“Ava,” he said, eyes still closed. “Just read it to me.”
She did. Her voice grew stronger as she read off each item, skipping the Kleenex, of course. At every word, he nodded. A ghost of a smile began on his face until, by the end of her list, it was in full bloom.
She cleared her throat. “That’s it.”
He remained still for another moment, then opened his eyes and turned to her. “That’s a pretty good start.”
“It is?” She rolled the pen between her fingers. “It’s not really a recipe or even an idea for a specific dish?—”
He held up a hand. “No, but it definitely invokes a feeling of a dish.”
“A feeling of a dish?” She smirked. “Are you on the Cooking Channel or something?The Philosophy of Cookingwith Zach Sullivan.”
“Har har. I’m just saying, you could be really good at this if you let yourself try. You could be a chef instead of just critiquing everyone else’s work.”
And it should have felt like a dig, but his quiet confidence actually inspired something that felt more like pride. She loved her review job, but she would be lying if she didn’t acknowledge the desire once in a while to make something delicious on her own.
“Thanks.”
“Being a chef requires creativity. It’s like art with food. You’re creative, so we just need to figure out how to translate that into something edible.” He rubbed at his chin.
“Ha. I don’t know. It might take a miracle.”
“Let’s try something.” He took the pen and paper out of her hands and set them on the table. “Close your eyes.”
“O-ka-ay.” She drew the word into three syllables.
“Just trust me. I’ll close mine too.”
She complied.
“Now, tell me about the best thing you ever ate.”
She didn’t have to think about it long. “Malfatti with browned butter and sage. I didn’t even need to close my eyes for that.” Malfatti, an Italian sort of pasta, sort of dumpling made from ricotta cheese and just a tiny bit of flour, then finished off in a pan of browned butter. Her breath hitched at the memory.
“No. Keep them closed.” He covered her hands with his and her pulse leaped. “Tell me more about the dish. Why were you eating it? Where were you? Who were you with?”
In an instant she was back there. “It was the night of my high school graduation. Both of my parents were home. They wanted to make me something special to celebrate, so they made thismalfatti. My mother had learned the recipe from a woman she had met in Tuscany. Mom had been so excited to show Dad what she’d learned.” Her heart seized. They’d never been that excited to see her. “I remember my parents laughing in the kitchen as they worked together.” A tear trickled down her face and she pulled her hands away to swipe at it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“Not your fault.” She opened her eyes and cleared her throat. “It’s just a bittersweet memory for me.”
His gaze roamed her face. “Want to talk about it?”
Her stomach sank. She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Both of my parents were—are—chefs. As you know, they work on luxury super yachts. That’s how they met. They both worked a stint on the same yacht. Nowadays they usually work separately because they both have so much experience, but back when they started, they tried to get on as many boats together as possible.” Which was sweet, she supposed.
“Quite the bohemian lifestyle.” Zach’s tone gave away none of what he was thinking.
“Exactly. After a few years of this ‘lifestyle,’ my mom got pregnant with me. They had a wedding ceremony officiated by the captain of the ship they were on at the time, attended by the rest of the crew. After I was born, they rented a tiny apartment and tried to figure out how to do life as a normal family.” Ava shrugged. “Dad would take a six-week shift, and then Mom would go. It was like being in a divorced family with joint custody, except my parents stayed married.”
In one of the trees lining the property, an owl hooted.
“Yeah. Anyway. When I was five, they decided they’d had enough of that and dumped me at my grandma’s—my mom’s mom. I guess they’d found a yacht crew that wanted them both, and they couldn’t turn down the opportunity. They couldn’t let their kid cramp their style. One shift turned into three and thenmore, and pretty soon, I’d lived with my grandma for thirteen years.” The wound over being left behind never quite healed. Ava rubbed at her chest, but the ache held on.
“And they never came home?” Zach shifted in his seat.
“They’d fly in for a night or two and then jet off again. Once in a while they’d be around for a couple of weeks between seasons, but it was never predictable.” She’d never known how long they were going to stay. If they would ever stay for her. “I always waited for the day that they’d say we would be a family again, but it never happened.”
