She’d made me a nervous wreck at seventeen. And now, the sight of her in socks, standing in my kitchen, was a daydream so casual and devastating that I wasn’t sure I’d recover.
I busied myself checking the doneness of the potatoes I had on the stove.
Candace gave me some space and sat down at the table, sipping her cider. “So what did you make me?”
She’d only mentioned a cashew allergy when we’d texted earlier, and she insisted that she liked every kind of food except for celery because “that shit tastes like chewing on wet hair.” Since I hadn’t had much to go on for menu options, I made something relatively easy that I usually put together for myself a couple of times a month. I knew it had a high success rate.
“Oven-roasted pork loin, steamed red potatoes, and a basic table salad with red wine vinaigrette.”
“Wow,” Candace breathed.
I chuckled. “It’s pretty simple.”
“Not for the uneducated,” she argued. “Let me guess. Did you grow those red potatoes yourself?”
I kept my back to her as I pulled said potatoes off the stove. “Uh, yeah.”
“And did you make that red wine vinaigrette from scratch?”
I drained the water into the sink. It was mostly the steam from the potatoes that made my face flush, but I eventually admitted, “Maybe.”
Candace cackled happily. “I knew it.”
I tossed the quartered root vegetables in a bowl with fresh herbs and a bit of olive oil, then covered it with aluminum foil to keep warm.
Before Candace could tease me any further, a sound came from the back deck, just beyond the screen door. It was a strange but familiar combination of rusty car door and crying baby.
I couldn’t believe I’d been so distracted I’d forgotten to put his food out.
“What was that?” Candace asked.
I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and grabbed the cat’s bowl from beneath the sink. Busy with opening the can and dumping the contents, I didn’t notice Candace going for the back door.
“Wait,” I said, but it was too late.
She slid the door open, and the cat darted right in. “Ohhh. A kitty. I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“I don’t. Don’t touch him,” I cautioned. “The cat’s feral.”
She looked down at the gray beast who sat placidly in the middle of the kitchen and then back at me.
I rolled my eyes and set the bowl down for him before backing away slowly. Holding up my left hand, I pointed to a white slash beneath the knuckle on mymiddle finger. “See this? He did it two years ago. I was feeding him inside because it was rainy out, and the wind blew the door closed. Ornery thing thought he was trapped and went wild. He jumped up and knocked over everything on the counter, and then clawed the devil out of me when I tried to help him down.”
Candace watched the big cat as it crouched over the bowl, chewing politely. The traitor.
“Maybe he’s experienced personal growth,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps this cat is ready for a second chance to be rehabilitated.”
I let out a disbelieving sound that made her laugh. Then she wandered over to the open doorway and peeked out on the deck. “So, what’s his name?”
My brows lowered in confusion. “Who?”
“The cat.”
“It’s not my cat.”
She glanced back to me, eyes alight. “You feed it?”
“Yeah.”
