"Toss your jacket anywhere. There's not a free coathook at the moment. Sorry
about that! Pull up a chair!" Bill gestured at the barstools that stood at
the counter between the kitchen and living room.

Alyson took off her jacket and set it aside. And pulled herself up onto the
tall stool. She watched in fascination as Bill chopped something and tossed
it gently into a pot on the stove.  There was a flurry of motion, and there
was a cloud of steam as he drained pasta. His glasses fogged over, but he
kept moving, seemingly uncaring that he couldn't see. He deftly pulled bread
from the broiler, tasted sauce and added a little salt. The smooth,
practiced motion made Alyson smile.

She turned to look for Will, and she caught him looking over the top of his
book again, smiling. "He does that all the time. He spends every free waking
moment in the kitchen. I moved a jar of flour from one shelf to another, and
he spent a good minute groping for it because it had moved." Bill laughed
and pulled three plates from the cupboard. He served with the same practiced
care, bordering on perfection.

"Grab a plate!" Bill carried his to the small table in the livingroom,
already set for three. Will and Alyson nearly bumped into each other trying
to get theirs. Will straightened and let her by. "After you, dear."

Bill went back and pulled a bottle of wine from a rack in the kitchen. He
popped the cork and looked at Will. "Wine?" 

"Yes please."

"Alyson?"

"I'm nineteen!" She fought down a little panic, then realizing she was
panicking, tried to stifle it and think rationally. She took a deep breath
and tried to push the fear aside. Imagining what getting drunk would be
like, every time she thought about losing any ounce of self-control, she
started to panic then tried to stifle it.

She caught Will watching her. His placid eyes never seemed to reveal any
emotion but care and mirth. She struggled for composure. The feeling of
being bare and exposed stung and she couldn't even pull her leather jacket
around herself. 

"You've never had alcohol at all before, have you?"

She tried to find words, but could only shake her head.

"You don't have to. It's safe here, nobody's going to take advantage."

Curiosity. Fear. Her whole year, she had survived by making every decision
deliberately. She counted every penny almost instinctively, planned every
trip on the bus to get the most out of every fare. She'd learned just how
long to spend in the store so that she could get back to her house before
the bus transfer expired making her pay a return fare. Going out the door,
she primed herself to think clearly. She feared missing a bus, she feared
what might happen.

She looked up at Bill, and nodded slowly. "I've never had any. I'll try it?"
She hated how unsure she sounded. She thought for a moment that they looked
like brothers, or cousins.  Bill poured her a glass of wine. She looked at
it hesitantly and let it sit for a moment. She tasted the pasta and relaxed.
Flavors melted in her mouth. For the first time in years, she felt cared
for and completely safe.

"Oh, wow, Bill." she stopped eating for a moment, trying to savor the
moment. She made out rosemary and garlic and oregano, but there were flavors
she couldn't figure out. She shook her head. A lot of things she couldn't
figure out about the last day.

* * *

Bill looked up at the sound of a knock on the door. Will answered it before
he could set down the pan in his hand. Alyson stood in the doorway, leather
jacket and jeans, looking anxious. Will flashed his winning smile at her,
and he watched her relax and smile the same way he had when Will used the
same smile on him. He looked at himself and chuckled a little, covered in
flour and trying to keep an eye on two pots at once while watching his guest
settle in. 

"Toss your jacket anywhere. There's not a free coathook at the moment. Sorry
about that! Pull up a chair!"  He glanced around the apartment, making sure
everything was where it should be. 

Alyson caught his eye. "It smells so good in here!" He smiled at her and
kept cooking. He looked at the card he'd pulled from its box, his
grandmother's scrawl across it in neat lines. He remembered her writing it,
thinking that she was making a card with a recipe for a friend. He'd been
surprised at his birthday that year when he received the little hinged
wooden box full of neat cards. Two hundred recipes, all of his favorites.
Things he had never tried. This one had a little note, written askew across
the margin at the top. He heard his grandmother's voice as he read it. "For
family, a little cinnamon. Makes it special. My friends always ask what the
secret is."

He smiled as he added a pinch of cinnamon to the sauce and stirred it in.
Memories of his family always came with cooking. The happy times especially,
huge piles of food on the long wooden table, and aunts and uncles milling
around. They'd thought that his helping out in the kitchen was cute.

He took a deep breath and turned the pasta out of its pot and drained it. A
couple of deft motions and a little salt, a little olive oil, a tiny dash of
nutmeg scattered across the noodles. He reached for three plates. He
hesitated, trying to decide between plain and fancy. Plain. 

"Grab a plate!" He tried to say it like his grandmother always did. Dinner
at his house had never been formal. There were always too many people to
arrange things any more than that. He took his own plate to his seat and
went back for a bottle of wine. Wine was a habit, now, and owning a bar let
him take a few choice bottles and always have some when he served something
that asked for it. He offered it to Will first. "Wine?"

"Yes, please."

He hesitated. He knew she was nineteen. He shrugged. His first drink of wine
had been at nine, and there had always been wine on the table, every meal of
the day. Everyone drank some.

"Alyson?" She froze. He sighed inwardly. He wondered if his parental urges
were misplaced. She reminded him of his daugher so strongly that it stung
when she'd stumbled in the door of the bar the night before. He'd seen her
and almost rushed out to greet her, catching himself just a moment later,
realizing it wasn't her. "I'm nineteen!" The youth in her voice surprised
him, and he realized that his own daughter would be the same age, too.

Will broke the silence.  "You've never had alcohol at all before, have you?"
Bill watched them for a moment. Will had a way of reading people. He always
seemed to know what people were thinking. Sometimes in painful detail.  

"You don't have to. It's safe here, nobody's going to take advantage." He
always knew what to say.

Bill watched her take a bite. She so obviously liked it. He hadn't had such
an appreciative taster for his cooking lately. He realized that he cared
about her. So many people would have let the man the night before die. He
cringed a little. One more overdose. Maybe too late. He tried not to think
about it and focus on the present.