobbing in Val’s arms. Val regarded him helplessly.
“What is this about?” she mouthed silently.
Slade sighed. “Dinner,” he mouthed back.
Val’s eyes filled with understanding. She stepped back and clasped Annie’s shoulders, as she gazed into her eyes. “Why don’t you take a walk down by the creek? I always feel better when I go there.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, not once glancing toward Slade.
“Your father and I are going to have a talk.”
Annie turned toward him, then studied them both worriedly. “You’re not going to fight, are you?”
“No,” Slade said.
Val regarded him ruefully. “We might,” she contradicted. “But we’ll work it out, because that is what grown-ups do.”
He supposed the comment was meant to effectively put him in his place. It succeeded.