He let each swallow settle before taking the next. Three basil leaves floated on top of the hot, creamy slurry. A homemade cheddar scone was ready about the time he had finished half the soup. The next course was a large bowl of gluten-free rigatoni and a simple garlic sauce with chopped zucchini, eggplant, roasted red pepper, and oregano. He would apparently keep eating and drinking as long as she produced food and kept his glass full. His devotion to the task—eating every scone crumb on the plate, leaving the pasta bowl empty except for a glistening sheen of sauce—made her smile inside. “Full?” Trudy patted her stomach. “¿Más?” “No más,” he said with a shake of his head. “Gracias.” “¿Café?” she said. She remembered somewhere the Mexican word sounded like the French. “No, gracias,” he said. She showed him the front bedroom where he would stay, handed him a fresh set of towels and clothes, selected from the small stash of Jerry’s stuff that had accumulated over time.
