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crossed his arms over his chest, resting them on the considerable girth about his waist.
    Amanda picked up one of the eggs, pretending she hadn’t done so a thousand times before. Holding the egg against the edge of the stove, she cast him a questioning glance. When Cookie nodded, she gave the egg a gentle tap. Then she held her egg over the pan and, with just the slightest pressure of her thumbs, pulled the two edges apart. The egg dropped to the pan and formed a perfect pool of clear liquid with an island of yellow floating, edges intact, at the center.
    “Huh,” Cookie said, peering into the pan.
    Amanda shrugged and held up her hands. “Mama always said cracking eggs is easier if you have little hands.” It was a small lie, but since Cookie’s feelings were at stake, it seemed justified.
    Cookie studied Amanda’s open palms as though he had never seen hands like hers.
    Amanda picked up another egg, cracked it, and dropped it in the pan to fry beside her other perfect egg and Cookie’s swirling blend of white and yellow. Then she took up a perch on a stool next to the stove to stand guard over the pan and ensure this new batch of eggs didn’t meet the same fate as the last.
    Bare feet hooked about the legs of her stool, she watched Cookie prepare the beans for the captain’s coffee. Eventually, his eyes stopped shifting in her direction. Perhaps it signaled a good time to strike up a conversation and get to know her workmate a bit better.
    “Have you been with the captain long, Cookie?”
    Cookie spun the handle of the coffee grinder. “Only a couple o’ voyages.”
    The pungent aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the galley, chasing away the remaining smell of burnt eggs.
    “Where are you from?”
    “Ireland.” He turned the handle faster.
    Amanda pursed her lips. She could have guessed that much, but she had hoped he would say more.
    Cookie opened the grinder and scooped dark, fragrant granules into a linen pouch, hung it in the coffeepot, and set the pot on the stove. Amanda had to grip the edge of her stool when he opened the oven door and stoked the coals until they sprung to life again.
    “Have you always been a cook?” she asked, restraining herself from pointing out that more heat would only make it easier to burn the captain’s breakfast.
    Cookie looked up, his face as twisted as the apron he held in his hands. “Look, I know I ain’t the best cook, but I try.” He strangled the apron in front of him and looked over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If I let you cook, you gotta promise me you won’t tell the cap’n you’re the one doin’ it. Will ya promise?”
    “Of course, Cookie,” she promised, her voice quiet as though they shared a secret.
    Surely the man’s lack of cooking skills weren’t exactly a mystery.
    “I got nowhere else to go.” Cookie sniffed and swiped the back of his meaty fist across his eye. “If I leave the cap’n’s employ, I’ll wind up rottin’ in a debtor’s prison. It’s only ’cause the cap’n thinks I can cook that he keeps me.”
    Amanda choked and then coughed to cover it up. If Cookie had served the captain for any length of time, there was no possible way the captain harbored any illusions. Still, the cook seemed so frightened she refrained from pointing out the obvious.
    She laid a hand on Cookie’s broad forearm. “Between the two of us, I’m certain we will muddle through.”
    Cookie stared down at her hand. Then he glanced up at Amanda. “Thank you,” he said, his grin making apples of his chubby cheeks.
    He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, Amanda thought he might enfold her small body in those beefy arms of his, but he pulled back at the last moment. When he turned to slice a loaf of bread for the captain’s toast, Amanda shrugged. She returned her attention to the stove, wondering which of her carefully chosen words had so effectively mollified the emotional Irishman.
    She