"Who wants soup?" Everybody did, and so I stabbed my thumb toward the kitchen. They dutifully trooped in, and I put Miranda to work making toast while Kip set the table. Andrew got stuck with making hot cocoa. He wrinkled his nose at the Swiss Mix box.
"I don't think so. Do you have sugar, milk, and cocoa powder?"
I grinned. "Why? Don't you like my easy-does-it shortcut?"
He laughed and tossed the box of cocoa mix back on the counter. "Homemade soup deserves real hot cocoa. Kip, why don't you show me where to find a heavy pan and we'll make it up right."
Miranda poked me in the ribs and I decided to interpret her jab as approval. Andrew whisked cocoa and sugar together, and added milk he steamed using my espresso machine. He finished with a drop of peppermint extract and set Kip to searching for the bag of marshmallows I had tucked away from Thanksgiving. The soup was hot, the toast was brown and crunchy, and we all sat down at the table.
I tasted the chocolate and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Heavenly. I have to make this for the shop sometime. Can I have the recipe?"
"Recipe? It's simple enough, but sure, I'll write it out for you. The trick is in getting the proportions right. As for the soup, this is the best meal I've had in days."
"You're joking." I bit into the toast. While the others dipped their bread in their soup, I preferred mine with a crunch—I never crumbled crackers into soup, either.
Kip spoke up. "Mom is a really good cook when she's got the time. She's teaching me. She wanted to teach Randa, but Ran didn't want to learn." Miranda reached over and flicked Kip on the nose, but instead of hitting her back, he snorted. "It's true! You told Mom you'd rather eat out all the time than have to learn to cook."
"At least I'm doing something important with my time instead of playing stupid games." Miranda sniffed and went back to her soup. "You're such a baby."
Kip grinned. "I like being a kid, I get away with more. Sly gets away with everything."
I sighed. "We're really going to have to have a talk about that kid one of these days. I hope you know that what works on his folks is not going to work with me."
My son scooped another spoonful of carrots and turkey and noodles into his mouth. "I know."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," I said automatically. I turned to Andrew. His bowl was almost empty. "More?"
He pushed back his chair. "Yes, but I'll get it." He brought the pan back to the table and served both of us.
The kids were full. Either that, or their curiosity had worn thin. I excused them and they ran off into the other room, Miranda stopping to slap a paper in front of me. "You need to sign this and drop it off at the school."
"What is it?" I glanced over the slip.
"It says you give me permission to take the scholarship test. Remember, for Space Camp? Without your signature, they won't let me in the door."
And if she didn't win that scholarship, we couldn't afford to send Randa to Space Camp. "Take this and put it on my desk, please. I'll sign it later." I handed her the slip and she sighed, grabbed it back, and ran off with a half wave. Chiqetaw Middle School insisted on knowing that all permission slips were actually signed by the parents, not by enterprising young forgers.
Andrew watched as she darted out of the room. "Great kids. Do they ever give you any trouble?"
I almost choked on my soup. "That's a good one. Smart and funny do not preclude annoying and downright sneaky." Chuckling, I shook my head. "You should see them when they aren't on their best for company. Actually, though, they are good kids, and I'm proud of both of them. It hasn't been easy the past couple years, raising them alone, but I think we've done okay."
Andrew leaned back in his chair and contemplated me with a soft look. His eyes were gentle, and as he held my gaze, butterflies tickled my stomach. "I enjoyed tonight, Emerald. I'd like to see you again. I'm not seeing anyone right now, and if you aren't…"
He wanted to date me? I hadn't expected this. "Andrew," I said slowly, "I would love to see you again, but I have to be honest about something first."
A worried look crossed his face, and he leaned forward. "Did I say something wrong? Don't be afraid to be blunt. My ego isn't that fragile." He was joking, but I could tell that like most men, he didn't want me to turn him down.
"No, no. You didn't say anything wrong."
"It's the fact that I write romance novels, isn't it? You think it's unmanly?" He gave me a cornball look. "If you agree to go out with me, I promise that I won't show up in a ruffled shirt open to my waist."
I laughed. The man was not only gorgeous, but he also had a sense of humor. I took a deep breath. If nothing else, I owed him the truth. "When Harlow invited me to your play tonight, it was as a favor to me. I'm trying to gather some information, and she said you might be able to help. I didn't expect you'd end up asking me out. You need to know this because I don't want you thinking I'd go out with you just to pick your brain. I really would like to see you again."
What was he going to think when I tried to explain why I wanted information on Susan? I had enough skeletons in my closet to qualify for a first-class ticket to La-La Land. This ghost business was a whole 'nother category of weird.
He looked at me with those dark eyes, and I could sense both curiosity and a certain wariness hiding behind his stare. "Information? I see. Well, why don't you tell me what you want to know?",
"To do that, I'm going to have to tell you why, and I guarantee you'll think I'm nuts." Okay. Here went nothing. "I need to know some things about Susan Mitchell."