Page 37 of Sweet and Salty

“I did not move in with Laura.” I’m just sleeping above her garage, in the bed she picked out, eating her food. That isn’t the point. The point is that I’m determined not to hurt her. “The cabin you rented for me fell apart in a monster hailstorm, and she offered me a place to stay while it’s being rebuilt. That’s all.”

Harbor makes an unintelligible and disapproving sound. “Look. Esme and the Macks hired a private investigator. They’re trying to find you. We’ve hidden your tracks damn well, if I do say so myself, but don’t go causing a ruckus up there.”

“I’m not much of a rabble-rouser, Harbor.” True. I’ve always been the good student, the diligent grandson. I worked too much after school to have any time to get into trouble.

“Yeah, until you got involved with Esme and Johnny Mack.” I can practically hear Harbor’s eye roll from three states away. “Talk about a bad crowd, Jesse.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” One mistake. One mistake, putting my faith in the wrong person, and my entire life changed. It isn’t supposed to be like this. I’m not supposed to be living in a studio apartment in Nowheresville, Wisconsin. I’m not supposed to be forty-two and lost. Alone.

The scent of the chicken pot pie rises through the apartment, smelling like cream and herbs and succulent meat. It smells so much like Grandma’s kitchen on a wintry night, it almost brings tears to my eyes.

“I’m serious, Jesse. The Mack family is taking this whole thing very seriously. I talked to the DA, but they’re still waiting on a trial date. Keep your head down and keep being plain, boring Jesse Vanek. You’ve never heard of Lacrimas del Corazon, Orange Valley Racetrack, or acepromazine.”

“I remember. I’ll behave.” Thoughts of Laura drift through my brain on tendrils of casserole-scented steam.

“Do that. I’ll be in touch.” He signs off, and I set the cell phone by the oven.

It’s too quiet in the apartment. In general, Door County has a lot less noise pollution than Ft. Lauderdale, but I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of chatter in the hardware store, or of Laura singing as she works around the barnyard, or of Einstein and the pigs snuffling around in the dirt. It’s taken some getting used to, but I like those sounds now. They sound more like home than car alarms and ambulance sirens.

I turn on some music to fill the void, an old playlist I used to listen to while studying in vet school. It’s a soothing juxtaposition, the old familiar music in this cozy new space.

Which is probably why I don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs outside until there is a knock at the door.

I jump. Thoughts of Johnny Mack showing up with an assault rifle or one of his goons in a hooded mask, ready to execute me, flash through my brain.

I’m being ridiculous. I force my breathing to relax, remembering what Harbor said. They hired a private investigator, but there’s nothing to be found. All of my accounts are frozen. I disappeared, as much to Wisconsin as to Wyoming or even Venezuela. They won’t find me.

I check to see who it was knocking at my door by looking through the window. I’m nothing if not practical.

Laura Marshall stands on my doorstep wearing jeans and a soft, short-sleeved, bright pink sweater. My heart trips over my feet before I answer the door.

“Hi.” Way to go, Jesse. Super cool. I lean against the door jamb, willing my gaze to remain at face level and not travel over every single sensuous curve.

“Hi, Jesse.” She smiles, a small dimple appearing by the right side of her mouth. Her nose crinkles. “Yum. Chicken pot pie?”

“Yeah.” I gesture uselessly at the inside of the apartment. I’m such a dumbass. “I do hope it’s okay. I’m cleaning out your freezer slowly but surely. I can stop, if there’s anything in there you want to keep.”

“No! I think it’s great. It was definitely the Freezer of Forgotten Leftovers.” She laughs, but it sounds like an unsure, nervous chuckle, not at all her deep, full-throated one that makes me want to tickle her endlessly so I will never stop hearing it. If she’s into tickling, that is. “It’s better to have them be eaten than thrown away with freezer burn.”

“Honestly, even with freezer burn it’s the best food I’ve ever had.” True. I measure my life lately in truths and lies, hoping the balance will work out in my favor.

The apples of her cheeks turn pink. “Thank you. That’s really nice of you to say.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.” Words escape me as she stares at the bakery container in her arms, flushing. She’s just so pretty. Not like an orchid, tempestuous and picky like Esme, but a richly colored, fully bloomed rose. A rose that’s pure red when a closed bud, but opens into a beautiful tapestry of hues. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you.” She steps inside, a little tentatively. I have the sudden urge to give her whatever she asks for her to be comfortable here. “Wow, that does smell good.”

I settle for complimenting her food. “Seriously, your food is like competition-winning good. It’s making me sad I never go to your café. I would have eaten a hell of a lot better over the last few months.”

Laura glances around the room, as though seeing the few things I changed. Not making it mine. Frankly, I prefer Laura’s style to whatever passes for mine. Besides, I don’t have much. A suitcase and backpack and laptop. My phone on the kitchen counter, playing Goldfarb, Paul Simon, and Andrew McMahon and the Wilderness.

“When I was younger, I wanted to enter one of those televised cooking competitions.” She says it softly, like it’s buried so deep within her, she hasn’t even mentioned it to herself in years. I know that kind of dream well. The ones I lock behind years of work and subpar relationships and exercise to outrun my demons. She’s braver than I am, letting hers out into the world. Sharing it with me.

The apartment feels about ten degrees warmer. “You should. You’d win, hands down.”

“I don’t know.” She rolls her eyes and sets the bakery box on the counter. Only a massive amount of self-control prevents me from rushing to the box and inhaling whatever is inside of it. If I can’t taste her, I could eat her food. “I’m not pretty enough, and the people on those shows are so charming.”

“You out-pretty and out-charm every single one of them.”

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