Page 37 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Sorry, Mya,” he says, but he doesn’t stop.
“No worries. We’ve got a stack of them in the back. But seriously, can I get you something, Tate?”
He hesitates. Then, “Sure,” he says. “I’ll have a…” He points at a random drink, which happens to be something called a Zombie Punch.
Mya raises an eyebrow. “Tate, no one orders most of these drinks, but no one ever orders that one. I think it contains like…five types of alcohol and three kinds of soda.”
“It’s fine,” Tate says. “I didn’t drive. Mariella dropped me off in town on her way to Minden.” I feel a pang at the mention of this.
She glances at me. “Should I make that two?”
I think I could use the drink. “Sure, I’m walking, too. My car is broken.”
She heads off to the bar to prepare them, and Tate continues with his paper-shredding mission as we sit there in silence.
Finally, I can’t help but ask him, “Are you okay, Tate?”
“Sure, I’m fine,” he says.
But then he drops the menu and places his hand beside the little mountain of shredded paper. “Okay, no. I’m not. We need to talk. This can’t wait any longer.”
Seventeen
We’re interrupted by Mya setting down our drinks. “Two Zombie Punches. And two pints of water. Proceed with caution.”
Tate takes a sip and winces slightly. “It’s not bad,” he says.
I follow suit and nearly spit mine across the table.
“Are you kidding? It tastes like paint thinner!”
“That would be the hundred proof rum,” Mya calls playfully from across the restaurant, and we both push our drinks away at the same time, as if we’re having the same thought: that it isn’t safe to lose control in front of each other, the way these drinks would doubtless cause us to.
I’m about to ask Tate to tell me whatever it is that’s bothering him so much when Mya’s parents show up, each bearing a plate of dumplings. “Time for the first course!”
When Tate looks at me again, I don’t see anything but helplessness in his expression. I have no idea howhe feels, or what he was about to say. I don’t know if he wants to be joining me for dinner, or if he hoped to just say what was on his mind and leave, to officially never see me again. But either way, it’s too late. The Youngs are placing food in front of us that, despite my tortured emotional state, makes my mouth water and my stomach grumble with hunger.
“Three kinds of dumplings,” Mr.Young announces. “The first are filled with ground lamb and spices.” These are surrounded in their bowl by steamed greens. “Next,” he says. “The Three Umami dumplings, which have ground pork, shrimp, and dill.” These have white and green dumpling wrappers and look very festive. “Finally, Hot and Sour Dumpling Soup. This is my mother’s very secret recipe.” He says this with pride.
“He won’t even tell me what’s in it,” Mrs.Young chimes in. The soup is in small white bowls filled to the brim with liquid as red as a Christmas gift ribbon. Little flecks of sesame seeds and scallions float on top, and it smells delicious. It is a testament to my hunger, and to the enticing display, that even while I’m sitting across from Tate Wilder all I can do is reach for a spoon.
“This is so good,” I breathe—and see with relief that Tate is spooning it up as eagerly as I am. Once he has a bite of the soup, he, too, lets out an involuntary sound of pleasure that strikes a chord deep inside me, unlocks a memory as steamy as the soup.
“Sogood,” he agrees. “This definitely makes the fried rice and beef with broccoli Charlie insists ongetting pretty boring. I’m ordering from the secret menu from now on.”
We’re barely finished with the dumplings and soup when the Young family arrives at our table again, this time with platters they describe with love as each dish lands before us: fresh, hand-pulled noodles that Mr.Young beams over. The bowl of noodles is studded with stir-fried vegetables, jeweled with meat. There’s also mapo tofu, in a bright gravy as vivid as the hot and sour soup broth; steamed eggplant topped with aromatics and a black vinegar sauce; and a “Chinese hamburger,” which is a pita-like bun filled with tender braised pork, chopped green herbs, and sauce. Mrs.Young explains that this was her favorite street food, growing up in Shanxi.
There are also rolls of Pingyao beef—“like a Chinese corned beef”—and Shanxi crispy duck, which is first steamed and then fried, Mrs.Young tells us, making it “so crispy and delicious you’ll forget about Peking duck forever.” The duck is served with what she calls “bings”: like pancake wraps, savory, mixed with Chinese chives and spices.
“I have no idea how we’re going to eat all this,” I say to Tate.
“I have a feeling we’ll manage,” he says.
“True, the last time I ate properly was at the Watering Hole. I’m famished.” I realize I don’t care that I’m talking with my mouth full.
For a while, all we do is chat lightly as we eat, skimming across the surface of our lives as if we are just twoold friends catching up. The food has somehow thawed things between us, the warmth of sharing a meal so strong it even works on us. We talk about the horses, about Evergreen life, about my working at theEnquirerfor the week. We exclaim over how great the food is. I take notes on a steno pad Mya gives me, and Tate helps me out with ways to describe it all.Succulent. Heavenly. Ambrosial. Exquisite.
But eventually, he puts down his fork. The agonized look returns.
