Page 36 of Love on the Vine
“It’s short for Sylvester. You were right; Mr. Kitty doesn’t suit him,” she explained as she poured, clicking her tongue in irritation when she spilled a drop. “That doesn’t count. You distracted me by talking about the cat.”
“The cat distracted you, not me,” I argued, my cheek twitching with amusement. “Sly does suit him. You never see or hear him coming, he’s always just there like he dissolved out of thin air. Has he let you touch him yet?”
“We’re getting there. He rubbed against my legs the other day.” That fucking cat. He was one lucky son of a bitch.
I tried to concentrate on the wine, swirling it around until it clung to the side of the glass. “First impressions?”
She drew circles on the table with her glass like I’d taught her, admitting sheepishly, “I still haven’t perfected the hand swirl. It reminds me of learning to hula hoop. I was terrible at it.”
I chuckled as I brought the glass to my nose, watching her over the rim. When her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled, my eyes darted to her soft, rosy mouth. “Oh, is that lavender that I smell?”
“Yes, you get the lavender in the red and the honey in the white.” Her forget-me-not eyes met mine and I couldn’t look away. My voice was husky as I said, “Not bad. Now taste.”
My eyes focused back on her lips as they touched the glass, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Why was I doing this to myself? It was torture. I felt like a monk in a hair shirt.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” she murmured as she took a sip. “There’s lavender, and something fruity—maybe cherry or strawberry? It’s fresh and floral at first and then spicier at the finish. And it’s stony almost like the hills.”
“You’re getting good at this. Now, what would you pair it with?”
“I have an idea.” Her whole face brightened. She scurried to the kitchen and came back with a plate ofmagret de canard. “I made this yesterday but haven’t tried it yet.”
I took a thin slice and let it melt on my tongue, a hint of exotic spices tickling my palate. Amazed that I could distinguish the flavors, I wondered aloud, “Is that orange and curry?”
“Yes! And there’s a special ingredient. Any guesses?”
I shook my head. The spices weren’t too pronounced; there was just enough to give the duck some warmth and savoriness.
“Speculoos!” she said finally. I tasted it now—the subtle note of the thin gingerbread cookies they served in cafés.
“It’s surprisingly perfect.” I didn’t throw that word around lightly.
She beamed at me. “I’m glad you like it.”
“So far I’ve enjoyed everything you’ve made.” She lowered her eyes, and I realized too late it wasn’t the right thing to say after avoiding her food for the past two weeks. “You never toldme how you got into food. If the Gooduckant was anything to go by, your dad isn’t much of a cook. How about your mom?”
Her face darkened. “Domesticity wasn’t really her thing.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it . . .”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Did I know your mom?” I asked, as I refilled her glass.
“I doubt it. She was a cheerleader for a rival high school team. She met my dad after a game, they hooked up a few times, and ta-da!” She gestured to herself.
“So you grew up in Michigan?” I asked.
“Partly. We moved around a lot. My mom had family out west and we eventually ended up in Reno. She had problems with drugs—like almost everyone on that side of the family. She worked off and on, and we sometimes spent weeks in motel rooms eating cold canned soup for lunch and dinner.” She shivered. “To this day I still can’t look at a can of cream of mushroom soup without having flashbacks.”
Looking at her now, you’d have no idea she’d been through so much so young. No wonder she sometimes seemed older than her years.
She twirled her glass around and took another sip of Reynaud’s wine. “Anyway, whenever my mom was busy, she’d set me loose at the library or plop me in front of the TV. And that’s when I discovered cooking shows. I spent hours with an empty stomach watching chefs preparing these amazing meals and it really fucked with my brain chemistry. I started to pretend that my cold SpaghettiOs were Pasta alla Norma and that Nigella Lawson was my mom. When we had money, I was the one who did the shopping and cooking.”
“You must’ve grown up quickly in those circumstances.” If she’d impressed me before, now that I knew what she’d gone through as a kid and still managed to turn out like she had, I felt nothing but admiration.
I turned my attention back to the wine and opened another bottle from the region—an aged Bandol—hoping it would distract me from the urge to touch her. Not in a sexual way this time. I just wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how to do that. I’d never comforted anyone in my life, and yet my fingers inched closer to hers on the table.
“You could say that.” She sipped at her wine. “But I was just really proud that I could take care of myself and my mom. And even when I went to live with my dad, cooking was my way of taking care of the people I cared about.”
