Sweet Dreams
Page 98
He cut me off with, “Ace.”
I studied his beautiful face.
“She’s mine,” he’d said to Wood.
I was his. And he was mine.
I smiled and my mouth went to his. “All right, honey. Later.”
His head slanted one way, mine tilted the other and it was a lot later when I was able to get up, frost the cake and make dinner.
* * * * *
We had pork tenderloin with Gramps’s famous glaze, boiled new potatoes, salad and delicious rolls with sunflower seeds crusting the top, eating it at the wrought iron table on Tate’s back patio.
My eyes were on his terraced yard and my mind was filled. It was filled with what it would say to Tate if I spent a day weeding the plants and adding more. It was filled with if I cared anymore about Tate reading what that said (and I figured I didn’t). It was filled with Tate telling me his Mom left and his Dad was dead and how little I knew about him. It was filled with how strong the feeling was that I wanted to know more and the fact the power behind that feeling didn’t scare me. It was filled with the knowledge that Wood “killed” Tate’s Dad in a car accident; with Stella telling Tate to cut Wood slack; with Stella saying, if Tate let it go, Wood would be able to; and with Wood telling me they once were brothers. It was filled with Wood coming to take my back when Neeta was in town, for me but also for Tate, even after what passed between the three of us. And it was filled with Wood telling Tate he’d do anything he could to help Tate get Jonas from Wood’s sister.
Wood missed Tate and you only hold onto anger that long if the person you’re angry at meant something to you so I was guessing Tate missed Wood too.
“Ace,” Tate called and I looked from his plants to him. “You lied.”
Taken from my thoughts and surprised at his words, I felt my eyebrows draw together. “Sorry?”
He slid his fork on his plate and his brows went up. “Passable?”
I looked at his clean plate then back to him. “My cooking’s okay, not much to write home about. This was good because of my grandfather’s famous mustard sauce, not me.”
“Your grandfather come for a visit while I was puttin’ up the curtain rods?” he asked.
“No, he’s dead,” I answered.
“Babe,” Tate replied on a grin.
I felt the sudden, intense need for Tate to know about me. I’d let him in, I’d let me out. I wanted this and I wanted him and I wanted him to have me.
Therefore, I shared, “All my grandparents are dead.”
He sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah?”
“Gramps, that’s Mom’s father, he’s the mustard glaze guru,” I informed him, Tate didn’t reply so I went on. “It was his farm that became Dad’s. He had only girls. Three of them. Dad studied agriculture at school. His folks owned a farm too but it was smaller and he was the second of two sons. My Uncle George got that farm.” Tate remained silent so I went on. “Dad took over Gramps’s farm. We all lived there together, all my life, until I left and, after that, Grams and Gramps passed away. It was okay though, us being together, because it was a big house and it made us a big family.”
Tate still didn’t speak, didn’t start sharing his own stories so I continued.
“Mom’s Mom, Grams, she made great chocolate chip cookies. The best,” I stated. “She used to refrigerate the dough between making it and baking it. I don’t know what this did but it made her cookies killer.”
Tate watched me and made not a noise.
“Dad’s Dad, he was a master at the grill. He could grill an amazing steak,” I continued.
Tate’s lips twitched but he remained quiet.
“Dad’s Mom,” I blathered on. “She was Polish and she could cook. I mean she could cook. She made these cookies, like crescent rolls but in cookie form with lots of cinnamon and sugar and butter and the dough was made with sour cream so they were rich and she sifted powdered sugar on them. She made them every Christmas and I always went over to help. She let me brush the melted butter on the rolled out dough and sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar on and she let me sift the powdered sugar on top.”
Finally, Tate spoke.
“All your memories come with food?” he asked.
“Dad makes the best cocktail sauce for shrimp you ever tasted. Carrie concocted this homemade macaroni and cheese that’s out of this world. And Mom got all the good of Grams and Gramma and put her own spin on it. Everything she makes will knock your socks off but her chocolate pecan pie is unbelievable.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tate mumbled.
“Food is love,” I replied.
“No, babe, it ain’t, but makin’ it for the ones you love so they can brag about it is,” Tate returned.
He had a point.
“You have a point,” I told him.
His arm shot out, his hand tagged me at the neck and he leaned forward as he pulled me to him. Then he touched his mouth to mine.
When his head moved away two inches, I asked softly, “Do you want cake?”
A smile spread on his face, a face that, at my question, grew soft and warm like earlier and since he was so close all I could do was stare.
Finally, he answered, “Yeah,” and let me go.
I grabbed my plate and beer bottle, Tate grabbed his and we took them into the house going through the backdoor into the mudroom. As we walked through the mudroom, I heard Tate’s cell phone on the kitchen counter ring.
When we hit the kitchen, I took his plate from him and walked to the sink while he walked to his phone.
I heard him answer, “Pop?”
I started to rinse the dishes.
“Yeah?” Tate asked and then there was a long silence. So long I had the plates and cutlery rinsed and in the dishwasher, I’d grabbed a knife and was cutting into the cake that was sitting on a plate on the island (homemade yellow cake, homemade chocolate butter cream frosting) when Tate spoke again. “Tell her, when I show, I don’t see that jackass.”
My eyes went from the cake to Tate. He had a hand on his hip, the other one holding his phone to his ear, his bottle of beer was on the counter and his head was bent, eyes studying his boots.
“Right… and Pop?” he said then finished with a quiet but intense. “Thanks. Owe you big.”
I stopped cutting and Tate flipped his phone closed, set it on the counter and started to me.
“Um…” I hesitated, “what was that?”
I studied his beautiful face.
“She’s mine,” he’d said to Wood.
I was his. And he was mine.
I smiled and my mouth went to his. “All right, honey. Later.”
His head slanted one way, mine tilted the other and it was a lot later when I was able to get up, frost the cake and make dinner.
* * * * *
We had pork tenderloin with Gramps’s famous glaze, boiled new potatoes, salad and delicious rolls with sunflower seeds crusting the top, eating it at the wrought iron table on Tate’s back patio.
My eyes were on his terraced yard and my mind was filled. It was filled with what it would say to Tate if I spent a day weeding the plants and adding more. It was filled with if I cared anymore about Tate reading what that said (and I figured I didn’t). It was filled with Tate telling me his Mom left and his Dad was dead and how little I knew about him. It was filled with how strong the feeling was that I wanted to know more and the fact the power behind that feeling didn’t scare me. It was filled with the knowledge that Wood “killed” Tate’s Dad in a car accident; with Stella telling Tate to cut Wood slack; with Stella saying, if Tate let it go, Wood would be able to; and with Wood telling me they once were brothers. It was filled with Wood coming to take my back when Neeta was in town, for me but also for Tate, even after what passed between the three of us. And it was filled with Wood telling Tate he’d do anything he could to help Tate get Jonas from Wood’s sister.
Wood missed Tate and you only hold onto anger that long if the person you’re angry at meant something to you so I was guessing Tate missed Wood too.
“Ace,” Tate called and I looked from his plants to him. “You lied.”
Taken from my thoughts and surprised at his words, I felt my eyebrows draw together. “Sorry?”
He slid his fork on his plate and his brows went up. “Passable?”
I looked at his clean plate then back to him. “My cooking’s okay, not much to write home about. This was good because of my grandfather’s famous mustard sauce, not me.”
“Your grandfather come for a visit while I was puttin’ up the curtain rods?” he asked.
“No, he’s dead,” I answered.
“Babe,” Tate replied on a grin.
I felt the sudden, intense need for Tate to know about me. I’d let him in, I’d let me out. I wanted this and I wanted him and I wanted him to have me.
Therefore, I shared, “All my grandparents are dead.”
He sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah?”
“Gramps, that’s Mom’s father, he’s the mustard glaze guru,” I informed him, Tate didn’t reply so I went on. “It was his farm that became Dad’s. He had only girls. Three of them. Dad studied agriculture at school. His folks owned a farm too but it was smaller and he was the second of two sons. My Uncle George got that farm.” Tate remained silent so I went on. “Dad took over Gramps’s farm. We all lived there together, all my life, until I left and, after that, Grams and Gramps passed away. It was okay though, us being together, because it was a big house and it made us a big family.”
Tate still didn’t speak, didn’t start sharing his own stories so I continued.
“Mom’s Mom, Grams, she made great chocolate chip cookies. The best,” I stated. “She used to refrigerate the dough between making it and baking it. I don’t know what this did but it made her cookies killer.”
Tate watched me and made not a noise.
“Dad’s Dad, he was a master at the grill. He could grill an amazing steak,” I continued.
Tate’s lips twitched but he remained quiet.
“Dad’s Mom,” I blathered on. “She was Polish and she could cook. I mean she could cook. She made these cookies, like crescent rolls but in cookie form with lots of cinnamon and sugar and butter and the dough was made with sour cream so they were rich and she sifted powdered sugar on them. She made them every Christmas and I always went over to help. She let me brush the melted butter on the rolled out dough and sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar on and she let me sift the powdered sugar on top.”
Finally, Tate spoke.
“All your memories come with food?” he asked.
“Dad makes the best cocktail sauce for shrimp you ever tasted. Carrie concocted this homemade macaroni and cheese that’s out of this world. And Mom got all the good of Grams and Gramma and put her own spin on it. Everything she makes will knock your socks off but her chocolate pecan pie is unbelievable.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tate mumbled.
“Food is love,” I replied.
“No, babe, it ain’t, but makin’ it for the ones you love so they can brag about it is,” Tate returned.
He had a point.
“You have a point,” I told him.
His arm shot out, his hand tagged me at the neck and he leaned forward as he pulled me to him. Then he touched his mouth to mine.
When his head moved away two inches, I asked softly, “Do you want cake?”
A smile spread on his face, a face that, at my question, grew soft and warm like earlier and since he was so close all I could do was stare.
Finally, he answered, “Yeah,” and let me go.
I grabbed my plate and beer bottle, Tate grabbed his and we took them into the house going through the backdoor into the mudroom. As we walked through the mudroom, I heard Tate’s cell phone on the kitchen counter ring.
When we hit the kitchen, I took his plate from him and walked to the sink while he walked to his phone.
I heard him answer, “Pop?”
I started to rinse the dishes.
“Yeah?” Tate asked and then there was a long silence. So long I had the plates and cutlery rinsed and in the dishwasher, I’d grabbed a knife and was cutting into the cake that was sitting on a plate on the island (homemade yellow cake, homemade chocolate butter cream frosting) when Tate spoke again. “Tell her, when I show, I don’t see that jackass.”
My eyes went from the cake to Tate. He had a hand on his hip, the other one holding his phone to his ear, his bottle of beer was on the counter and his head was bent, eyes studying his boots.
“Right… and Pop?” he said then finished with a quiet but intense. “Thanks. Owe you big.”
I stopped cutting and Tate flipped his phone closed, set it on the counter and started to me.
“Um…” I hesitated, “what was that?”
