twenty-two
My mood is rather melancholy as I wash produce in the kitchen sink, but I do like watching Danny give the broken dock some much-needed love. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”
Shallots doesn’t have much of a response, but he likely agrees, and I appreciate his loving look and the way he follows my every move.
“We’re making muffuletta sandwiches for lunch, okay?” When I have all of my ingredients out, I start the process of chopping up the olive spread. “I know, it’s not an appealing word.Muffuletta.I get it. But I’m putting my money on the idea that it’ll taste better than it sounds. Two kinds of olives, roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, garlic, celery, red wine vinegar, all chopped up and combined with this luscious olive oil that I found? Plus, three kinds of fresh herbs? Italian meat slices? C’mon, Shally. That’s a spread that’s gotta slay.”
The dog’s nonplussed reaction is not reassuring, but after I’ve mixed all of these ingredients together, I take a sniff.
Oh man, the aroma is perfect.
Spreading that on bread and hitting it with rich salami, coppa, ham, and mortadella? And Provolone and fresh mozzarella?
“There’s no way this is gonna suck, you judgmental pooch. We got this. Hang on.”
My timer goes off, and I pull the overnight no-knead bread from the oven. This is a big hit-or-miss situation, as it’s the first loaf I’ve ever made, but from everything I’ve read, it sounds fail-proof. Still, I examine it with a furrowed brow, tap the bottom with my fingers to listen for some kind of supposed hollow sound that I’ve seen onThe Great British Bake Off, and finally decide that it’s going to be what it is. At least I tried. And the sandwich ingredients can probably cover up any faults. I hope.
The sound of the front door opening and closing makes me smile. It’s so funny that there’s never any need to lock it. There’s no danger here, and I love that.
“What are you up to now?” Paul’s booming voice echoes in this tiny kitchen.
“Just prepping lunch.”
“Smells like heaven.”
I spin around and grin. “Well, that is what bread smells like, isn’t it?”
He laughs. “Pretty much.”
“What’s up?”
Paul leans back against the counter and gives me a look that I can’t figure out. “Callie?”
“Paul?”
“A rather large pile of boxes has been delivered and left out front. It seems you’ve ordered a thing or two.”
Shit.He’s giving me a disapproving-dad look, I realize.
“Sure. A thing or two.” I go back to furiously and needlessly chopping my already-chopped sandwich spread. “What’s the problem?”
“I sliced into a number of your shipments.” There’s a long silence before he continues. “Baking dishes, two electric griddles, trivets, a new cookware set—”
It’s impossible not to tense up. “Basic stuff. Nothing crazy.”
“Slotted spoons, a food processor?” He sighs. “Callie, there are cloth napkins and ceramic storage canisters.”
“So, you opened all of the boxes? That’s a federal crime, you know? Opening someone else’s mail?”
“File charges then.” He carries on with his list. “Reusable shopping bags, a giant thermal coffee carafe, and a small composter.”
“All useful items,” I point out.
Fine, he’s got me.
Paul paces the small kitchen. “I’m concerned. What’s going on? You’re buying a lot of stuff. Are you feeling pressure because of these brunches? You don’t have to host those. I know you got pulled into them. That Alex sort of started these. We can call them off anytime.”
“What? No!” My knife hits the cutting board harder than I intended. “Don’t even say that.” I grip the counter and inadvertently raise my tone. “These brunches are everything. They have given me life again, Paul, so don’t youdaretake those away,” I plead. “And don’t youdarefault Alex. He’s my partner now. I need him.”
