“More like algebra. Or bad handwriting.” She squinted closer.
He glanced at her profile, noting the intensity of her concentration. That should not be as attractive as it was. But after last night, well, maybe he was looking at this whole thing in a new light.
He swallowed and turned his attention to the task at hand. “Could be. Could be a different language.”
“I wonder who we could ask.”
“Do you really want to let just anyone read this? We don’t even know what it is.”
She frowned. “What do you think it could be?”
“I wish I knew. Like you said, they look like recipes, but none of these words are remotely familiar, and I do know about food.”
She looked up at him with a grin, which he hadn’t seen from her since before their scare last night. That relaxed him, a bit.
“First let’s see if we can find the symbols that are on the windows in this book. That would mean this is the book we’ve been looking for, and we don’t have to look for it any longer. Once we know that, we can go from there.”
He nodded and crossed over to the coffeemaker. “Mind if I make some coffee while you investigate?” He made a point of not reminding her she’d promised him breakfast.
She gave him a go-ahead wave. “Turn the oven on for the biscuits, too, will you?”
His stomach grumbled just at the word, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Here. We’ll switch. Go through the book and see if you can find the matching symbols, even if they aren’t all together, just to make sure they’re both from the same source. I’ll start the biscuits.”
“And text your mom to see if that’s your grandmother’s name.”
She grimaced. He knew she wasn’t close to her mom—Susan had shared enough about her when they were younger that he knew that. Also, if she were closer to her parents, wouldn’t she have fled to them, and not the swamp?
“Fine.” She picked up her phone and fired off a quick text, then set it down and opened the refrigerator to get out the butter for the biscuits.
Before she’d even closed the door, the sound of a returning text zipped through the kitchen. She picked up her phone to look at it, then nodded.
“Yep. Grandma’s last name was Michel.”
“Ask if she spoke another language. That could maybe narrow down our search.”
She typed in the message, then reached for a mixing bowl at the end of the counter.
He was distracted when she started mixing flour and butter with one of those D-shaped wire things like his grandmother used to use. She put all her muscle into it.
“Isn’t there an easier way?”
“Not if you want good biscuits. The butter’s not cold enough, but it will have to do.”
“I thought you weren’t cooking, just were heating stuff up.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Once some money started coming in, I was able to buy the ingredients. I felt incomplete without cooking.”
“I thought working with Hattie was helping ease some of that feeling.”
“I mean, yeah, some of it. We actually had a conversation yesterday. Not a deep one, but it’s a start.”
Another zip, another incoming text.
“Can you look at that?” she asked as she dumped the biscuit batter on the counter. “See what she said?”
“You don’t mind?”
She rolled her eyes. “It won’t be mushy or anything like that.”
