Текст книги "Nuts"

Автор книги: Alice Clayton

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Though I’ve never been stung by a bee before, I’ve always had a fear of all things buzzy. I’ve left garden parties, eaten inside at barbecues, and refused to hold flowers at an outdoor wedding once, all because of one tiny buzz.

I swatted at my boobs again once more, and finally succeeded in knocking him clear. He zigged and zagged drunkenly a few times, throwing me a nasty glance over his bee shoulder, then buzzed off into the forest to do whatever he was doing before the crazy lady decided to implode. “Ugh,” I said, shivering.

“Ugh?” a voice said from below.

I remembered where I was, what had happened, and where Leo now had his face. Looking down, I brushed his sandy blond hair back from his brow to see his eyes staring up into mine.

Oh. I was so mortified. “I’m so sor—”

“Ah gawna seh oo donna,” came the muffled reply, and I scooted further back against the tree, freeing his lips from my rather short shorts.

“Sorry?” I sang out, trying to make this not at all awkward.

“I said”—he grasped my hands—“I’m gonna”—giving me a little bounce to get him out from under—“set you”—I flew up in the air before he caught me neatly—“down now.”

I stood in his arms, shirtless, hair full of bark, my chest red from my slapping. He was covered in mud from my scrambling shoes, breathing heavily, and keeping his hands firmly at my waist, holding me at a safe distance. He shook his head. “You’re a bit of a train wreck, aren’t you?”

I puffed a bit of hair away from my face. “Choo choo?”

Thank goodness, he laughed.

Then he gallantly turned around while I put my T-shirt back on, which was sweet, considering he’d already had a substantial peek at the goods. Then we began walking back toward the Jeep.

“So what’s with the bees?” he asked.

“Where?” I asked, automatically ducking. My heart rate spiked at the thought that the bee had returned to get his revenge.

“Easy there, he’s long gone.”

“Good,” I said, scanning the area.

“He’s probably telling all of his buddies to steer clear of the lady in the woods in her underwear.”

“Hey!” I said, giving him an elbow. “It was just my bra.”

He just shook his head and chuckled. “No more nature for you today.” He placed his hand on the small of my back again and guided me toward the road.

It was quiet, just the sounds of our feet crunching through the underbrush. I looked up at him, his face almost in shadow. It was past dusk; we’d been out in the woods for a while. The fireflies were beginning to turn on, sparking here and there in the twilight. We’d spent the better part of the afternoon together, and it had flown by.

“Bees aside, thanks for bringing me out here. And sorry again about the climbing. And the screaming.”

“Next time, less screaming. Climbing is fine; just gimme a heads up,” he replied with an easy smile.

By now we’d reached the Jeep. “Climbing,” I announced in warning, stepping up high and settling into my seat. He stood next to the car a moment longer, and I looked at him curiously. “What’s up, Leo?”

“You’re only here for the summer, right?” he asked, his eyes staring intently into mine.

I felt the tiniest of jolts running through me.

“Mmm-hmm.” Maybe this would be easier than I thought, if we both wanted the same thing. Did this mean . . .

He leaned into the Jeep, one hand grasping the roll bar over my head, the other resting on the dashboard. Caged in by his strong arms, I looked up into his face. The edge of his mouth lifted in a sneaky grin. “Then I should probably get going on this.”

Then his lips were on mine, warm and soft. Mmm. My eyes were still open, searching his. Thrilled and emboldened by his sudden move, my mouth molded to his. The kiss was quick, too quick—before I could close my eyes and begin to revel in it, he pulled back, licking his lips and grinning like a cat.

“Hey, get back here,” I insisted, slipping my hands behind his neck, my thumbs grazing his cheekbones. I pulled his mouth back to mine, luxuriating in the feel of him. His beard tickled a bit, raspy and soft at the same time. I liked it. I more than liked it. I could see how I would very quickly begin to crave it. I leaned into the kiss, rising out of my seat a little, brushing his lips with mine. We kissed again and again, little light lip explosions and soft teasing brushes. I sighed into his mouth, and he pulled back slightly. I tried to follow his lips, and he chuckled.

“Was that a ‘this is boring’ sigh?”

“Are you kidding? That was a ‘please to be kissing me more’ sigh.” I pressed another kiss to his lips.

“ ‘Please to be kissing me’?” he asked, his eyes full of laughter.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded, placing a kiss on his forehead, his nose, his chin, and one final one on his mouth. “Is that how every farm tour ends?”

“I’d say that’s a first.” He laughed, leaning across me and clicking my seat belt.

“Good,” I replied as he walked around to his side of the Jeep. “I like being an original.”

“Oh, I’ll give you that,” he answered, starting up the car and giving me a sexy grin.

My toes pointed. I couldn’t help it. We drove back to the main house, where he put me in my car, then kissed me once more before I left.

And as I drove home, I fiddled with my music, scrolling through songs until I found Achtung Baby. I’d forgotten how awesome this album was.

Chapter 9

When the alarm went off the next morning at 4:30, I began listing all the reasons I should throttle my mother. By 4:37 I had seventeen well-thought-out reasons that would be hard to prosecute under New York State law. But by 4:57 I was in the car, wet hair tied back into a bun, travel mug of coffee in hand, ready for a day of blue plates and blue hairs.

I hated being up this early, as any human would. There was nothing worse than being dragged out of bed before the sun had even thrown back its covers, to clean out grease traps and chop seventy heads of iceberg lettuce for “salad.” This was my life from about the age of eleven through high school graduation. Same thing, day after day. That was part of the reason I’d chosen the private chef route: there was always something new and exciting to play around with, new menus to create, new taste buds to tantalize. Nothing ho hum there.

I squashed that thought as I headed into town. As the sun crept over the mountains, I moaned and groaned about how early it was the entire way to the diner. Yet there was something about the air this early, especially in the summer. It was clean and fresh as I drove with my windows down. Though the forecast called for rain, right now the skies were clear, without a trace of humidity.

I yawned as I pulled into my spot behind the diner. I’d slept particularly poorly last night. Was it because I’d had a farmer ambling in and out of my dreams? And in and out of . . . Well. Yes, indeed. I touched my lips in remembrance of the feel of his mouth on mine, and with a secretive smile, I unlocked the back door and started my day.

By 8 a.m. I had veggies prepped for the day, six batches of blue-ribbon meat loaf mixed up and ready for the oven for the lunch service, and I was barking right back at Maxine and Sandy when they asked for four on two over easy, and fry two, let the sun shine. I ran the griddle until Carl came in at 9, then I headed into the walk-in fridge to see about something new for tomorrow’s lunch special. Wednesday had been Beef Stew Day since time began, but I thought I might try something a little different. If Albert was willing to try something new, some of the other stalwart customers might be open to it as well. Modifying the stew wasn’t exactly negotiating a peace treaty in the Middle East, but it could be my own little victory.

Propping the door of the walk-in open a bit to avoid becoming trapped, I perused the shelves, noting my mother’s disorganization. “Carl, you good if I work in here for a bit? Rearrange some things?” I called out.

“Sure, sure Roxie, leave me alone out here,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

I knew he was happier when he was left alone. Carl had worked here as long as anyone can remember; even my mother wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. One of my earliest memories was Carl flicking water on the griddle to clean it off. I liked working with him. He was quiet, he didn’t let the waitresses pull him into any drama, and he never lost his cool, even when we were at our busiest.

I stepped back out into the kitchen to grab my sweatshirt. “Call me if you get in the weeds, okay?” I stepped back into the walk-in, grabbed the clipboard from its hook, and started doing an inventory.

As I did, I rearranged everything so that like went with like. Proteins on one side, vegetables and fruit on the other. The menu was so heavily dependent on the standard diner items (Salisbury steak, chicken pot pie, burgers, etc.) that the fresh selection was a bit sparse; most of the fresh deliveries went directly into the freezer for later. As I reorganized, I started thinking of ways I could repurpose some of these ingredients. I was deeply engrossed in calculating how many pounds of potatoes I needed for fries and if I’d have enough left over to do a fennel and potato gratin when I heard a knock on the propped-open door.

“I’m coming, Carl,” I called, setting down the clipboard and starting to push open the door.

“Why am I suddenly jealous of Carl?” Leo filled up the doorway with his big body and grin.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he took a step toward me. “It’s not your normal delivery day.”

“Would you believe me if I said I had some beets to bring by?”

“It would depend on the beet,” I said. “What else you got?”

“What are you wearing?” he asked, taking another step.

I backed up into the lettuce. “This?” I opened the sides of my very attractive gray zip-up hoodie.

“It’s pretty fucking great,” he said, taking the last step and slipping his hands inside my sweatshirt, settling low around my hips.

“You didn’t really bring me beets, did you?” I said, not feeling the cold around me at all. I let my hands come up to his chest, sliding up and around his neck.

“I did,” he murmured, his thumbs sliding underneath my T-shirt the tiniest bit. “I brought mad beets.”

“Oh man,” I snorted, which changed to a snortmmm as he nuzzled my neck. “Did you bring me anything else?”

He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.”

“What did you bring?” I asked, shaking his shoulders.

He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini” was the muffled reply, and I threw my head back and laughed. He continued on his nuzzle path, now sweeping kisses back up toward my ear.

“I’m taking my beets and going home,” he whispered, and my laughter stopped as he licked my skin.

“No, no, you went to all that trouble to bring me that zucchini. At least let me see it.”

He groaned into my neck. “Now you’re just killing me.” He made to pull away, and I tugged him back.

“You should stay just another minute,” I said, turning my head to allow him better access to my sweet spot. Well, the sweetest spot accessible right now. “Oh yeah . . . you should definitely stay another minute . . . or seven.”

He answered with a kiss on my collarbone. “Is that the diner version of Seven Minutes in Heaven? I feel like a teenager.”

“I’ll go you one better,” I said, arching up into him, feeling my breasts press against his chest. “My mom’s out of town; you wanna come over for dinner tonight?”

“Now you’re talking,” he told my bra strap, which he was pushing aside to dance little kisses on the skin underneath. My shoulder was in heaven. He gathered my hair back into his fist, sweeping it off my shoulders. He inhaled deeply. “Did anyone ever tell you that you smell like honey?”

“It would certainly explain the bees.”

He lifted his head. “Are you aware that the second you said the word bees, your entire body froze?”

I sighed. “I truly believe ‘so goes the colony, so goes the planet’—but bees are assholes.”

He dropped his head to my back to my shoulder. “You’re twisted.”

I smiled. “But you still want to lick my honey, don’t you?”

He groaned.

Approximately six and a half minutes later, after running his hands through his hair to smooth out the furrows my hands had made in it, and straightening my bunchy shirt, Leo backed out of the walk-in, saying, “Okay—so I’ll bring you beets as long as I have them in season.”

I knew he was making sure people knew he was just there for business—and not monkey business—but I couldn’t help giggling.

Tonight, I was having Leo. Over for dinner. Yes, that period was intentional. It was rare that I sat down with a guy and shared a meal I had prepared. But with Leo providing so much of the food, and little potential for strings attached, it only seemed fair. And more to the point, I liked the idea of cooking for Leo. I wanted to cook for him.

I waited a few minutes, getting my giggles under control and zipping up my hoodie, wondering if my lips looked used. God damn, the man could kiss.

When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.

But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.

I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.

After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.

I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.

But here, it was homegrown New York style. The Hudson Valley had always had a mix of people making it home. Take some hippies and richies, add a dash of old school, a sprinkle of blue blood and a dollop of millennial, with a generous helping of city professionals who owned weekend homes, and you had an eclectic melting pot.

So it made perfect sense that on Main Street, you’d find a high-end clothing store next to a shop that sold crystals promising you inner light and peace. A Realtor with pictures of multimillion-dollar “farmhouses” in the front window, next door to a dive bar advertising dollar pitchers and quarter wings.

But I was focusing on the return of the small-town butcher. A cheese shop. A bakery. An actual general store selling everything from two-dollar belt buckles to nine-dollar artisanal pickles. Ooh, and a wine shop. Locally grown, sustainably sourced bubbly to make us a little tipsy? Why, thank you, sir, I think I’ll have another.

I spent the afternoon popping in and out of stores, saying hello to people I hadn’t seen in ages, and stocking my summer pantry in a major way. I’d left so many of my things in LA, bringing only the basics: clothing, makeup, knives, chopsticks, a rasp, a bamboo steamer, and a fistful of saffron.

Now I filled the back of the Wagoneer with fresh pumpernickel bread, aged balsamic vinegar, and local maplewood smoked bacon. I snatched up armfuls of spices, bunches of fresh herbs, and a wedge of the stinkiest Stilton I could find, imported by a cheesemaker here in town. The cheese shop featured a wide variety from a nearby creamery, and I was willing to bet Leo would know more about those cows.

And as I shopped, I was reminded several times of things that Leo had told our group on the farm tour. What he was doing wasn’t any different from how family farms had been run a hundred years ago; he was just doing it on a larger scale than most. “What grows together, goes together” was a phrase I’d heard my entire culinary life. Sometimes it applied to wine pairings with specific foods, and often it applied to herbs and the like. Take tomatoes and basil. Everyone knew they tasted great together, but I learned from Leo that they literally grew better when they were planted together—something about the soil and a particular pest. It was hard to pay attention at that point, because he was kneeling down, which pulled his pants tight over his very cute caboose—but the point is that tomatoes and basil planted near each other actually tasted better. Mother Nature had her shit together.

So as I shopped, I was even more aware about what went with what, and who produced it. And why it was nice to find an honest-to-goodness butcher who not only could tell me what was the best cut of the day, but when I mentioned I needed some fresh ground pork, he lopped off a piece of tenderloin and ground it for me personally. His name was Steve. My new butcher’s name was Steve.

I caught myself whistling a happy tune on my way back to my car, and for one tiny moment I found myself a little homesick. For my hometown.

But for now, I sped off in the direction of my mother’s house. I had a boy coming over tonight. Thank goodness I’d cleaned the place up.

Chapter 10

A few hours later I’d opened all the windows to let the late afternoon breeze blow in, and I was back to thinking about Leo. I enjoyed being around him, and was looking forward to enjoying him naked at some point. But beyond that I wanted to get to know him, to find out what made him tick.

What would Leo think of my tiny childhood home? I wasn’t ashamed of where I’d come from, but it was striking to think of how different our backgrounds were.

But I couldn’t marinate on this too long, I had actual marinating to do. Tossing together some Meyer lemon, fresh tarragon, olive oil, and a pinch of salt, I poured this over the beautiful diver scallops I’d picked up at the fish market—something else new in town. I set the scallops and their marinade in the fridge, assembled the Stilton with some early cherries I’d picked out, then set about peeling the beets I’d roasted at the diner.

I was slicing the beets when I heard a car coming down the drive. A glance through the curtains showed Leo’s Jeep pulling to a stop, kicking up dust. Even under his shirt, his muscles were evident as he swung down, his back strong but not rippling in a beefcakey way. Just plain awesome strength, honestly come by. I’d seen how hard he worked on his farm. And speaking of awesome, he’d ditched the T-shirt/flannel workingman’s combo and was rocking the shit out of a white button-down and comfortable-looking jeans.

That beard was still there, gorgeously scruffy yet neatly trimmed, and I wanted to kiss him just to feel the tickle. I felt a thrill run up and down my spine as I imagined what it would be like to be the girl he came home to every night. Whoa. Where did that come from?

Shaking it off, I leaned out the window and called out, “The door’s open, go ahead and let yourself in!”

I had the pleasure of watching his face light up at my voice. Wow, look at that.

“Well, hey there,” he said, coming around the corner with a bottle of wine. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, so I went with a Riesling from—wow, did you murder someone this afternoon?”

“Ha-ha,” I replied, holding up the last beet I was slicing and showing him my pinky-purple hands. “Someone brought me beets, and that same someone knows exactly what they do to your hands when you mess with them.”

“If I made a joke about catching you red-handed, would you laugh?”

“I think so,” I said, blowing a piece of hair out of my face.

He waited a moment, looking at me expectantly.

“What’d I miss?”

“You’re not laughing,” he said, setting the wine down and moving a little closer.

“I was waiting for your joke,” I said, blowing again at a piece of hair sticking to my face. I didn’t dare touch it; the beet juice would stain almost anything it touched.

His cheeks crinkled as he laughed. “Forget it. Can I help you with that?” He leaned in and plucked the piece of hair from my face, tucking it neatly behind my ear. “Better?”

“Better,” I agreed. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” he replied, stepping even closer. “Famished.” His hand lingered on my neck, fingertips dancing across my skin as he skimmed around to the nape, warm and heavy. “Can I kiss you without you getting my shirt all beety?”

“You can sure try,” I answered, letting him pull me into him. I kept my hands straight out to my sides, trying to keep from marking him. He kissed me slow and sweet. Little fleeting brushes of his lips, first on one side of my mouth, then the other. By the time he made it to the middle of my mouth, I was rising up on my tiptoes to get closer, still keeping my beet hands out to my sides. He held my face in his hands, thumbs sweeping across my cheekbones, feathering and light. In the walk-in this afternoon, there was surprised passion. Now it was a slow burn.

His kisses swept down along my jawline, and right about the time he got to my earlobe, I had to warn him that my hands were beginning to have a mind of their own.

“If you want to keep that shirt from being ruined, you better quit while you’re ahead.” I groaned, lowering my head and beating it against his chest a few times.

“For the record, I’m not at all concerned about my shirt,” he said as I extricated myself and headed back over to my cutting board.

“Now you tell me.” I finished slicing the beets, washed my hands until the water ran clear, then started assembling the salad. I stacked frisée and endive leaves on two plates, topped them with wedges of the purple beets, added a handful of Leo’s walnuts (for which I got an approving eyebrow), and finished with a few crumbles of good feta. I drizzled syrupy balsamic vinegar over the whole thing, added a little walnut oil, then dusted salt, pepper, and a few sprigs of fresh parsley across the top.

As I assembled, he told me about one of his heritage pigs that had gotten loose from the paddock in the woods, and how he and some of his interns spent the afternoon running through the forest, trying to tackle a hog.

“I really wish I could have seen that,” I said, setting the plates down on the table while Leo opened the wine he’d brought.

“Come back again sometime and I’ll show you the pigs. They’re great.”

“And you raise pigs for . . .”

“Pork. Bacon. Chops. Everything.”

I turned from the stove, where I was getting the cast-iron pan sizzling hot for the scallops. I’d fried some bacon earlier, and it was chopped and ready to go in at the last moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replied, pouring wine into the glasses I’d set out.

“Is it ever weird, getting to know the animals you’re going to end up killing? Do you ever get attached?”

I held my hand over the pan, testing the heat. I flicked a drop of water in, watched it sizzle and pop. Good to go. Too hot, and the scallops would burn. Not hot enough, they would just steam.

“Hmm. Not sure attached is the right word. How can I explain without sounding callous?” He came to stand next to me while I started the scallops. “On the tour, I talked about how everything at the farm has a purpose, right? The animals live the most stress-free life I can give them. Not just for humane reasons, which I feel very strongly about. But it’s also better for me, and the rest of my farm, to let the chickens, the sheep, the pigs, even the cows that graze on some of my land live as normally as possible. When I move sheep onto a field, I get the benefit of their hooves aerating the soil. I get the benefit of the naturally occurring compost that happens when animals do their business. They get the benefit of eating clover all day under a gorgeous sky and moving around as freely as they want to. They’re incredibly happy animals.”

“They did seem happy,” I said, watching the scallops. I resisted the urge to move them, knowing the longer I let them sit still, the more caramelized and sticky good they’d be.

“It’s amazing how much better a pork chop is from a pig that’s been rooting through the forest, rolling in the mud, sleeping in the shade, and living a full life. We try to produce as much as we can on the farm, try to be as diverse as we can and still maintain the quality. It’s a balancing act, one I’m still learning.”

He was so full of passion for what he did, his entire body perked up when he talked about it.

I checked one of my scallops—charred and gorgeous on the underside. Using tongs, I flipped each one over.

“I wonder if this was happy bacon,” I said, taking the plate I’d cooked up earlier.

“Where’d you get it?”

“In town. Steve, my new favorite butcher, recommended it.”

“That’s very happy bacon,” he said proudly. “That’s from Maxwell Farms.”

“Well, look at you.” I grinned, watching him puff up a little bit. And why shouldn’t he? It seemed like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

The scallops only needed a moment on the second side, so I lifted them out of the pan. “Might want to lean back a little bit,” I warned, then splashed a tablespoon or so of brandy into the pan, which I tilted slightly. The fire caught the alcohol, flames dancing furiously before dying down just as quickly. Was I showing off a little? Maybe a touch. It was nice, cooking for someone I was . . . getting to know.

I let the brandy deglaze the pan a bit, added a pat of butter for shine, then tumbled the bacon back in. Swirling for just a moment, I finished the sauce and poured it over the line of scallops on the plate, sprinkling fresh-cut chives over the whole thing. “Well, I’m ready to eat this happy bacon, and these totally blissed-out scallops, and those supremely thrilled-to-be-here beets.”

“This looks amazing—thanks so much for cooking tonight. I’d say I’d return the favor, but saying I suck in the kitchen would be the understatement of the century.”

“You help me with my mother’s kitchen garden out there, and I’ll teach you some basic recipes. How would that be?” I offered before I thought about it. I didn’t teach guys to cook. That wasn’t how I operated. But what could it hurt—right?

He set the plates on the table, then looked back at me, eyes dancing. “I’d say it’s going to be a busy summer.”

The beets were good. The scallops were lovely. The wine was fantastic. The farmer was lickable. We chatted as we ate, and he praised everything lucky enough to be brought to his exquisite mouth. Never in my life have I been more jealous of an endive leaf. But in between my fantasies of being devoured, I actually learned a little more about Leo. I say little because he didn’t share all that much.

Ask him about crop rotation, and you’ll hear more than you ever thought you could. Ask him about the phrase slow foods movement and you’d think you were in church, listening to a testimony. But ask him about his parents, how this all happened for him, or how often he saw anyone with his same last name, and the guy clammed up like a littleneck. Thank God for Chad and Logan—and Maxine the gossipy waitress.

“But you didn’t grow up here, I would remember that,” I said, leaning back in my chair and allowing Leo to pour me another glass of wine. I wasn’t tipsy yet, but the edges of the room were becoming juuust the tiniest bit fuzzy.

“Why would you remember that?” he asked, finishing off the bottle with his own pour.

“Are you kidding? When the big house got opened up again, people knew. It’s like the queen: when the flag is there, she’s in the house.”

“The Maxwells. That’s really how people see us, don’t they? The name?” he sighed, his eyes looking tired as he swallowed his wine.

“Well, it’s a bit of an institution, you have to admit.” I traced the lace in the tablecloth. “I always wondered if you guys were the coffee people too.”

“Very distantly related. We’re just the bankers. Well, they’re the bankers. I’m not involved in the family business anymore,” he said, watching my fingertips on the table. “You were born and raised here, right? Why’d you leave?” he asked, the change of topic coming so swiftly I had to shake my head. “Other than wanting brighter lights and a bigger city.”

“Uh, yeah. Born here, raised here, Bailey Falls through and through. I left right after I graduated because I wanted to add something else to the Bailey Falls. I knew what would happen if I stayed here.”

“What were you so sure was going to happen?”

“It was pretty much written into the town law books that I’d inherit the diner and run it for the rest of my life. I’d like to actually have a life first.”

“You didn’t want the diner?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to try on a new hat, when everyone in your family assumes you want to wear the same one they’re all wearing?” I asked, feeling some of the old weight I used to carry around, taking care of everything including my mother, beginning to pile back on.

He grimaced. “Yeah. There’s a bank in Manhattan the size of a city block with my last name on it.”

It was quiet except for the plink plunk of the faucet dripping. Of course he knew what I was talking about. There was more to that story, but he seemed content to sit in the quiet, and I wasn’t about to push him.

I sipped my wine, then drained it. “So yeah, away I went to culinary school in California.”

He seemed glad to turn the conversation back to me. “Even with the CIA right up the road?”

“The Culinary Institute of America is an amazing school—one of the best. But it was here, and I wanted to be there.”

“California specifically?” he asked.

“Yes and no. I was intrigued by the West Coast because it was on the other side of the world, kind of. And I really liked being out there—liked the weather, the people, especially in Santa Barbara. But I think mostly it was because it was not here.”