Only Love
Page 12
But I wasn’t going to tell her that.
I’d tell her I always baked two pies, and then I’d tell her I didn’t have any room in my freezer for the second one, so why didn’t she just take it next door?
Clever, wasn’t I?
I was a bit concerned that she was just going to take it over there without giving any thought to what she was wearing or how she styled her hair or what she’d say to him. Oh, I know it’s the inside that counts and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to wrap the nicest gift in the world in some pretty paper, does it? Truly, I am a feminist, but I do think some of the lessons my generation has to pass down are still helpful.
Last night, she was only gone for five minutes. Five minutes! Perhaps he’d taken one look at her comfortable shoes and thought her bread was buttered on the other side.
I’d have to see what I could do.
Nine
Stella
It took us all day just to bake two pies. All day.
No wonder people bought their baked goods at the store these days! Who had this kind of time?
But there was something really nice about listening to Grams talk about memories of baking with her mother and grandmother, or with my mom when she was little. I realized she was passing down more than just a recipe—she was sharing a family tradition, and I made up my mind to pay attention so I could teach my own daughter someday, if I was lucky enough to have one.
I had a lot to learn. Even though she’d been forewarned, Grams was astonished at my ignorance when it came to baking. My questions befuddled her.
“Why do the butter and shortening have to be cold?”
“You put vodka in the dough?”
“What’s a pastry cutter look like?”
And my technique wasn’t too good at first, either.
“For heaven’s, Stella, I said roll it out gently! Don’t get mad at the dough!”
“I said flute the edges, not destroy them!”
“You have to slice the apples the same size or else some will be solid and some will be mushy!”
But by late afternoon, we had two beautiful homemade apple crumble pies cooling on the counter. The smell was absolutely heavenly. Grams told me she was proud of me.
“Thank you,” I said, giving her a hug. “I’m so glad we did this.”
“Me too. And when you go home, you pass it on to your sisters. They’re going to need it—this is a pie that keeps a man from straying, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes but promised to teach Emme and Maren what I’d learned. “I wrote it all down, so don’t worry.”
Grams said she needed a little rest before five o’clocktails, so I told her to go take a nap and I’d get dinner put together for us. I could at least manage that.
While I was making a marinade for the pork tenderloin, I heard some noise on the front porch and figured Ryan was back to work on it. My stomach whooshed. Should I go say hello?
I removed the apron Grams had given me and washed my hands before timidly venturing into the front room and peeking out the window. He was on his knees using an electric sander. The sight of him made me bite my lip. It was strange how the dream I’d had felt more like a memory—I vividly recalled his mouth on mine, the weight of him above me, his hips between my thighs.
Fanning myself, I backed away from the window, deciding my face was too flushed to go out there.
Instead I went back to the kitchen and finished meal preparations, then sat at the table with my phone, checking email and answering text messages from my mom and sisters. Eventually, Grams wandered out from her bedroom and started mixing up drinks, humming a tune as she did.
“Would you put a record on, dear?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for some Nat King Cole.”
“Sure.” I went into the living room and perused her collection, distracted by the sound of a power tool on the porch. I was dying to look out the window again but didn’t want to get caught.
Stop acting so juvenile, for God’s sake. Just go out there and say hi.
I chose the first Nat King Cole record I came across and put it on. The scratch of the needle was followed by the sound of a piano as I made my way to the front door. I took a deep breath and was about to open it when I heard a knock.
I pulled it open, and my heart started to pound. “Hello again,” I said.
He nodded. “Hi.”
“Come on in.” I stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
He glanced toward his house and I thought he was going to refuse, but then he pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. “Just wanted to let your grandmother know I’m done for today. I can paint the new boards tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted the entire porch repainted, or …” He trailed off, and we both stood there in silence for a moment, eyes locked. I felt warm and dizzy standing so close to him.
“Uh, I can ask her,” I said, trying to recover my senses. I glanced over my shoulder toward the dining room and kitchen. “Would you like to stay for dinner tonight? We have plenty. And there’s homemade apple crumble pie for dessert.”
“Homemade pie, huh?” For a moment I thought he was on the verge of accepting.
“Yes. Two of them, actually. They’re cooling on the kitchen counter. And they look delicious.” I gave him my flirtiest smile and even tried the hair toss. “You should definitely stay.”
One side of his mouth tipped up in a little shadow of a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. “I can’t. But thanks. And thanks again for the food last night.”
“You’re welcome. Are you sure you can’t stay tonight? It’s not an imposition or anything. Pork tenderloin, wilted arugula, roasted sweet potatoes …”
He swallowed. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Disappointed, I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to stare at his mouth. All I could think of was the way he’d kissed me in my dream. “Well, give me a minute to go find Grams. She can tell you about the paint.”
He nodded and I left him by the door while I went back to the kitchen. Grams stood there with a drink in her hand, looking smug as a well-fed cat. “Was that Mr. Woods at the door?”
“Yes. He has a question for you about the porch.”
“Did you ask him to stay for dinner?”
“Yes, but he said he can’t.”
Her face fell, and then she looked suspicious, as if I might not have asked him nicely enough. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, Grams. I didn’t press for details.” I picked up the apron from the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it over my head. “But he’s waiting for you at the front door.”
I thought I heard her hmph as she left the kitchen.
While the tenderloin was in the oven, I sat with Grams on the couch and drank a martini. We looked through more old photos, but my mind kept wandering to Ryan. What did I have to do to get him to talk to me? He’d been a little more friendly than the day before, but not much. Was I really that unappealing?
I drank a second martini during dinner, hoping to numb the feelings of disappointment and insecurity. By the time we finished eating dessert, I had a solid buzz going, so I blame the gin for what happened next.
“Stella, dear,” Grams said as she studied the second pie on the counter. “I just realized I don’t have room in the freezer for this. Why don’t you take it over to Mr. Woods?”
“Because he doesn’t like me,” I blurted, frowning into my empty glass.
Grams looked taken aback. “Nonsense.”
“It’s the truth, Grams,” I said, although I had a little trouble saying the truth. My lips and tongue were tingling.
“Of course he likes you.” Grams came over to the table and collected our empty pie plates. “He just can’t tell that you like him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. I’ve tried to talk to him three times, and he barely says a word.”
“That’s because he’s looking for a sign that you’re interested. Men aren’t geniuses when it comes to women, Stella.”
“What kind of sign?” I asked, following her to the sink.
“Well, for one thing, you have to pay close attention to everything he says. Never take your eyes off his face. And then occasionally, make some remark that makes him feel appreciated. Something like, ‘Oh, how marvelous! I never thought about it that way before! You’re so fun to talk to!” She batted her lashes at me.
I’d tell her I always baked two pies, and then I’d tell her I didn’t have any room in my freezer for the second one, so why didn’t she just take it next door?
Clever, wasn’t I?
I was a bit concerned that she was just going to take it over there without giving any thought to what she was wearing or how she styled her hair or what she’d say to him. Oh, I know it’s the inside that counts and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to wrap the nicest gift in the world in some pretty paper, does it? Truly, I am a feminist, but I do think some of the lessons my generation has to pass down are still helpful.
Last night, she was only gone for five minutes. Five minutes! Perhaps he’d taken one look at her comfortable shoes and thought her bread was buttered on the other side.
I’d have to see what I could do.
Nine
Stella
It took us all day just to bake two pies. All day.
No wonder people bought their baked goods at the store these days! Who had this kind of time?
But there was something really nice about listening to Grams talk about memories of baking with her mother and grandmother, or with my mom when she was little. I realized she was passing down more than just a recipe—she was sharing a family tradition, and I made up my mind to pay attention so I could teach my own daughter someday, if I was lucky enough to have one.
I had a lot to learn. Even though she’d been forewarned, Grams was astonished at my ignorance when it came to baking. My questions befuddled her.
“Why do the butter and shortening have to be cold?”
“You put vodka in the dough?”
“What’s a pastry cutter look like?”
And my technique wasn’t too good at first, either.
“For heaven’s, Stella, I said roll it out gently! Don’t get mad at the dough!”
“I said flute the edges, not destroy them!”
“You have to slice the apples the same size or else some will be solid and some will be mushy!”
But by late afternoon, we had two beautiful homemade apple crumble pies cooling on the counter. The smell was absolutely heavenly. Grams told me she was proud of me.
“Thank you,” I said, giving her a hug. “I’m so glad we did this.”
“Me too. And when you go home, you pass it on to your sisters. They’re going to need it—this is a pie that keeps a man from straying, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes but promised to teach Emme and Maren what I’d learned. “I wrote it all down, so don’t worry.”
Grams said she needed a little rest before five o’clocktails, so I told her to go take a nap and I’d get dinner put together for us. I could at least manage that.
While I was making a marinade for the pork tenderloin, I heard some noise on the front porch and figured Ryan was back to work on it. My stomach whooshed. Should I go say hello?
I removed the apron Grams had given me and washed my hands before timidly venturing into the front room and peeking out the window. He was on his knees using an electric sander. The sight of him made me bite my lip. It was strange how the dream I’d had felt more like a memory—I vividly recalled his mouth on mine, the weight of him above me, his hips between my thighs.
Fanning myself, I backed away from the window, deciding my face was too flushed to go out there.
Instead I went back to the kitchen and finished meal preparations, then sat at the table with my phone, checking email and answering text messages from my mom and sisters. Eventually, Grams wandered out from her bedroom and started mixing up drinks, humming a tune as she did.
“Would you put a record on, dear?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for some Nat King Cole.”
“Sure.” I went into the living room and perused her collection, distracted by the sound of a power tool on the porch. I was dying to look out the window again but didn’t want to get caught.
Stop acting so juvenile, for God’s sake. Just go out there and say hi.
I chose the first Nat King Cole record I came across and put it on. The scratch of the needle was followed by the sound of a piano as I made my way to the front door. I took a deep breath and was about to open it when I heard a knock.
I pulled it open, and my heart started to pound. “Hello again,” I said.
He nodded. “Hi.”
“Come on in.” I stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
He glanced toward his house and I thought he was going to refuse, but then he pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. “Just wanted to let your grandmother know I’m done for today. I can paint the new boards tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted the entire porch repainted, or …” He trailed off, and we both stood there in silence for a moment, eyes locked. I felt warm and dizzy standing so close to him.
“Uh, I can ask her,” I said, trying to recover my senses. I glanced over my shoulder toward the dining room and kitchen. “Would you like to stay for dinner tonight? We have plenty. And there’s homemade apple crumble pie for dessert.”
“Homemade pie, huh?” For a moment I thought he was on the verge of accepting.
“Yes. Two of them, actually. They’re cooling on the kitchen counter. And they look delicious.” I gave him my flirtiest smile and even tried the hair toss. “You should definitely stay.”
One side of his mouth tipped up in a little shadow of a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. “I can’t. But thanks. And thanks again for the food last night.”
“You’re welcome. Are you sure you can’t stay tonight? It’s not an imposition or anything. Pork tenderloin, wilted arugula, roasted sweet potatoes …”
He swallowed. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Disappointed, I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to stare at his mouth. All I could think of was the way he’d kissed me in my dream. “Well, give me a minute to go find Grams. She can tell you about the paint.”
He nodded and I left him by the door while I went back to the kitchen. Grams stood there with a drink in her hand, looking smug as a well-fed cat. “Was that Mr. Woods at the door?”
“Yes. He has a question for you about the porch.”
“Did you ask him to stay for dinner?”
“Yes, but he said he can’t.”
Her face fell, and then she looked suspicious, as if I might not have asked him nicely enough. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, Grams. I didn’t press for details.” I picked up the apron from the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it over my head. “But he’s waiting for you at the front door.”
I thought I heard her hmph as she left the kitchen.
While the tenderloin was in the oven, I sat with Grams on the couch and drank a martini. We looked through more old photos, but my mind kept wandering to Ryan. What did I have to do to get him to talk to me? He’d been a little more friendly than the day before, but not much. Was I really that unappealing?
I drank a second martini during dinner, hoping to numb the feelings of disappointment and insecurity. By the time we finished eating dessert, I had a solid buzz going, so I blame the gin for what happened next.
“Stella, dear,” Grams said as she studied the second pie on the counter. “I just realized I don’t have room in the freezer for this. Why don’t you take it over to Mr. Woods?”
“Because he doesn’t like me,” I blurted, frowning into my empty glass.
Grams looked taken aback. “Nonsense.”
“It’s the truth, Grams,” I said, although I had a little trouble saying the truth. My lips and tongue were tingling.
“Of course he likes you.” Grams came over to the table and collected our empty pie plates. “He just can’t tell that you like him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. I’ve tried to talk to him three times, and he barely says a word.”
“That’s because he’s looking for a sign that you’re interested. Men aren’t geniuses when it comes to women, Stella.”
“What kind of sign?” I asked, following her to the sink.
“Well, for one thing, you have to pay close attention to everything he says. Never take your eyes off his face. And then occasionally, make some remark that makes him feel appreciated. Something like, ‘Oh, how marvelous! I never thought about it that way before! You’re so fun to talk to!” She batted her lashes at me.
