Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"
Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
An invitation to dinner had to be a good sign, right? He had worried she believed Devlin’s story and considered taking him back. If she believed him, why wouldn’t she? They had a history, he had a successful career and superhero good looks. But Al was the one with an invitation. Ace!
Al leaned against the counter, his eyes tracing a familiar path to the cast-iron frying pan hanging on the wall. It looked as if a small child had decorated it with stickers. He had added to his magnet collection. His brat and Chihuly now kept company with a State Fair cow, a red Summerfest smiley, a Bernie Brewer, and a cheese wedge. Each magnet a memory, a reminder of everything good about his life in Milwaukee, and each one connected him to Lou.
He should probably reply. Al picked up his phone on the counter, read Lou’s text again, then typed a reply.
Still awake? I’ll be there. Can’t wait.
He watched the text go and waited, hoping for the little beep. Less than a minute passed, and it came.
Go to bed, it’s late.
Al laughed and replied.
I’m a night owl. Best time to work. What’s your excuse?
Beep.
Me too. Makes AMs rough. Done working, need to shower.
Seeing the word “shower” sent off an explosion of detailed images in his mind. Al’s reaction was immediate and a little painful. With a deep exhale he typed.
Need help?
Then erased it.
Then typed,
I’ll bring the wine.
And erased that.
With a sigh, he typed,
Sweet dreams.
And hit Send. He needed a shower, too, of the chilly variety.
Beep.
You too.
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN •
Lou gnawed on a fingernail as she watched Al and Harley out the kitchen window while a vase filled with water. They stood on her patio, discussing something, apparently with gusto. Harley could intimidate people without realizing it, and she didn’t want Al scared away.
“If you keep eating your nail, you won’t want any Cuban pork,” Sue said as she stepped next to Lou. “He’s nice. I can see why you’ve kept him to yourself. With an ass like that, all the waitstaff would be after him.”
“Especially Billy.” Lou smiled, thinking of her best waiter. Billy was so efficient, with business slowing he could work most nights by himself with the help of two busboys. That kept him happy because he earned more tips, and kept her happy because she only had to pay one server.
“Should I go out and save him?” Lou asked.
“From what? Harley?”
Lou nodded, moving on to her next finger.
“Harley loves him.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because he’s still talking to him. You know that. If Harley didn’t like him, he would turn his back and not speak another word to him. Then, if he hurt you, Harley would crush him.”
“He never crushed Devlin.”
“Devlin would sue. Harley’s protective, not stupid. But he’d do it if you asked.”
“Honestly, I don’t think I care enough anymore. He just doesn’t matter, even after he explained about that morning.” Lou opened the oven to stir the Cuban black beans, scenting the kitchen with garlic and bacon. Sue finished frying up the plantains and sprinkled them with salt.
“You’re really over him? I expected a longer mourning period.”
“Yeah, I think I got over him months ago. He was convenient and safe, so I didn’t see a reason to change. He sent me tickets for a play downtown.” Lou pointed her chin toward the end of the counter where a pristine white envelope lay. “He keeps trying to ‘sweeten the deal.’ His words, not mine. Honestly, I should send him a thank-you note for the birthday debacle.”
“You can only send him a thank-you if I get to hand-deliver it. I want to see his face when he reads it.”
Lou turned off the faucet and set the vase on the windowsill. She slipped a bouquet of pristine white calla lilies into the water.
“He did good.” Sue nodded at the flowers. Lou smiled, still thrilled Al had remembered her favorite flower.
“Yes—yes, he did.”
They grabbed the still-warm plantains and a pitcher of mojitos and left the kitchen for the patio.
• • • • •
Lou’s apartment was tiny and cozy, with a brilliant patio—the perfect spot for summer gatherings. Looking to the south, Al could see the tall buildings of downtown Milwaukee against the still blue sky, to the north, trees and swaths of green intermingled with postwar houses. As he had walked through her flat, he caught glimpses into each room, little flashes of Lou. In the dining room he saw several photos with laughing and kind faces. He hoped to hear the stories behind each one. Her kitchen overflowed with food preparation and delicious aromas, while her living room housed an impressive cookbook collection. He spotted a copy of Modernist Cuisine and looked forward to seeing where their collections overlapped and deviated.
Al and Harley turned as Sue and Lou stepped onto the patio. Upon first meeting Harley, he had worried they wouldn’t have much to discuss. After all, what would a tattoo enthusiast have in common with an Eton-educated food writer? To his surprise and relief, they shared the same passion for quality tea, and he now knew of three stores where he could purchase it in bulk.
Lou stopped next to him and handed him a fresh mojito. He scooped a handful of plantains as Sue walked by with the still-warm-from-the-oil pile. As he chewed, Sue asked the question he dreaded.
“So, Lou tells us you’re a writer. What do you write?”
Al swallowed and sipped his drink while perfecting his answer.
“I write freelance pieces. Thanks to Lou, I’m working on an article about the various ethnic influences in Milwaukee’s food scene.” All true. He’d already spent hours researching the ethnic festivals’ origins, the people involved, and their affiliations with local restaurants.
“So you write about food?”
Sue looked thrilled by the idea. Al’s heartbeat raced. He needed to change the topic. He liked these people; he didn’t want to lie to them. So far, he’d gotten away with revealing so little, even after his failed attempt to show Lou his Good Land article.
“I write about whatever I’m hired to write about, unless I have a story to pitch, like Lou’s idea.”
“And he’s an experienced Irish rain dancer.” Lou winked and touched his arm. Sue and Harley exchanged confused looks.
“So,” Harley said, “you could write about Lou.”
Al’s forehead scrunched.
“Now, I’m not sure I follow?” Al said.
“Well, since her review, work’s been rough. If you wrote about her, that might help.”
Al opened his mouth to get more information.
“Harley.” Lou rolled her eyes. “Al doesn’t want to write about me. We’re here to have fun, not talk about my catastrophe of a career.” Lou looped her arm in Al’s. “Besides, he wants to see what’s on the grill.”
Lou pulled him away from Sue and Harley, toward the smell of garlic, citrus, and oregano wafting off the grill. He was curious about their work, but he couldn’t ask without the risk of having to answer more questions about his own job.
Lou lifted the hood. He had tried to peek earlier, but Harley had physically blocked him with a terse “No peeking.” What was finally revealed went beyond his expectations. A large butt of pork looked blackened with a thick coat of spices, fat melted down the sides adding flavor and moisture to the crust. His mouth drowned in saliva.
“That looks fantastic.”
“It tastes even better,” Lou said with confidence, “especially with the mojo.”
“I’d like to formally offer my services as taster.” Al reached toward the roast, going for a juicy dangling bit of meat. Lou slapped his hand.
“You’ll have to wait. It needs to rest an hour.”
“You’re such a pork tease.”
“That’s why there’re plantains and mojitos. You’ll live.”
Lou lifted the roast onto a cutting board, covered it with foil, and carried it to the kitchen. Al trailed after, opening the door for her. In the kitchen, he noticed the lilies in a place of honor. He smiled. He could see Harley and Sue on the patio. Such a unique pair: Harley with all his tattoos and grumbly voice, and Sue with her sailor’s vocabulary and rough edges. Al turned to face Lou.
“How did the three of you meet?”
Lou picked up a washcloth and started wiping the counters and putting dirty dishes in the washer. She smiled.
“It’s been so long, I almost can’t remember.” She paused in her cleaning to give the memory her full attention. “I met Sue in school. We found Harley at our first job. We were so young. Harley didn’t have a beard then. Sue and I would go drinking after work and Harley would follow, but never sit by us, just keep an eye on us. On Sue, really.”
Al tilted his head toward the window.
“They’ve been simmering that long?”
“You have no idea. But I finally think they’re about to boil over.”
“Nice one.” Al laughed.
“I’m all about the food humor.” Lou set down her washcloth and headed back out, waving her hand at Al to join her.
• • • • •
An hour later, the four sat at the patio table laden with the sliced pork, mojo sauce, black beans, cilantro lime rice, and grilled peppers and onions.
“Dig in,” Lou said.
“About bloody time,” Al mumbled, reaching for the end piece before anyone else could grab it and sliding it onto Lou’s plate. He then proceeded to load his own plate with a bit of everything on the table. He looked up to see Lou smiling at him. He smiled back, then focused on his plate for the next fifteen minutes. It was some of the best food he had eaten in years; and yes, he included The Good Land in his comparison. Lou’s food was that good. Talk focused on silly topics ranging from comic book heroes to politics. Paranoid, Al had steered the conversation anytime it seemed to veer toward work, which wasn’t often. No one rushed to eat. They lingered before dessert, picking at stray pieces of pork, tucking them into every available space in their stomachs. Conversation and wine flowed. He looked around the table at the open, relaxed faces. Al had found more friends, more reasons to love his new home.
• • • • •
After coffee and dessert, Lou shooed Sue and Harley out. Al didn’t want to leave, but Lou clearly wanted to get the cleaning started. She pulled out her purple rubber gloves and started filling the sink with steaming water. Al brought in some of the empty wineglasses from the patio.
“That was fantastic. I adore your friends, and the food . . . the food. Fantastic.” Al placed his hands on his chest and leaned onto the fridge in faux swoon. “You are a goddess in the kitchen.”
Lou blushed. “Thanks.”
She went to get more dishes, causing an envelope to flutter and drift to the floor in her wake. Al picked it up, noticing Devlin Pontellier’s return address on the snow-white paper, postmarked this week. He turned it over to see a thick card and tickets poking out. More than anything, he wanted to know what was on that note card. Why was Devlin sending her tickets? Were they going together? His stomach clenched, worried he had missed his opportunity with Lou.
She walked back into the kitchen, and a line creased her forehead as she saw Al holding Devlin’s envelope. He struggled to wipe the disappointment from his face. After all, he had no claim on Lou.
“It dropped when you walked by,” Al explained, and set the offending envelope back where it fell from.
She nodded and started setting the dishes on the counter.
“You’re seeing him again?” Al asked. Lou looked at the envelope as water dripped off her gloves onto her bare feet.
“What? . . . Um . . . no?” The words came out slowly, as if she had to search for them. Her eyes darted into the hall. Did she want him to go? But Al had to know more.
“Are you considering going back to him?”
Lou looked at Al, the line deepening. This was none of his business. He shouldn’t even be asking. He should accept the friendship she was offering.
“I’m trying to do what’s best for me.”
She licked her lips.
Al opened his mouth, but before he could respond Lou took a step toward him.
“What do you think?”
Al wanted to shout “Not him.” But someone like Devlin could always take care of Lou. Al’s job depended on the fickleness of newspaper readers. He had to go where the work was. The clock bonged the hour.
“Wow, it’s late. I should go.” He left the kitchen, picked his light coat off a hook, and opened the door. Lou followed.
“So, Al, you don’t have an opinion on what would be best?” she asked.
Al froze in the doorway and turned. Lou was close by, inches away, leaning on the partially opened door. He could feel his coat brushing her arm. Al looked into the warm brown eyes, swallowed, lips pressed together.
“It’s not my opinion that matters. Is it?” Al’s blue eyes scanned Lou’s face, wishing that he could say what he really thought without risking their friendship.
Lou’s shoulders sagged a little, and a sigh escaped her lips.
“I should finish my cleaning. Good night, Al.” Lou quickly leaned in and kissed Al on the cheek. Lou slowly pulled back, their faces close together, breath mingling. Lou moistened her lips. Al watched her closely, then closed his eyes and backed away. “Good night, Lou.” He turned away and walked quickly down the steps. He wanted to haul her into his arms, but he wasn’t the best choice for her, was he? He stopped, turned, and looked back up the stairs. He remembered Devlin at Irish Fest. Arrogant, talking of their plan. He didn’t want a wife; he wanted a personal chef he could sleep with. Lou deserved adoration, not servitude.
He took the steps back up two at a time.
• • • • •
Lou had closed the door slowly, then leaned against it, eyes shut, and nibbled the inside of her cheek. Damn. She sighed deeply and opened her eyes to look at her newly empty apartment. She could hear cars on the street, doors closing, and the TV on in a neighboring apartment. Her apartment was still, but her heart pounded. She had been so close to telling him how she felt, showing him. She pushed herself off the door and headed to the kitchen to finish cleaning.
Before she reached the kitchen, a soft knock broke the silence. Lou peeked out the hole to see it was Al, cheeks flushed from running back up the steps. Lou opened the door, brow furrowed, wondering what he forgot.
A saucy grin spread across his face. Lou beamed, eyes wide. Al stepped toward her and Lou took a surprised step back. Without taking his hungry eyes off Lou, Al closed the door and dropped his coat to the floor. He grabbed Lou and pulled her tight with one arm, the other hand buried deep into her hair. His blue eyes reminded her of when fire burned too hot.
“I’m best for you, Lou.”
Al touched his lips to hers, pulling her even closer. Lou responded with her entire body, kissing back. She wrapped one leg around his legs, tightening to pull him even closer.
Al turned her back to the door and pressed her into it. She groaned as he rubbed himself firmly against her. He kissed her neck, then pulled back so she could yank off his T-shirt. She looked him up and down, bit her lip, then grabbed him by the belt buckle to lead him into her bedroom, kissing him again and bumping into walls along the way. She clumsily unbuckled his belt and began unbuttoning his jeans.
“This is getting uneven rather quickly.” Al yanked open Lou’s shirt, buttons popping off, to reveal a lacy red bra. Al raised an eyebrow and grinned.
Lou blushed. “I was hopeful.”
“Thank God for hope.” Al bent his head to kiss along her collarbone, and Lou tilted back her head to give him all the room he needed.
“Mmm, you taste like vanilla ice cream.” He pushed her shirt off her shoulder, going to his knees to get it over her hands. His mouth traced tender kisses over her cleavage and onto her shivering stomach.
His agile hands set the shirt on the floor. He touched her ankles, then slid his hands up her legs to her knee. Lou watched him with breathless wonder. His deft hands traced the path up her legs, circling slowly, as if polishing a precious stone. Al nudged her to sit on the bed and kissed her again, slowly and deeply, one hand on her face, the other on her thigh. Lou forgot everything but her racing pulse, the brush of his skin, and the heat of Al’s lips on hers.
• • • • •
As far as dreams went, this one was particularly odd. He was an octopus, wrapping his arms around a beautiful mermaid with dark hair and pale skin. No question who that was supposed to be. Every time she moved, he pulled her closer. Even underwater she smelled like vanilla. He pulled her tighter.
“Shit,” the mermaid said. Pretty foulmouthed for a mermaid.
“Dammit, let go,” she said. This time she pinched one of his tentacles. Grunt. He pulled her tighter. Why wouldn’t she just stay still? Then they would be so happy together. He felt a harder pinch.
“Al, I’m late. I have to get up.”
Al pried open one heavy lid to see Lou’s lovely white backside leave the bed and disappear into her bathroom. He shook his head a little to forget the weird dream and focus on what had happened. He could hear water running in the bathroom, so he took the opportunity to take stock. Last night had been amazing. Sure, they’d had their awkward moments, but all in all, he couldn’t remember having had more fun in bed with anyone. And he realized he wanted her back in it—now. He rolled on his side to make his intentions less obvious.
Al started making lists. He’d let Hannah know his long-term plans, then take Lou out on a real date, and maybe get an extra key made for his apartment. But first, he should tell her about his real job—that shouldn’t wait one more day, one more second.
Al heard the water turn off and said loudly, “What’s the hurry? It’s not even seven.”
Lou cracked the door a few inches so they wouldn’t have to shout. Al could hear her moving about but couldn’t see her.
“I have to meet the fish guy at seven thirty. He gets cranky when I’m late. Nobody likes a cranky fish guy.”
“Fish guy? Your office has fish?” Al knew that didn’t sound right. As he said it, his stomach had already started the slow plummet. Lou emerged from the bathroom wearing a plain white cotton V-neck T-shirt, the kind you buy three packs of in the men’s department, and black-and-white checked chef pants. The slow plummet became a bobsled racing down an icy track. She opened her top drawer and began digging. Al quickly sat up, heart racing, his breath coming in shallow pants. All the blood got sucked into the black hole forming in his chest, turning his skin pale and cold. He had to work up some saliva so he could ask his question.
“You’re a chef?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know that?”
“You never said. We agreed to never talk about work. You had copier problems. I thought you worked in an office.”
Lou thought for a moment, balancing on one foot then the other to put on her socks.
“Oh yeah. No, I own my own restaurant. At least for now anyway. And our copier breaks down once a month, but I can’t afford to get a new one.” Lou looked up at Al. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”
He nodded and swallowed, dreading the next question, hoping to any higher being that might be listening that his suspicion wasn’t true.
“Which restaurant?”
Lou walked back into the bathroom, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she went.
“Luella’s. It’s a few blocks away on the corner. Big windows out front. You need to stop by now that you’ve met Sue and Harley. Sue’s the sous chef. Harley does desserts. . . .”
Lou’s calm, confident voice kept talking but Al didn’t hear anything after “Luella’s.” He fell back into the pillows, thankful Lou couldn’t see him, and stared at the blank white ceiling, searching for answers to questions he didn’t know to ask. It couldn’t be her. Luella’s was owned by an Elizabeth, not a Lou. He pulled himself away from the brink, grasping for his last hope.
“Is Lou short for Luella?” Please say your first name is anything but Elizabeth. Let it be a different Luella’s restaurant, please not the same one, not the same person. Let there be two. But he knew, even without her answer. Al’s heart beat a million times in the second it took Lou to answer.
“Sort of. Luella is my middle name and my grandma’s. My real name is Elizabeth, but no one ever uses it. Don’t you dare start calling me Lizzy.”
He went still—channeling all the emotions into their proper place to be identified and analyzed. Shock would go there, then anger behind that, then sadness blanketed them all. He had to end it. Logically, a person in his job couldn’t fraternize with the people he critiqued for a living, and he certainly couldn’t make love to them for hours after having a cookout with half their staff. It contradicted his personal code of ethics.
And he felt shame.
He fumbled with the facts—shifting and sorting them into the right order, like Scrabble tiles spelling out words. He lined up the events he knew, then filled in the rest. The last event clicked into place. He knew now what had happened that day, the day he reviewed Luella’s. He saw it, saw her sad frosting trail and broken heart the same night he ate at her restaurant. Yes, the food was awful, but he didn’t do his job. Any other food critic would have returned, given the restaurant another chance. Not him, no—he had to bury her. Had he gone back, the food would have been perfect. If last night’s meal was any indication, Lou understood food and how to coax it into something grander. Shame at a job poorly done caused his eyes to burn with the truth of his situation. He had to leave. She could never know who he was, which meant they could not be together. He sat up, movements stiff and slow, grabbed his pants, and proceeded to get dressed.
Lou came out from the bathroom, a bottle of vanilla in one hand, the other dabbing the extract behind her ears. She saw what he was doing and frowned a little.
“Leaving? You don’t have to. You could come with me. Harley usually makes a few fresh pastries for those of us coming in early.”
Al looked her in the eyes, building up his courage for the lies he needed to tell.
“I can’t. I have to pack.”
“You’re going on a trip? Where?”
“Work. I have an assignment in California. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I leave tomorrow.”
“That sucks. You could come over when you finish packing.”
“Probably not. I tend to pack last minute, so now I have to spend all my time wrapping up loose ends.”
“Of course. I didn’t expect last night either.” Lou blushed a little, remembering, and Al’s guilt surged higher.
“I better be off. I’ll call you when I get back?”
“Sounds good.”
The radio in the bathroom sounded louder in the silence. “Storms are headed this way. Take shelter and don’t go out if you don’t need to,” said the weatherman.
Al gave her a swift peck on the cheek and left, closing the apartment door quietly.
