He got up and made more coffee, as the rain started. He smiled at the silken rustle of it.
He found boots along with restless energy, and went downstairs to stick his head into hotel kitchens. Head chef Marilyn spun toward the intruder in a cloud of irritable blonde curls and knives, recognized him from discussions of ricotta and zeppole, and beckoned him over to taste roast squab with cocoa nibs. This turned into a debate about blackberry versus raspberry sauces, over coffee and fresh-baked lemon tarts. Marilyn had decided to approve of Colby’s kitchen knowledge after earlier conversations; she hadn’t been quite sure about the celebrity entering her domain, but he’d asked questions she’d liked, and she’d let him stay.
She agreed to let him play with the wood-burning oven and some ingred
