Read The Proof is in the Pudding for Free Online Page B

know enough about him yet to devise some counterthreat.
    I was using my paring knife to carve one-inch-long openings in the bottom crust of French bread slices and scoop out a little of the insides when the doorbell rang again.
    What now?
    I turned off the heat under the pan in which two pats of butter were melting and hurried to the door.
    This time when I glanced through the front window I saw Phil Logan pressing the bell. Over his other arm, he carried three long garment bags.
    When I opened the door, Phil greeted me with a pleased expression and indicated the garment bags. “It’s hard to get sample gowns for somebody who isn’t a size two, but fortunately there’s this new Spanish designer who appreciates women with curves, so I got you a couple of . . .” He lifted his chin, and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that wonderful aroma—and do you have enough for me?”
    “There’s plenty.”
    I led Phil to my bedroom, where he hung the garment bags on the bathroom door, and followed me into the kitchen. Briefly, I considered asking Phil for information about Ingram, but I decided against that. Phil would want to know why, and I couldn’t tell him.
    Unaware that I was worried about anything, Phil set the table for breakfast. He had eaten here many times over the months, and knew where the plates, napkins, and cutlery were. As soon as he’d completed that task, he joined me at the counter beside the stove.
    “What are you making?”
    “Stuffed French toast.”
    “Stuffed? How can you stuff toast?”
    “You can’t use an ordinary presliced loaf, but if you use French bread, it’s simple,” I said, demonstrating. “I just insert a spoonful of fruit preserves into the pockets I’ve cut in the bread slices, spread the filling around inside, and put the little rectangle of bottom crust I opened up back into place. That seals the preserves inside the bread. Then I dredge the bread in the egg and milk mixture, and put it into the heated skillet.”
    As soon as I dropped the egg-coated bread slices into the pan, they began to sizzle in the butter. The heat released the delicious scent of vanilla extract and fruit preserves into the air.
    “It only takes a few seconds on each side.”
    I gently lifted the corner of one slice with my wide Ma-rio Batali spatula to check the underside. When it was just the right shade of golden brown, I said, “Perfect.” I turned the slices over to brown the other side.
    Phil, unable to be inactive for more than a few seconds at a time, poured mugs of coffee for us and brought our plates over to the stove. I scooped the slices of French toast out of the skillet and transferred them to the plates.
    “Just one more thing.” I picked up the little sifter I kept especially for powdered sugar and gave the slices a light dusting.
    At the table with our plates and coffee, I watched Phil cut into his toast and smile with delight as the preserves oozed out. When he began to eat, his expression turned ecstatic, and he began making satisfied “Hmmm” noises. His reaction reminded me of that famous fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally .
    In a wry tone, I said, “I guess it’s as good for you as it is for me.”
    He touched the napkin to his lips. “If I ever decide to get married again, I might give Nick D’Martino some competition.”
    “Phil, I’m fifteen years older than you.”
    “When a woman cooks this good, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Besides, since you won’t lie about your age, I’m promoting the idea that forty-seven is the new thirty-five. I got an article about that coming out in next month’s Vanity Fair . One of the dozen photos is a still from your show.”
    Phil finished that first piece of toast, and the three more that I made for him. When he was full at last, he thanked me and got up from the table. “Let’s get to work. I have to see how you look in those dresses.”
    Eileen came into my room while I was modeling them for Phil. She was a little