Page 15 of The Rainbow Recipe
After pulling on brown corduroys and turtle neck, Pris glanced in a mirror, and snarled at her hair. If any of the frizz fell in Dante’s food, he could deal with it. She wasn’t putting on gel for him.
By the time she got downstairs, his mother had already dumped bowls of sugary cereal in front of the twins. Dante had made up his make-shift cot and disappeared. Comfortable with kitchen routine, Pris took her dough from the refrigerator and flattened it on the pastry board.
The twins instantly climbed up on the stools to watch. She handed them each a dough ball to roll.
Emma bustled around, making coffee, emanating worried vibes. Accustomed to silence, Pris worked without speaking. She sprinkled the flattened dough with brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and some chopped nuts she’d found in the freezer, then rolled it up.
The twins waited expectantly. She gestured for them to flatten their dough balls a little more, then covered them with the filling. She just had them fold the dough and pinch the edges.
She’d sliced the rolled dough into rounds and set them in baking pans by the time she sensed Dante approaching. Even if she didn’t feel his strong vibrations, she’d smell his fresh shower scent and aftershave. There must be a downstairs shower. The man was a walking tower of sensory bombardment.
He wielded his crutch with more grace this morning, but he still took a seat before accepting a mug of coffee. “I’ve postponed the lake country job. We’ll go down to the Ugazio farm this morning.”
“Wewill?” Pris put the buns in the oven to rise and helped herself to coffee.
“You are supposed to rest!” Emma protested.
The twins climbed down, aiming for their father. Pris diverted them to the sink and soap, handing them a sponge to play with.
“Miss Broadhurst can drive.” He gave her a slant-eyed glance, reminding her that their last car ride together had been death-defying. “Leo has a golf cart. I’ll be fine.”
Pris gritted her molars. Normally, she could ignore men and follow her own path. Unfortunately, she couldn’t ignore his injury, not while sensing the pain he hid beneath obnoxiousness. Besides, she wanted to see the origin of La Bella Gente’s products. Cogitating, she made an ice pack and dropped it on his propped up leg.
“To keep down swelling, you should keep the injury elevated and iced,” she said, looking for a path to leave him behind. “I can take myself wherever I need to go.”
He snorted rudely. “You don’t speak Italian. You won’t even find the farm. I want to send some men to clear that ancient tunnel we uncovered. You can ask questions while I work.”
He was being entirely too agreeable. Still, she couldn’t ignore his offer just to bedisagreeable. The sooner she could investigate, the faster she could leave and go back to work. If she could find any.
Pris baked the buns while Dante consumed the omelet Emma fixed. As she ate, Dante’s mother recounted all the local gossip. In between anecdotes, she slipped in minor repairs that maybe Dante could look into since he was home. He grimaced at each request and Pris hid an impolite grin. That was the trouble with linear thinkers—they couldn’t lookaroundthe problem to a solution. They thought all obstacles should be tackled head-on.
Problem-solving required ingenuity, and she had a lot of practice in getting what she wanted.
As the kitchen filled with the aroma of cinnamon, the twins scattered cereal and bounced up and down in anticipation. They watched Pris while she made the icing using two forks, instead of a whisk, so they each had one to lick.
Emma prepared more coffee and the chilly morning air gradually dissipated, helped by the warmth escaping the oven as Pris removed the buns. She didn’t know what sick urge had driven her to bake, but mixing the dough had been satisfying at the time. And knowing she had an appreciative audience helped her past the unexpected awkwardness of dealing with Dante. She probably shouldn’t wave red flags at injured bulls.
After she added icing, she plopped the pan of hot buns on the table and let them fight over their selection while she cleaned up her mess. Savoring her coffee and cinnamon roll, even Emma didn’t jump up to claim the sink.
“My Gerard loved his sweets in the morning,” Dante’s mother reminisced. “I had to teach him to eat a proper breakfast.”
“Oatmeal. She made us eat oatmeal,” Dante scoffed.
“Porridge is good for you. It sticks to the stomach.” Emma licked her fingers, then took napkins to the twins. “But it isn’t easy to find here. Everywhere, they have pastries!”
“Whole wheat pastry with scrambled egg inside, maybe.” Thinking about how protein and fiber could be added, Pris returned to the table to finish her breakfast. “Sausage would be easier than eggs.”
“Not Italian sausage.” Dante used his crutch to stand. “Outside in half an hour.”
“Not Italian?” Pris inquired, forgetting she didn’t want to speak to him.
Emma gestured at the refrigerator. “Salami. Maybe you could grind it.”
Dante stomped out while Pris investigated the refrigerator.
“I don’t havean Italian driver’s license,” the obstinate female declared when she finally deigned to join Dante outside.
“Given how you drive, you’re fortunate to have any license.” He shouldn’t be insulting the woman. He needed transportation.
