She gives me a disgruntled look and raises the cup to her lips. I try not to grin. She’s not at her best in the morning.
She wanders over to a window, then the door to open it and step outside. The skies have cleared to a brilliant blue and the sun reflecting on all the white snow is almost blinding. She stands on the veranda, sipping her coffee.
“Wow. This is gorgeous.”
Fluffy snow lies piled on bare tree branches, and mounded on evergreens. In the distance, the shape of the mountains is a sharp line against the sky.
“This snow would be perfect for skiing,” I say.
She slants a look at me. “You can’t ski.”
“Yes, I can.” I’m offended.
“I mean, you can’t ski because of hockey. You can’t go back from the All-Star break with a broken leg.”
“I didn’t say I was gonna ski. I just said it’s perfect.” I sigh. I’d love to slalom down one of the runs here. “I’ll be content with sliding down a hill on a tube.”
“Did you bring skates?”
I’m offended again. “Of course I brought skates.” I pause. “Did you?”
“Yes.”
I nod. “Good. We can play crack the whip.”
“Oh no. You’re not doing that to me again.”
I grin.
I’ve tried not to think about last night. Or this morning, when I rubbed one out in the shower. I had to do it.
Seeing Ayla in those awful pajamas should have given me a limp bizkit. But it did not. The soft cotton just outlined all her curves, including braless tits that ended up briefly pressed against my back. And then… Christ, she still makes those little sex sounds in her sleep, soft little sighs and moans. I’ve told her she does it and teased her about it, but holy hell, I forgot the massive boner it gives me.
Don’t think about it now, asshole.
“I’m going to set up the genealogy display,” Ayla says.
“I’ll help.”
A couple of employees from the lodge set up a table in the pavilion with a white tablecloth and we unpack the boxes of things Ayla has brought. There are family heirlooms like little white Christening dresses, a very worn bible, journals from Ayla’s great-uncle Antonio and great-aunt Violetta. Ayla creates a display from some old jewelry that belonged to various women in the family.
There are handwritten family recipes.
“Are these from Nonna?” I ask.
“Yes.” Ayla smiles. “She cooked by heart but thankfully also wrote down her recipes. Then my mom and aunts continued her legacy.”
“I remember when you made a cookbook for each cousin.” She had taken all the recipes from her mom, painstakingly formatted them, and had them printed.
“And my sisters,” she adds. “We still use them. Look at her handwriting.” She runs her fingers over a page of the book, yellowed and stained with food.
“I loved that beef dish you used to make.”
“Brasato al Barolo.”
“Yeah. Delicious.” Beef braised in red wine, tender enough to melt in your mouth. She used to serve it with polenta, which I’d never tried until I met her.
There are other recipes I recognize: agnolotti, vitello tonnato, bagna càuda, which Ayla would often make when we had friends over.
