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A third knock, this one a little harder, demanded to be answered.
Sliding her legs out from under the comforter, Emma shivered. The air conditioner had made the room icebox cold. It would take some getting used to after the heat she’d endured in the trailer.
A fourth knock, this one hard and sharp, sent a stabbing pain through her skull. She wasn’t hungover from the light beer. She’d only drunk one bottle, but she’d slept too long, resulting in a throbbing headache.
“I’m coming!” she shouted at whoever was so impatient.
Dragging on her new jeans, she zipped them as she padded over to the door. She combed her fingers through her hair and tugged her t-shirt down over her stomach. Stifling a yawn, she opened the door.
An older Hispanic woman stood on her doorstep. Dark hair shot through with silver, she smiled brightly at Emma and presented her with a covered tray. “I brought you some food since you hadn’t come down to eat,” she announced.
“Oh, thanks.” Emma’s stomach gurgled as the rich smell of Mexican food hit her.
“Venison tamales, ranchero beans, and rice,” the woman ticked off, digging a diet soda out of the pocket of a cheery, colorful, flower-print apron.
“I just realized how hungry I am. Thank you...uh...err...”
“I’m Rosie, Juan’s mother. I run the kitchen.”
“This smells amazing. Thank you.” Unsure of what to do next, Emma stood in the doorway.
Rosie stepped into the room, brushing past her, and strode over to the small table near the window. Setting the soda down, she said, “Juan was worried when you didn’t come down for lunch and asked me to check on you. I needed to talk to you anyway, so I thought this was a good time to chat.”
Clutching the tray, Emma followed, unsure of where this conversation was going. It had been obvious the previous day that Monica had clear intentions of matchmaking her with Juan. Though she found him attractive, she wasn’t too keen on people trying to push her into a relationship.
Especially someone’s mother.
She hoped that the conversation would steer in a different direction.
“What do you need to talk to me about?” Emma asked cautiously.
Rosie took one of the chairs at the table, forcing Emma to take the other. Reaching across the table, she plucked the cover off the tray revealing the warm, delicious food.
“Since I run the kitchen, I interact with everyone in the Fort. I’m here to discuss your upcoming kitchen duty assignments.”
“Kitchen duty, huh?” Emma cut into a tamale with the plastic fork tucked into a groove on the side of the tray. Fragrant steam rose from it, making her even hungrier. “So the women are still in the kitchen.”
One of her major fights with Stan when they were together was how he’d expected her to do all the cooking and cleaning. She hoped the Fort was a bit more progressive in its running.
“We all do it, including the men. Even when they argue and throw fits.” Rosie grinned, a triumphant look on her face. “Kitchen duty is required of everyone over the age of fifteen who is physically able. I like to find out what people’s culinary strengths are before I assign their duties. I ran the school cafeteria back in the day, so I have a lot of experience with running a kitchen that feeds this many people. Trust me. It’s like running my own small army.”
“That seems fair. I learned the basics of cooking from my grandmother. I can do just about whatever you need as long as you give me a recipe. I can also make a killer peach cobbler from memory.”
“That’s good! Ed’s old peach orchard is providing us with lots of fruit. I’ll make a note of that. Just so you know, Yolanda has put you on kitchen duty tomorrow. You’ve got today off to give you time to rest and settle in.”
It made sense that she’d have to work for her room and board, so she had no complaints especially because they’d been kind enough to let her have a day to rest.
“I appreciate the consideration.”
“You made a good impression yesterday at the wall. Katarina told me that you’re a good shot, something we definitely need around here.”
The woman was definitely friendly and her smile genuine, but her dark eyes were scrutinizing everything about Emma. She could feel it in her gut that the woman was sizing her up and evaluating her character.
“My grandfather taught me to hunt when I was a kid.”
“You mentioned your grandmother teaching you to cook. Did your grandparents help raise you?”
“Actually, they raised me,” Emma answered, forking a piece of tamale into her mouth.
