I had a recipe book that I liked to use occasionally. A mushroom soup wasn't what I was planning to cook. Still, I was too late to think of anything else, and I really wanted to talk to Arvel about the latest developments. We'd have other opportunities for him to try one of mine. My mind was already racing, and as always, any problem I could eliminate from my path I would.
When Arvel came downstairs, the stew was almost ready, and the house smelled of mushrooms. If he didn't like it, he'd have to stay hungry, because it was the only sustenance of the evening. Perhaps I saw it as a kind of revenge for the day I'd had.
“It's not easy having to stare at Jean's face,” I said as I watched Arvel sit down at the already-set table. “I had the pleasure of meeting him at the market earlier,” I tol
