And maybe I was just a little gratified that Ben was so appreciative, because Tom had never been terribly impressed by my culinary endeavors. Oh, he never said anything was bad, but he was spoiled because his mother was a fabulous cook and could whip up all kinds of traditional Mexican foods. Next to her gourmet molé sauce and homemade tamales, my pot roasts and barbecue chicken had probably seemed like pretty tame fare.
“How’s Rufus doing?” I asked after we’d slowed down a bit, more because I knew we needed to discuss something that didn’t involve Ben’s past than because I thought Rufus’ existence had materially changed since the day before.
“Very well,” Ben replied. He scooped up a forkful of potatoes au gratin, chewed, and swallowed, his expression about as close to blissful as I’d ev
