“You’re not close?”
Sighing, Lola shook her head. “I shouldn’t be stuck on things that happened thirty years ago… Life’s so short… But my mother spent most of my childhood convinced she could cure my shyness.” She grimaced. “Let’s just say the endless weekends trapped at dancing recitals probably made me worse, not better. Here, I have the freedom to be myself. No history. No reminders. You probably don’t get it…”
“No, I do. Honestly. I moved down here about eight years ago. Similar reasons.” Well, not that similar. I’d destroyed a lot of lives first. “Sometimes, you need a fresh start without other people’s expectations weighing you down.”
“Exactly. The cottage suits me for now because…” Lola slid a glance to me from the corner of her eye. “The no-car thing. But soon…maybe… A car’s on my list.”
“What else is on your list?”
She lifted a shoulder with a small smile. “I’m kind of excited that I don’t really know yet. I had years where I felt like every second of my life was dictated by someone else’s routine. What they needed. Their happiness.” Another glance shifted to me, but that uneasy look disappeared with a wave of her hand and a laugh. “Sorry. That got a bit…much…”
I took a step closer. Maybe it was a step too close. “I’m interested in knowing more about you.” Preferably, everything.
“I want to know more about you, too.” She fumbled with her button again. “Like… what’s your favourite food?”
“Pasta.”
“Um…” She frowned at the closed pantry door. “I’m not sure I have any.”
“Well, we know you’ve got flour.” Grinning, I ran my fingertip through the dusty white trail sprinkled along her countertop and booped her on the nose. Her giggle just about undid me. “If you’ve still got a couple of eggs left, I can show you how to make fettuccine.”
She blinked up at me. “Seriously?” Her mouth fell open.
I nodded.
“I’d love that!” Her excited bounces over to the pantry paused mid-step. She turned to look back at me. “I don’t have a pasta maker.”
“You don’t need one. The dough’s easy. Roll it, rest it, fold it, cut it. You don’t need anything fancy.”
“Does the type of flour matter?”
“If you’re an aficionado, sure.”
“What about if you’re a very keen first-time fettuccine maker?”
“Grab your all-purpose flour.” I tidied away some of the clutter while Lola rummaged in her pantry. “This is going to be a little messy. You okay with that?”
Arching an eyebrow, she gestured around the kitchen.
I chuckled. “It’s really notthatbad.”
I spritzed some cleaner and wiped a spot clear on the countertop. Lola dropped a container of flour there without much care. But she cradled the egg box I’d made her close to her chest as if it were a precious jewel.
“It really is the most darling little box,” Lola whispered, her fingertips skipping over the top. “Did you engrave all the details yourself?”
“Yeah.” It took a bloody age to carve out the tiny chicks, but the awe brightening her eyes made it worth the extra effort. “You…like it?”
“I love it. It’s probably the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”
The quiet gratitude shining in her smile almost broke me. “I’m glad you like it.” I silently vowed to make her a hundred more if she’d smile at me like that again. “Should we get started on your lesson?”
“Let’s get cracking!”
Laughing, we got to work.
Lola was a diligent student. Pushing her glasses up, she leant over to watch me make a well in the flour and crack the eggs inside. She edged closer and closer as I walked her through each step, mixing the ingredients, sprinkling in salt, and dribbling just enough water to keep the dough from crumbling.
“You make it look so easy,” she said.
