Page 94 of DeLucas After Dark

“This is it. Hey, I left something back there, but don’t forget what I said. Be yourself and enjoy the night. Take care.”

“I will and you, too.” I turned to choose a line. When I found one with no one in it, I turned to look for the man, but he was nowhere to be found. I was going to pay for his wine in appreciation…

Taking another look at the bottle, I hoped he was right. It could be the thing that made or broke my night.

* * *

Though the noodles weren't made from scratch, Mrs. Flowers knew her way around the kitchen. The meatballs were veal, and the chunky sauce was a combination of fresh vegetables, apples, and herbs. I'd never had it that way, but she swore the natural sweetness required the tangy apples. It didn't matter because after three bowls, I was full and ready for a nap.

Simone ate my salad, and I almost forgot about the bread on the table. Who needed that when the star of the show was so damn good? Did I forget the freshly shredded parmesan? My sister didn't even shave the cheese at the table.

"Quit looking at my mother as if you'd trade me in for her." Simone whispered to me while we washed dishes.

We'd already put away the food, cleaned the counters, and I'd taken out the trash. Honestly, I'd do a lot more if it meant I could have a plate to go. Gutters, windows, cut the grass, leaky pipes…

"I just can't believe you don't have any of those skills. Did you taste that spaghetti?" I asked her without simmering down my tone of voice.

"It tastes like it always does." She shrugged.

"You grew up with that as your spaghetti?" I was baffled because food came from the can or restaurants while I was growing up. We didn't have authentic Italian until Martina learned to cook much later.

"Yes. My mother is a housewife. It was her dream to take care of a home. I didn't have those same goals. What I appreciated was that she allowed me to be my own person. She didn't force caretaking down my throat."

"And now your skills end at warming up food." I teased.

"I can make some things." She insisted.

"Toast does not count." I said immediately.

"It does."

"Neither do instant foods."

"Cooking is cooking."

"Save that same energy for a conversation with Martina about meals." I warned her.

"No, thanks." She huffed.

"Exactly."

“Almost finished?” Mrs. Flowers asked as she walked into the room. She walked over to the oven and took out freshly baked cookies.

I nodded my head but watched her every move. I swore my stomach growled, but there was no possible way when I was as stuffed as I am. Macadamia white chocolate chip oatmeal cookies were sitting on the counter glaring at me. I’d never heard of such a thing until she said it. They were golden brown and smelled buttery good.

“Finish up and I’ll get these on the table.” She pulled down a plate and disappeared. When she came back for milk and glasses, I hurried to wash the last dish.

I dried my hands and Simone giggled.

“There will be some there when you get to the table.”

“There better be.”

When we got in there, we all sat at the table. Between bites of her masterpiece, I asked Mrs. Flowers about Simone as a child.

“She was born feisty. A social butterfly that always had friends around. Simone has always been great at throwing parties and helping with get-togethers. It didn’t surprise me when she told me that she wanted to get into event planning. That turned into her running a nightclub and being exceptional at it.” Mrs. Flowers beamed.

“She is.” I looked at Simone and she seemed to squirm under all the attention.

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