Page 40

Miriam’s eyes bug. “I’m sorry the what?”

“Gotta go, talk to you later Miriam, bye!” Eloise says, grabbing my wrist, and suddenly I’m yanked forward as she walk-runs down the hall, dragging me along behind her.

“You know I won’t let this go without an explanation, honey!” Miriam calls after us. “And you better be sharing some of that Mexican food!”

Eloise fumbles with the key, turns the lock, and we spill into her apartment.

“She doesn’t know about the wedding?” I ask.

Eloise shakes her head. I see her lips part like she wants to say more, then she clamps her mouth shut as Charleston comes running down the hall, barreling into my leg. Eloise drops the shrimp on the counter and goes to the living room to greet the dogs. I decide to give her a moment to decompress. I set about unpacking the bags in the kitchen and searching for bowls and knives and some cutting boards.

“Time for your shot, Colonel,” I hear her say. I set the tortilla press to one side and put the two Pacíficos I brought in the fridge. Her kitchen is long and narrow but with a lot of counter space, and a big window at the end that looks over the park. There’s a blue and yellow tile backsplash and a drying rack next to the sink with some plates and wineglasses in it. Her kitchen is pretty intuitive, and I find all the items I need. She’s also got some really nice equipment—a shiny KitchenAid mixer, a set of gleaming baking sheets, plus quite a few plastic molds in various shapes, like paw prints, dog bones, and fire hydrants. I think back to that biscuit I gave to Pip the first time I met him and wonder if Eloise made those herself.

I’ve set up two stations with knives and cutting boards, laying out the ingredients on the counter, when I hear the tiny clicking of nails and see Pip’s little face peeking around the edge of the kitchen doorway.

“Hola, chiquito,” I say, crouching down. He scurries over to me and licks my fingers. I scratch the back of his ears. “Sí, te extrañé mucho también. Pero por qué no hangeas con tu mamá?”

Pip makes a tiny yip. I grab a treat from the Paws Off jar—heart-shaped and smelling of peanut butter and strawberries—and feed it to him.

“You’re part of a family now, amigo,” I say in Spanish. “You’ve got a pack. You know it’s okay to trust them, right?”

“Oh!” Eloise stops short as she sees Pip and me in the kitchen. Pip whirls around and growls at her. She takes a step back.

“I’m sorry buddy,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Pip keeps growling as he skirts the edge of the kitchen, then flees down the hall. Eloise sighs and rubs her eyes.

“He’ll come around,” I say.

She nods morosely, as Charleston and the Colonel come to join us. I bet Hazelnut is snoozing in the big dog bed in the living room. Charleston has clearly been activated by the scent of food and the Colonel nudges my hand to say hello. I give him a pat.

“Let’s start with the aguachile,” I say. “So this is kind of like a ceviche. Have you had ceviche?”

“Yeah. Sure. Maybe. One time.” Eloise puts her hands in her pockets, then seems to reconsider and folds her arms over her chest. It’s like she doesn’t know quite what to do with them. The Colonel leans his head against her thigh.

“Great. So the difference here is that in ceviche, you marinate the fish for a longer time in the lime juice and spices, but aguachile is super quick. Now, what’s your spice tolerance? How much chile can you handle?”

Eloise bites her lip. “Medium?” she offers.

That means mild. “Perfect.” No chiltepin, then, just the jalapeño and serrano. “First, we make the marinade.”

I set her to work squeezing limes into a bowl while I slice the jalapeños and a bit of the serrano. Then she chops up some cilantro while I mince a bit of garlic.

“Now, try this,” I say, taking a little spoonful of the mixture and offering it to her. She sniffs it tentatively then takes the spoon and tastes a tiny sip.

“Oh,” she says, then gives a little cough.

“Too spicy?”

“No, it’s …” She licks her lips and finishes the spoonful. “Wow. That’s really good.”

I beam. “Gracias. Now we cut up the shrimp and veggies. Which do you want?”

“Veggies,” she says, so I hand her the cucumber and red onion.

“Thin slices,” I tell her.

We work in companionable silence for a few minutes. Charleston plants himself directly between Eloise’s feet, the perfect spot to swipe any falling food, and the Colonel lays down in the doorway and rests his head on his paws, watching us with soulful eyes.