Marga shut the door behind her, put her purse on the dresser, shrugged out of her coat and hung it up on the rack—which had yet again been straightened while she’d been out. Bouncing with mischief, she deliberately rearranged the jackets, coats and scarves into a new mess, and then strolled over into the kitchen.

There she stopped dead in her tracks, blinking in disbelief at the sight.

“Are you cooking?” she asked, shell-shocked.

Atticus flinched as if caught, and stopped cutting the meat into small pieces. He surreptitiously shoved something with his foot around the corner of the kitchen island. “Well…”

“What are you hiding there?” She narrowed her...