“Raven, I…”
“It’s best if we go back,” we finally say in unison. Nola will be finished preparing dinner by now. It’s not appropriate to keep her waiting.
Rafe heaves a deep sigh, and plants an innocent kiss on my forehead.
As we get back to the house, Nola is busying herself in the kitchen. Although my aunt always says that she doesn’t have the talent for cooking, she really does her best today. She makes some Irish speciality for us which she calls mutton stew, and whose secret recipe apparently generates from my grandmother. Whatever may be bubbling in the saucepan, its heady smell penetrates the house. Nola was already threatening me in London that once she would teach me the mutton stew cooking technique, but so far we haven’t got round to practicing it. My mother was an excellent c
