Savor the Moment
Page 68
“That’s good for everybody”
“Yeah, but it’s added some stress—and she’s more emotional and a whole lot tired. She’s crying, then the two kids are trying to murder each other, the MOG worked herself up, plus the heat got to her. Probably because she was worked up. Add in a groomsman who started celebrating a bit early. Just another day on the job.”
Laurel put water on for the pasta, added olive oil to a skillet, then moved past Del to retrieve the salad makings she’d prepared with Mrs. Grady’s help. “It’s a good thing I did most of this ahead, because I’d hoped to duck out of the rehearsal, but no dice.Thanks,” she added when he handed her a glass.
After sipping it, she began to peel and dice garlic.
“I should feel guilty about you cooking after you’ve put in a full day. Want me to chop something? I’m a reasonably experienced chopper.”
“No, we’re under control.”
Content to do nothing, he watched her add the garlic and some red pepper flakes to the oil. “This is new.”
“Hmm?”
“Seeing you cook. This kind of cooking, that is.”
“Oh, I dip my hand in every once in a while. I picked up some of it from Mrs. G, and some from working in restaurants. It’s an interesting change of pace. When it works.”
“You always look in charge in the kitchen. That was supposed to be a compliment,” he said when she frowned at him.
“I guess it is, as long as it doesn’t put me in the same camp as Julio.”
“Completely different camp. A different camp in a different country.”
She added some butter to the oil, got out the shrimp. “Good. Because I don’t often have—or want—company when I’m in the kitchen, but I rarely throw knives.” She added the shrimp to the oil, then pasta to the boiling water.
“Do you just keep everything that goes in, when and how, in your head?”
“Sometimes. Do you want a lesson?”
“I absolutely don’t. Real men grill.”
She laughed, and with spoon in one hand, pasta fork in the other, stirred skillet and pot at the same time. “Hand me the wine, will you?”
“Lush.” But he held it out.
She set down the pasta fork, then dumped a good cup of wine on the shrimp. Del visibly winced.
“It’s really good wine.”
“So it’s really good wine for cooking, too.”
“No question.” Her hands, he thought, were so quick, so competent. Had he ever noticed that before? “What are we having?”
“For the main? Seafood linguini.” She paused, took a sip from her glass. “Field green salad, some herb bread I baked for dipping. Vanilla bean crème brûlée for dessert.”
He lowered his glass to stare at her—his Laurel, with her hair clipped up as always when she worked, her quick, competent hands busy. “You’re kidding.”
“I know you’re partial to crème brûlée.” She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug as the kitchen filled with scent. “If I’m going to cook, I might as well cook what you like.”
It occurred to him he should have brought her flowers or wine or ... something. And realized it hadn’t occurred to him because he was so used to coming here, coming home, to seeing her in his home.
Next time he wouldn’t forget.
When the wine came to a boil, she lowered the heat, covered it. Then tested the pasta, deemed it done, drained it.
She got a dish of olives out of the fridge. “To hold you off,” she said, then turned her attention to the salad.
“You know what I said about being in charge when you’re in the kitchen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something about being in charge makes you just stunning.” She looked up, blinked in such obvious surprise he regretted not thinking of flowers even more.
“You’re already getting crème brûlée,” she managed.
“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” Had he never told her that before, in just that way? “Cooking just spotlights it, the way dancing spotlights a dancer, or a sport spotlights an athlete. It just never struck me until now, I think because I’ve gotten used to seeing you at some stage or other of baking. It’s a kind of taking for granted. I need to be careful not to do that with you.”
“We don’t have to be careful with each other.”
“I think we do. Even more because we’re so used to each other.”
Maybe taking care was more accurate, he thought. Wasn’t she doing just that now? Taking care by making him a meal she knew he’d like particularly, and doing it because she knew he’d had a difficult day? This newness between them wasn’t just about dating or sex. Or it shouldn’t be.
He didn’t know, couldn’t know, where they were going, but he could start paying more attention to how they got there.
“Do you want me to set the table?” he asked her.
“It’s done.” The fact that she was a little flustered, and it showed, delighted him. “In the dining room. I thought, since—”
“That’s nice. Parker?”
“Is doing what any good friend does and making herself scarce tonight.”
“Very nice.”
She walked over, checked her skillet, then added more butter, some scallops before briskly zesting a lemon into the mix.
“That smells amazing.”
“Not bad.” She added some fresh herbs, salt, pepper, stirred. “Couple minutes to cook through, then we’ll let it sit for a few more. Fairly easy-peasy.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“I probably couldn’t write a brief—especially since I’m not sure exactly what one is. I guess we both picked careers with job security.” Her eyes met his as she tossed the salad. “People are always going to need to eat, and they’re always going to need lawyers.”
“Whether they want to or not on the lawyer front.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say that.” She took a lighter out of a drawer. “For the candles,” she told him. “You can take the salad in, and take care of that.”
She’d fussed, he noted, when he carried the bowl into the dining room. She probably didn’t think of it that way, he mused as he studied the pretty plates, the candles in slim holders, the bright-faced sunflowers in a blue glass vase. The women in his life had a talent and a vocation, he supposed, for making things pretty and comfortable, for seeing to tiny details that always melded together into a perfect picture.
“Yeah, but it’s added some stress—and she’s more emotional and a whole lot tired. She’s crying, then the two kids are trying to murder each other, the MOG worked herself up, plus the heat got to her. Probably because she was worked up. Add in a groomsman who started celebrating a bit early. Just another day on the job.”
Laurel put water on for the pasta, added olive oil to a skillet, then moved past Del to retrieve the salad makings she’d prepared with Mrs. Grady’s help. “It’s a good thing I did most of this ahead, because I’d hoped to duck out of the rehearsal, but no dice.Thanks,” she added when he handed her a glass.
After sipping it, she began to peel and dice garlic.
“I should feel guilty about you cooking after you’ve put in a full day. Want me to chop something? I’m a reasonably experienced chopper.”
“No, we’re under control.”
Content to do nothing, he watched her add the garlic and some red pepper flakes to the oil. “This is new.”
“Hmm?”
“Seeing you cook. This kind of cooking, that is.”
“Oh, I dip my hand in every once in a while. I picked up some of it from Mrs. G, and some from working in restaurants. It’s an interesting change of pace. When it works.”
“You always look in charge in the kitchen. That was supposed to be a compliment,” he said when she frowned at him.
“I guess it is, as long as it doesn’t put me in the same camp as Julio.”
“Completely different camp. A different camp in a different country.”
She added some butter to the oil, got out the shrimp. “Good. Because I don’t often have—or want—company when I’m in the kitchen, but I rarely throw knives.” She added the shrimp to the oil, then pasta to the boiling water.
“Do you just keep everything that goes in, when and how, in your head?”
“Sometimes. Do you want a lesson?”
“I absolutely don’t. Real men grill.”
She laughed, and with spoon in one hand, pasta fork in the other, stirred skillet and pot at the same time. “Hand me the wine, will you?”
“Lush.” But he held it out.
She set down the pasta fork, then dumped a good cup of wine on the shrimp. Del visibly winced.
“It’s really good wine.”
“So it’s really good wine for cooking, too.”
“No question.” Her hands, he thought, were so quick, so competent. Had he ever noticed that before? “What are we having?”
“For the main? Seafood linguini.” She paused, took a sip from her glass. “Field green salad, some herb bread I baked for dipping. Vanilla bean crème brûlée for dessert.”
He lowered his glass to stare at her—his Laurel, with her hair clipped up as always when she worked, her quick, competent hands busy. “You’re kidding.”
“I know you’re partial to crème brûlée.” She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug as the kitchen filled with scent. “If I’m going to cook, I might as well cook what you like.”
It occurred to him he should have brought her flowers or wine or ... something. And realized it hadn’t occurred to him because he was so used to coming here, coming home, to seeing her in his home.
Next time he wouldn’t forget.
When the wine came to a boil, she lowered the heat, covered it. Then tested the pasta, deemed it done, drained it.
She got a dish of olives out of the fridge. “To hold you off,” she said, then turned her attention to the salad.
“You know what I said about being in charge when you’re in the kitchen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something about being in charge makes you just stunning.” She looked up, blinked in such obvious surprise he regretted not thinking of flowers even more.
“You’re already getting crème brûlée,” she managed.
“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” Had he never told her that before, in just that way? “Cooking just spotlights it, the way dancing spotlights a dancer, or a sport spotlights an athlete. It just never struck me until now, I think because I’ve gotten used to seeing you at some stage or other of baking. It’s a kind of taking for granted. I need to be careful not to do that with you.”
“We don’t have to be careful with each other.”
“I think we do. Even more because we’re so used to each other.”
Maybe taking care was more accurate, he thought. Wasn’t she doing just that now? Taking care by making him a meal she knew he’d like particularly, and doing it because she knew he’d had a difficult day? This newness between them wasn’t just about dating or sex. Or it shouldn’t be.
He didn’t know, couldn’t know, where they were going, but he could start paying more attention to how they got there.
“Do you want me to set the table?” he asked her.
“It’s done.” The fact that she was a little flustered, and it showed, delighted him. “In the dining room. I thought, since—”
“That’s nice. Parker?”
“Is doing what any good friend does and making herself scarce tonight.”
“Very nice.”
She walked over, checked her skillet, then added more butter, some scallops before briskly zesting a lemon into the mix.
“That smells amazing.”
“Not bad.” She added some fresh herbs, salt, pepper, stirred. “Couple minutes to cook through, then we’ll let it sit for a few more. Fairly easy-peasy.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“I probably couldn’t write a brief—especially since I’m not sure exactly what one is. I guess we both picked careers with job security.” Her eyes met his as she tossed the salad. “People are always going to need to eat, and they’re always going to need lawyers.”
“Whether they want to or not on the lawyer front.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say that.” She took a lighter out of a drawer. “For the candles,” she told him. “You can take the salad in, and take care of that.”
She’d fussed, he noted, when he carried the bowl into the dining room. She probably didn’t think of it that way, he mused as he studied the pretty plates, the candles in slim holders, the bright-faced sunflowers in a blue glass vase. The women in his life had a talent and a vocation, he supposed, for making things pretty and comfortable, for seeing to tiny details that always melded together into a perfect picture.
