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“I didn’t bring any pasta since carbs were off the list, but there’s some flour in the cabinet, and I have eggs and olive oil.” Simon surveyed the kitchen, and I saw the wheels turning in his head again. “Okay. How does ravioli sound?”
I nodded, unconcerned about what would appear on my plate. When we’d planned the meal, it was intended to be a tasting menu: small plates starting with a light salad of shaved fennel and parsnip severed with oysters on the half shell and a wild mushroom pâté then progressing through a creamy vegetable soup, smoked trout, duck, and then venison. We were to have finished off with the raspberry tarts, a delicious port, and my proposal.
Simon could alter whatever he chose, I had no particular aversions or off-limit foods, except one.
“No oysters,” I said. Richard adored oysters and ordered them whenever he had the chance. I’d added them to the menu because of that, but I detested them. No matter how much they had cost, I would be more than happy to dump them in the garbage this very minute.
Simon nodded. “No oysters.”
As I watched Simon begin to cook in earnest, my mind, of course, turned to Richard, but it wasn’t with longing or regret. I was incredibly grateful to have found out the truth before asking him to marry me, but I was also angry at having been deceived for so long. Six months? What had I been doing that allowed him to see someone for six months before I found out? And, of course, I knew the answer. I’d been working. As a department chair, I had a full slate of meetings almost every day of the week in addition to administrative duties and courses to teach. I also had my obligation to publish journal articles and, ultimately, a book, the same as any of the professors in my department.
I wasn’t so much angry at Richard as I was chagrined with myself, and the wonder of it was that my dominant emotion was relief. Although I’d regret being single —at forty-six, I was what used to be referred to as a ‘confirmed bachelor’ before it became acceptable to be gay — and I had to admit that part of my attraction to Richard was the prospect of never having to attend university functions solo or answer the question of when I was going to find someone and settle down ever again. My response would have been in the gold band on my left ring finger. A kind of immunity against the intrusive questions that were disguised as polite concern in my family and speculation in my colleagues.
The longer I watched Simon, the more I realized that my intended proposal had been more about wanting to be married than wanting to be married to Richard. The three years we’d been together was my longest relationship ever. I also realized, watching the young man sauté and sear and stir, his attention acute, and his passion for his work evident in every movement, that perhaps I’d been selling myself short as well. Perhaps I needed more of that passion in my life.
I wanted to know more about Simon. From his website, I knew he’d attended the Culinary Institute of America at their Hyde Park campus in New York and done additional studies at CIA in Napa. He’d done the required internships and apprenticeships at Michelin starred restaurants, but, instead of pursing a place in one of those kitchens, he’d begun his catering and personal chef business. He offered food and wine tastings to wine country visitors, bespoke tours of wineries and restaurants as well as personally curated and prepared meals in clients’ homes or rentals. From his extensive client list, he seemed to have made quite a name for himself in only a few short years.
But that was all hard, cold facts. I wanted to know more about him. About this beautiful young man who was expertly tossing something that smelled delicious in a pan with deft flicks of his wrist rather than stirring with a utensil as I would have done.
Not know where to start, I blurted out the first question that rose in my mind. “Don’t you usually work with an assistant?” I asked, then cringed inwardly at how much like an accusation it sounded.
That delightful blush rose to Simon’s cheeks again as he looked over his shoulder at me. “Usually. In truth, we had an event scheduled, but your request intrigued me, so I sent my assistant and staff to handle the event and took this assignment myself.”
“Oh. That was…thoughtful of you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out as originally planned.”
“Me, too,” Simon said, but I caught the whispered not and the deepening blush as he turned back to the stove, and I found my thoughts spinning in a different direction.
Was it shallow of me to be attracted to Simon when I could still hear the echo of Richard’s voice in my head? Probably. But then again, I wasn’t impulsive. I could enjoy the company of an engaging and good-looking man without thinking the evening would end any differently than planned with Simon packing up his equipment and going on his way. Leaving me alone in the house where I’d meant to be celebrating and talking about wedding plans.
I was a cad. And a lonely cad at that when all was said and done.
I raised my wine glass and realized it was empty. Lost in thought, I’d continued to sip at its contents, and now they was gone. I reached for the bottle at the same time Simon did likewise. As his glass was still half-full, I imagine he’d intended to add it to what he was cooking or fill my glass once again. Whatever his intentions, our fingers touched, and our eyes met, and both of us blushed, if the inferno that sprang to life in my cheeks was any indication of their color.
“Sorry,” I said and jerked my hand away, nearly toppling the bottle in the process.
Simon laughed, righted the bottle, and lifted it, a question in his eyes. They were dark brown, I noted. Of course, I had seen his face before, taken a general accounting of his features, recognized that he was attractive, and noted the similarity to Lord Byron, that famous libertine and Romantic poet — capital R because it was a movement not a description. I cursed my education even as I answered the question in Simon’s gaze with a nod and a smile.
Pouring a generous amount into my glass, Simon noted, “You’re nervous.”
“Very astute,” I answered and took a sip while I gathered my thoughts. “More discomfited. This evening did not go the way I anticipated, and I’m finding myself a bit…at odds with how to feel at the moment.”
“That makes sense.” Simon raised his own wine to his lips. I watched them part over the rim of the glass, the liquid sliding between them, and the workings of his throat as he swallowed.
Though my face had cooled, the rest of my body suddenly flushed with warmth. I quickly took another sip of wine in the hopes of dousing this newly kindled flame.
“It would be strange if you didn’t feel…what was the word you used?...discomfited.” Simon turned back to the stove, the glass in his left hand as he picked up the spoon in his right and stirred then tasted what was in the saucepan. I was once again captivated by the sight of his lips closing around an object. He paused for a moment, savoring, considering, then placed the spoon on a small plate on the counter and reached for a jar. Its contents were unknown to me, but he shook it a few times over the saucepan, stirred, tasted, then nodded to himself in satisfaction.
He returned to the island and began moving various jars and containers to the counter behind him, picking up his comment where he’d left off.
“When you’ve anticipated something going in a certain way, and then the rug gets pulled out from underneath you. It makes you feel like you’re freefalling.”
“Sounds like you’re familiar with the concept,” I said.
Simon shrugged. “I think everyone is to a certain extent. We’ve all had setbacks in our lives, things not going according to plan, and then having to figure out what to do instead. You can either fight the fall, anticipate the impact and how much it’s going to hurt, or you can enjoy the feeling of weightlessness and have fun on the way down. Could you get the flour out of the cabinet behind you?”
I laughed as I rose from the stool and found the small bag of flour for Simon.
“Do you always have philosophical conversations with your clients?” I asked as I handed it over.
