There was solace in the kitchen, comfort in the very predictable behavior of foods that never varied in their response. Cook the onions and garlic and celery and carrots in a wading pool of good olive oil and bacon fat until they caramelized, growing sugar like a crop in a skillet field. They were browning now, releasing a sweet aroma, doing exactly what they were supposed to do, unlike most humans. She resisted the strong impulse to disturb those nuggets of flavor, so she just breathed in the fragrance and felt her body relax. No one set foot in Harley’s kitchen when Grace was cooking. They all knew better. Only John Smith had dared to enter this world, and only after he’d been invited. Of all the months at sea, all the experiences she had shared with him, the most vivid remained that day when John had cooked with her in this very kitchen for the first time; a silent, happily willing partner who found the same blessed peace in food preparation that she did.
