"Wine. That's what we need."
"Yes."
"White? Is that good for what you're making?"
"Red's better."
He went to the tall narrow wine rack hidden inside a cabinet. His fingertips lingered on the neck of a particular reserve, a special bottle. He deliberated for a moment, then selected a younger vintage. He opened it and poured them each a glass, handed one to her. There was an awkward moment, in which both stood motionless. He didn't know what to say and, gratefully, she made it easy for him.
"To new friends."
"New friends," he said, slipping in a small emphasis on the latter.
They touched their glasses together and Peter looked into his own to avoid her eyes as he sipped the wine.
"Come on," Ivy said, "let's eat." She went about filling two bowls with stew, while he sliced the crusty loaf of bread she'd set out on the counter. She carried the bowls into the dining room, and he followed with the bread and his glass of wine.
"Sit," she said, "I'll get the bottle."