She rubbed her stomach. “You know, you really are a very good cook. Mariah is lucky.” “Thanks. She taught me most of what I know. I don’t cook very often because she loves to.” Taylor giggled. “Well, that’s where we really differ. I hate anything to do with the kitchen.” Frank leaned his chair back onto its two rear legs, dug into his shirt pocket for a small sliver of wood, and picked at his front teeth. “I kind of got that feeling since you tend to avoid this part of the house.” Feeling a little ashamed, Taylor immediately got up and began clearing the table. “How about a cup of coffee in the parlor where it’s a little more comfortable?” “Sounds good to me. I’ll pour.” Frank started toward the stove. Taylor reached over and grabbed the pot. “Oh no, I’ll pour. I want no more of your comments about my kitchen skills.” She filled his cup and followed him into the other room. Frank stood next to the fireplace, leaned against the mantel and looked up at the picture of Mariah.
