“YOU KNOW,” HELEN WHISPERS, “we haven’t discussed our next date.”
I stop in mid-chew and look at her. We’re in The Bistro on Wednesday, a place we usually avoid talking about our pre-engagement, but a quick look around reassures me that the place has few diners right now.
“No, that’s right,” I whisper. “We haven’t. What would you like to do?”
“Honestly, I’d like to cook a meal for us.”
“Really?” I say, slightly amazed. I’m still not used to the idea that Helen can cook—and not just cook, but cook well.
“Yes,” she smiles. “I want to cook a meal for my possible future husband. I want to set a romantic table in the dining room at the Rectory—china, silverware, candlelight.”
I’m dazzled by the thought of looking across the table at her, bathed in candlelight, but a thought interferes.
“
