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counter: Julia Childs, James Beard and a recent one by New Orleans’ own Emeril Lagasse.
    “Yum. I can hardly wait.” Anything to placate his angry lover.
    Darkly handsome in a muscle T-shirt and tight jeans, lean and muscular from workouts at the health club, Dean held out the blunt with a lazy smile.
    He didn’t care much for pot, but took a quick hit to please Dean. The love of his life. He adored Dean’s bottomless-pools-of-chocolate eyes and his impish grin, which appeared when it suited him. Right now it could go either way: pissed off or lovey-dovey.
    “Stir this while I take a piss.” Dean kissed his cheek and handed him the wooden spoon. “And you better open another bottle of wine.”
    He watched Dean walk away, admiring his magnificent butt. They’d been together five years. He hoped it would last forever.
    They had met at an organ recital at Brown University. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the memory: the magnificent sound of the organ in Sayles Hall, a cavernous wood-paneled room with a high ceiling. Dean had been sitting two rows ahead of him. Partway through the concert their eyes met and something clicked. Later, it seemed natural that they should talk over a glass of wine. It also seemed natural that they would go to bed together and, in a matter of weeks, fall deeply in love.
    He set his wine glass on the counter and swirled the spoon through the bubbling sauce. If it burned there’d be hell to pay. The Creole cottage was a hundred years old, but the kitchen was state-of-the-art. Dean wanted to buy it, but given Belinda’s moods, he was reluctant. Three years ago she had suddenly decided to move to New Orleans. She could just as easily decide to move somewhere else.
    Dean crept up behind him and stood on tiptoes to kiss his neck. “Guess what’s for dessert?”
    “What?”
    “Me, if you’re lucky,” Dean chortled, and danced away when Jake pinched his butt.
    “Best dessert I’ll ever have,” he said, and meant it. Dean flashed an impish grin. Maybe they wouldn’t fight after all.
    “This sauce smells fantastic. I don’t know how you do it.”
    Dean shrugged, his nonchalance belied by the warm glow in his eyes. “I love to cook. If you love something, you should do it well.”
    “You should open your own restaurant.”
    “Never. Then it would be work, not fun.”
    “But you’re so creative and artistic. You should go to art school.”
    “Where?” Dean said, somber-eyed. “There’s no art school in New Orleans.” He picked up his empty wine glass and frowned. “You forgot to open another bottle of wine.”
    He hadn’t forgotten. Too much wine and Dean could get confrontational. While he opened another bottle of chardonnay Dean carried platters of sautéed trout and fresh asparagus to the dining table. He popped the cork on the wine and went in the dining room.
    The oval table looked like something out of House Beautiful. Suffused in the rosy glow of two tall candles, gleaming silverware and fine china sat on a white linen tablecloth. He filled their wine glasses and sat down opposite Dean.
    Dean flashed his impish grin. “As my Portuguese grandmother used to say: If you don’t clean your plate I’ll never cook for you again!”
    He laughed, a laugh quickly silenced by the ring of the telephone.
    “Ooooh, I wonder who that is? Wait. We’re having dinner. The Queen Bee must need Jake to do something for her.”
    Acid burned his stomach. He left the table and went in the kitchen to take the call. Maybe it was his mother. But he knew it wasn’t; on Saturday nights his parents watched Great Performances on PBS.
    When he answered it was Belinda, of course.
    “Jake, where are the plane tickets? I can’t find mine.”
    “In the office on my desk. You were practicing when I left. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
    “You’re such a dear. Hold on while I make sure I can find them.”
    “Dean and I are eating dinner. The tickets are right on my desk.”
    “Oh. Okay. Sorry to