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you and Angie were first engaged, she kept sending food down here. Remember the cream puffs,and how they had so much powdered sugar, it sprinkled out of the bottom of the box and the whole hazardous materials team, in their suits, followed it up the elevator, down the hall, then came in here and quarantined us?”
    â€œYeah…I remember,” Paavo said glumly.
    â€œOr,” Yosh chuckled—“when she sent the angel food cake covered with little balloons, and how we were all having such a good time popping them? Who knew someone would report gunfire?”
    â€œI remember.” Paavo grew impatient.
    â€œOr the ten-foot-long mortadella, and how we said it must remind her—”
    â€œStop! I remember, all right?”
    â€œIt was kinda cute, you know.” Yosh sounded wistful. “Not that I’m missing it, or anything. Hey, it couldn’t go on forever. She’s got a life, after all.”
    â€œYeah, she’s got a life,” Paavo said, feeling more morose than he had in a long time. Yosh wasn’t the only one who missed Angie’s attention.
    Â 
    Angie downed her sherry and squared her shoulders. Time to get to work. As she headed for the kitchen, a sense of peace and purpose settled over her for the first time today. She had a job to do on a popular TV show. With a skip of joy, she sang to herself—quietly this time—“This Could Be the Start of Something Big.”
    To Angie, kitchens were oases of comfort, of warm aromas and friendly memories. Of childhood and family, dinner parties and holidays. Of times when you’re feeling sick and need something soothing like hot soup. Or joyful, and wantto splurge with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. Or troubled, and you sit at the counter or table with a cup of latte and a biscotti or two. Or simply feeling good about cooking a meal that is nourishing and tasty for those you love.
    Eagle Crest’s kitchen was situated in the center of the house between the breakfast room on one side and a butler’s pantry leading to the dining room on the other. The door was propped halfway open. One step inside, and she stopped, amazed.
    It was a gourmet cook’s delight—roomy, with lots of counter space, a massive center island, and filled with professional-quality Viking appliances. As she compared it to the small, well-packed kitchen in her apartment, she gave a little “Ah” and walked further into the room.
    â€œOuch! What the hell!” A red-faced chef dropped his knife onto the onion he’d been slicing. He stuck a finger in his mouth as he glared over his shoulder at her.
    Angie froze. He was scarcely taller than she was, with what seemed to be a muscular physique under a long-sleeved white chef’s smock and an apron that reached past his knees. His hair was the yellow-white color that comes only from bleach, and atop it was a tall chef’s cap. His eyebrows were similarly bleached. She hadn’t noticed him because the half-opened door had blocked her view of his part of the kitchen. She was horrified that she’d caused him to cut himself. “I’m sorry!”
    He remained flushed with anger. “Who are you coming in here and scaring the vits out of a person?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to… vits? ”
    â€œVits! Vits!” He stabbed at his forehead with his cut finger. It left no blood. The cut was obviously miniscule. No doubt, he was being a baby. Typical chef. He seemed to have acquired an accent much like Sergeant Schultz in Hogan’s Heroes . She didn’t remember any accent when he cut himself.
    â€œWho the hell are you?” he ranted. “Who let you into my kitchen? Nobody is supposed to come in here. Vhat’s wrong vit you people? Get out!”
    And she did. She supposed a man who’d just cut himself was allowed to be in a bad mood. This was not the time to introduce herself as