Apparently, though, like most people she’s not immune to the lure of bacon crackling and hissing on the stove.She wanders up next to me as I’m slicing some beefsteak tomatoes up.
“Can I help?”
“I’d be a pretty bad host if I put you to work, wouldn’t I?”
“Not if I want to help. I don’t get to cook for myself too often.”
“Well then, if that’s how you feel about it, I’m not going to say no. Why don’t you chop those green onions up?” I reach up and over her head to snag the second cutting board out of the cupboard. She shifts, and my left hand flies up to stop the sharp corner of the door from hitting her in the head.
There’s interesting mixture of gratitude and puzzlement on her face when she turns to me. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I shake my head. “Just haven’t washed those onions yet.”
She nods, moving to the sink to rinse the onions, and for the next few minutes we work away in silence for the most part, with only an occasional instruction.
But I catch her peeping over my shoulder as I mix up my special sauce. “How hot do you like your food?”
“I can take some heat. I like things spicy.”
My mind goes somewhere completely different and I have to clear the gravel out of my voice to respond. “What a coincidence. I like it spicy too.”
I show her how to slather the perfect amount of my secret sauce on the toasted English muffin and then layer the rest of the ingredients in precise amounts.
“Who taught you how to cook?” she asks as we’re settling down at the small table pressed up against the window overlooking the south pasture.
“My mom. She was the master of breakfast. Dad could make a mean stew or cook anything over a campfire, but Mom was the queen of a big ranch breakfast.”
Her arms freeze with the sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Your parents…”
“They’re both gone.” And just like that the grief washes over me, threatening to pull me under the current. I let it sit for a minute. People don’t like to talk about it. How the sharp edge of pain dulls over the years, but it never goes away. It just hides for a time, but little things can drag it out of the depths and take you by surprise. You never know what’s going to set it off. Blink bumps her head against my leg as if she can sense my pain.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. What happened? If you want to talk about it. I understand if you don’t.”
My voice is gruff with emotion when I answer. “It’s okay. It was a car accident. Seven years ago. I was still in high school. Caleb looked after us after that. I still think about them, of course. But it’s a lot easier now. I think the worst part is when I forget.”
“I’m so sorry. I won’t ask you about them again.” Her arms fall back down to the table as if she lost her appetite, but that won’t do.
“Don’t do that. Don’t be afraid to ask about them. They were amazing people.”
“Okay.” She lifts the sandwich to her mouth, crunching down on it as though to change the subject. A little bit ofegg yolk oozes out, sliding down her chin, and I have to rein in the urge to reach over and wipe it off. “Oh my god, Quint. That is so good.”
“Told ya. Best breakfast sandwich you’ve ever tasted, am I right?”
“Fuck, yes.” Her hand flies up to her mouth. Maybe she’s not in the habit of letting f-bombs fly, but I think it’s pretty cute. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. You can rave about my cooking any day.”
“I don’t even know what it is. It’s just so good.”
“It’s the special sauce.”
“Is it a secret?” she asks before taking another massive bite.
“Kinda a Holloway family secret.”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to live in disappointment.”
“Guess so.”
