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“Did you set this up, Lawson?” I asked him.
In Joplin, eating had been misery. A drudging task that involved easy meals made on a mass scale to feed a couple hundred people. Ingredients bought at Costco or Sam’s, never green grocers or neighborhood specialty markets. I loved food like this, savoring little bites to enjoy, instead of slopped plates to get full. Living at Joplin felt like jail. In comparison, everything Emery Lawson touched was magical. I leaned out into the sun and blinked my eyes at its brightness.
“We can eat in the kitchen or sit up here for a while and sip Mint Julips, your call.”
I was still stunned from the very notion of being in his house, his space. He actually lived here alone, wasn’t married or weirdly religious, or some sexual deviant, from what I could tell. Emery Lawson was perfect and that seemed too good to be true for someone who’d lived like I had, always waiting for the other shoe to fall. Standing there on his beautiful balcony, overlooking what appeared to be a perfectly groomed English garden. I realized not only was Lawson too good for me, but he’d soon notice, lose interest and I’d fall harder than I’ve ever fallen.
I stepped back into the room and tried to shake away the negative thoughts in my head. I could eat a meal, talk shop, physics and boxing and then get the hell out of here—no harm no foul.
“I guess let’s eat lunch first. I am kind of hungry,” I said.
“Very well,” Lawson said. He looked surprised by my answer and put his hand out indicating I pass first back into the hallway. “Shall we?” he said. I slipped past him and made my way down the steps. His stairwell was decorated with various portraits and oil paintings, some framed photos of perhaps family members or famous physicists, for all I knew.
“You’ve never worn a dress before, Celia,” he said to me as I walked down the stairs.
I’d worn it for him. In Joplin, I dressed like a tomboy with a clear message of hands-off! My outfits were safety mechanisms so that no one would request me for marriage before I could get the hell out. The boxing was for protection too. In fact, almost everything that seemed to make up my personality were choices I’d elected for my own protection. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. But one thing was certain, I’d learned not to trust adults and the repercussions of that were proving themselves to be a burden trying to live in the real world.
I was now following Emery’s instructions as he told me where to go in his maze of a house. Brownstones had so much space, but much of it was vertical and a lot of stair and hall walking was to be had for getting any place.
I eventually walked into the massive kitchen, state of the art and modern, a complete contrast with the hundred and fifty-year-old building. The stainless steel appliances shone against the sleek porcelain floors in the kitchen. Granit countertops for days. A coffee machine that looked like it walked out of a Cappuccino commercial.
“You’ve got good interior design skills,” I told him. What did I know about design—nothing, but I could tell his taste was impeccable.
“No, I hired a firm. I gave them carte blanche. Turned out okay, I think.”
“Better than okay, I’d say.”
“What’s going on, Celia? It’s like you turned off a switch and now you’re not being straight with me.” He yanked me to him and wrapped his arms around me.
“Sorry,” I said, my head hanging down. “I have a hard time with trust. I don’t even know what it means to be the real me.”
“I see,” he said. Lawson set his chin on top of my head as he held me.
“Who is Celia O’Hara? First things first, what does she like on her pizza?”
He pulled a crust from the freezer and set it on a pizza stone, then moved about the kitchen grabbing ingredients—things I’d never in my pizza experience seen on a pie. More figs, arugula, blue cheese, fresh mozzarella, red sauce, green sauce, sprigs of herbs I couldn’t name, tiny fish with the heads still on, olive oil, dark vinegar, a peach, a can of pineapple, a chorizo sausage, olives, pickled artichokes, even some type of small speckled egg. Foods I only knew from sneaking in cable cooking shows in the compound when everyone else was asleep.
“Make your pizza and tell me who you are, Celia. Anything you want to put on it is okay with me and I will eat your creation after we cook it.”
“But I don’t know what you like,” I protested.
“I like whatever you make,” he stated definitively.
I smiled as a little whimsy entered my mind. I went to his huge subzero fridge and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for, or at least a substitute that would work. I got to work spreading butterscotch ice cream topping all over the crust, while Lawson cocked an eyebrow and grabbed his own chin, his forefinger curling around the sexy divot there.
