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“Like what?”
He added a handful of pine nuts and a glug of olive oil, then reached for the pestle, u
sing it to club the basil into submission, releasing a summery fragrance into the air. Behind him, a big pot of water bubbled volubly on the stovetop.
“A sense of connection.” His smile was brief. Her heart tugged. “She’d take us aside, one at a time, to give us lessons. As we cooked, we talked. Yaya didn’t want us going off the rails like her own children had.”
“She saw you guys as a second chance?”
His eyes lifted to hers. “I suppose so.”
She nodded. “She did well. You’re all…lovely.”
He burst out laughing.
“What?” Self-consciousness made her cheeks glow.
“Lovely is just – makes us sound like flowers or something.”
“You’re definitely not floral.” She tilted her head, a teasing smile on her face. “Decorative, maybe.”
He grinned, grinding salt and pepper into the bowl before turning away from her, moving to the fridge. He removed a block of pecorino cheese and a container which closer inspection showed to be full of fresh linguine pasta.
“Do you cook?”
“Out of necessity,” Lauren said, taking another sip of her wine. The flavour was acidic and robust – she loved it. “When I’m working, I’m often a guest of the family. I eat what they eat.”
He nodded slowly. “That must be strange.”
“Strange how?”
“You’re seeing families at an immensely vulnerable time.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I keep to myself as much as possible. I read, a lot – which makes my dad happy.” Her smile shifted, and then she sighed. “It’s hard, Raf.” She didn’t know where the confession came from. It was something she hadn’t even really admitted to herself. Her eyes followed his hands as he used a fine grater to crumble the pecorino.
“Go on.”
He tapped the grater then scooped up half the cheese and added it to the mortar, then began pounding once more. His fingers moved deftly, showing that this was an act he’d performed many times.
“There’s nothing more to say. Just that it’s hard.” A frown tugged at her lips. “I used to find meaning in what I do. I still do. But the last few patients I’ve dealt with – usually I work with kids. I’m not sure if I’ve told you that?”
His nod was brief, but more of an encouragement than an answer.
“They’ve torn me apart from the inside out. It’s probably why I agreed to come here when Alessia called. The idea of working with someone who’s lived a long, full, and textured life felt like a relief.” She winced. “I’m sorry, I know we’re talking about your grandmother but –,”
He held a hand up in appeasement. “I know what you mean.”
“It’s awful to lose someone, no matter their age, but it’s less of a tragedy when it’s after a wonderful life filled with love and laughter. Helping children navigate a terminal illness is –,”
“Harrowing,” he supplied.
Her throat thickened with tears.
“You’ve been doing this a long time.”
She nodded.
“Maybe it’s time to have a break.”
