He held it open for Marty, and I followed her in. She’d been inside the house once or twice before, but never for more than a few minutes since we’d moved in. That would made her our first official guest, not that we’d invited her or anything. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” she muttered, as she strode toward the back. James shut the door and we followed. In the kitchen she turned to face us, almost belligerently. “You got anything to drink?” I assumed she wasn’t talking about iced tea. “Wine? Or the harder stuff?” “Scotch, if you’ve got it. I don’t care how many malts or whatever.” I located a glass in a cupboard—after opening only two wrong ones—and half filled it with Scotch. I looked at James, and he nodded. What the heck—Scotch all around. Now I knew where the glasses were, so I filled another two and set the bottle, seriously depleted, in the middle of the kitchen table.
