Page 10 of Full Circle

Mama never would have allowed him to leave until she taught him how to cook everything from scratch! She had forced Daddy to learn, too, though she hardly ever let him. Said it made her happy to serve him a hot meal filled with love.

“Well, I’m in the mood for a chicken quesadilla, so that’s what I’m gonna make,” I announced. Turning, I grabbed the clear plastic container holding the fresh bakery items and withdrew a large flour tortilla that our neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, made from scratch for us every few days. I entered the large, walk-in refrigerator and pulled out the blocks of cheese, a tomato, an onion, and cilantro. After I placed them back on the cutting board on the table, I pulled out a plate and placed the tortilla on it to keep it out of the way, but also make it easy for Jesse to throw on the grill. Dicing the tomato and onion carefully, the pieces were placed on the corner of the cutting board. I returned to the rack of dishes near the sink and grabbed the grater so I could grate fresh cheese onto the tortilla before adding the tomato and onion. When I was satisfied with everything, I returned to the fridge to grab the plastic bin with pre-grilled chicken pieces and a bottle of our homemade chipotle ranch dressing.

Wesley watched me with his mouth hanging open. He moved closer after I started dicing the onion, but his eyes tracked my every movement as I went about my work. After I squirted some of the dressing across the tortilla, I couldn’t help but squirt some onto my finger and lick it off. It was a recipe I had created with my mama, and even now I could see her face beaming at me as she swore up and down it was the best she had ever tasted.

“What is that?” He nodded towards the bottle as I squirted more on my finger again.

I tried to laugh it off when I realized I must look like a nutcase to keep putting a condiment on my finger and eating it. It was good enough to eat with a spoon. Or so Mama and Daddy told me.

“It’s my homemade chipotle ranch,” I explained. “I made the recipe a couple years ago with Mama, so now we always keep it on hand as a condiment.”

Maybe my mind was playing a trick on me because it almost looked like Wes was impressed.

“What kind of food do y’all serve?” he finally asked after several moments of considering my answer. Only he over pronounced “y’all” like the Yankees who came to visit on vacation.

I laughed at that. “A little bit of everything. Mama always said that her kitchen was her canvas, so she wasn’t following a recipe, she was making art. It was amazing to watch an entire meal come out of thin air! And she made it look so easy!” My voice dropped off as I lost myself in her memories. “I wish I could grow up to be like her,” I added quietly.

Wesley brushed the hair away from my face, staring directly into my eyes. “I bet you already are,” he whispered. Just the feather-light touch of his fingers on my skin had the butterflies return to my stomach.

I knew a thing or two about what happened between boys and girls. Mama had started giving me The Talk at a very young age because she said it was important for me to feel comfortable with my own body and to handle myself with grace whenever I was attracted to someone down the line. Wise words that all dissipated into smoke in that moment.

“You’re awfully pretty,” he whispered, his voice barely loud enough for me to hear.

I gulped. “You’re really pretty, too,” I breathed.

Wesley’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he laughed. He dropped his hand from my face in that same instant and took a step away from me.

The pull of gravity shifted with him. I shook my head and returned to my quesadilla, taking far longer than necessary to fold it over and center it on the plate.

Sensing the tension in the air, Wesley stepped closer and slid the plate in front of him. “Can you show me how to make one now?” His smile was rich and warm, reminding me of an angel again. “I wanna be a good cook like you.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “My mama was a good cook, not me.”

The blue in his eyes reminded me of a photo I saw at school once of the Caribbean Sea, bright and crystal clear. They didn’t waver from mine as he said quietly, “She’s not the one standing here to cook for me.”

Ice glazed over my heart at his words as the overwhelming sense of loss hit me again. It was like a freight train barreling down a hill towards me at the bottom, stuck on the tracks. Mama was supposed to be here. She left me and I wasn’t ready for her to go. Although even with his poor manners, something told me that my mama would have loved Wesley.

“Um, you can just have that one. I’m not really hungry.” I snatched the plate from him and brushed past him to round the corner and placed the plate at the end of the grill line. Jesse would know from its placement that it was something I cooked up, then pass it through to Marla when it was ready. We had a routine down after all these years. As I turned back around, my eyes were too blurred with tears to see and I slammed into Wesley’s hard form.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and soothingly rubbed his thumbs. “Don’t cry, Celeste. I don’t wanna make you sad.”

Whether he intended to or not, I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I nodded and hastily wiped the tears from my eyes. “Come on,” I offered. “Let’s make one for you, too.”

Wesley and I spent the rest of the afternoon together. Teaching him to make a quesadilla took three times longer than it should have because he had never held things like a knife or grater before. I had to show him how to properly dice the vegetables so his fingers were tucked in, reducing the chance of accidentally slicing one open, and then I had to explain the importance of washing all the dishes properly afterwards. Apparently, it never occurred to him that any dishes he used were actually washed by his housekeeper. I sent Mama a mental prayer asking her to bless the poor Mrs. Aguilar Wesley described.

He told me about some of the various five star restaurants he had eaten in while traveling to places like New York City, Paris, and Shanghai. I had never traveled further out than Tybee Island, roughly two hours away. Mama rarely ever wanted a break from the restaurant, so we didn’t really take vacations. It fascinated me to hear about the white gloved service and crystal dishware at the fancy places he had been.

When Wesley started describing the tiny servings, where food tended to pile up vertically rather than being spread out on the plate, my belly ached from laughing. He said there were several courses, so it wasn’t like anyone went hungry, but there was no such thing as a second helping. I couldn’t imagine a meal like that.

“I hope I can travel like that someday,” I commented suddenly. “Go to all those exciting places and try new foods!”

“You will, because I’ll take you!” Wesley vowed.

My cheeks burned at his promise. All I could offer was a shy smile of thanks in return. I hoped he kept his word.

We ended up spending most of our time perched on barstools in the back corner of the dining room, sharing more about our lives. I wanted to hear all about his life in Atlanta, which sounded like something out of another world. His father had more money than God (his words, not mine) and loved to show off his wealth with extravagant parties, enormous houses, and flashy cars that Wesley said his father never drove because he had a driver who worked for him 24/7. Marla popped in and out of the conversation between customers, chiming in that Wesley was gonna have to lower his expectations if he expected to live comfortably here in River’s Run.

He grinned sheepishly at me every time she said it. I doubted Wesley had ever been around folks who lived a lot simpler than he did, but I got the impression that I was happier with my life than Wesley had ever been with his. The blue in his eyes dulled whenever he talked about Atlanta and the penthouse he described sounded cold to me.

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