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Stop beating yourself up, Bridget told herself fiercely. You did it when you were ready. And that’s that.
She was really too busy to obsess over anything but the cooking. Cookbook open on her lap, she studied the recipe for giblet gravy.
Molly had already made a disgusted face when the giblets were pulled out of the turkey, and Bridget couldn’t say she blamed her. She got them out of the fridge and let them slither out of the wrapping into the broth simmering on the stove, wondering how her mother magically transformed such ugly little things into delicious gravy. Well, if they didn’t turn out right or she overcooked them, they were going to go straight into the garbage. She hadn’t given all the jars of gravy to the church food pantry.
Speaking of that, they were due to arrive there by seven in the evening to help serve. That is, she and Molly would serve; Jonas was going to don an apron and cook. Mrs. Barnes had explained that the meals were offered to all corners in the afternoon and again in the evening. There would be plenty for him to do.
Volunteering there would be a first. Margaret Harrison was generally unsympathetic to the less fortunate and she had certainly never offered to help or donate food.
Bridget was beginning to realize that her mother had cast a long, cold shadow over her life. But she didn’t want to fight with her, and she wasn’t going to blame her mother for everything that had ever gone wrong in her life. What she was after—and the process was going to be slow—was understanding.
It would have to do.
She gave the simmering giblets a poke with a long-handled spoon. Were they done? They still looked disgusting. She decided to let them simmer some more.
Bridget went back to the cookbook. Steam this, skim that, baste this, poach that. The cumulative effect of so many instructions in so many different recipes was confusion. She began to chop yet another onion, and a large tear rolled down her cheek.
Jonas, who had been playing a raucous game of poker with Molly in the living room, came into the kitchen. “Haven’t seen you for a while. What’s up?” He put his arms around her waist.
She heard Molly go up the stairs to her loft bedroom. Bridget wiped away the tear with her sleeve, and another one followed it.
“Uh-oh. Put down the knife and step away from the onion,” Jonas said. “You need to sit down with a glass of wine.”
“I can’t do that. It’s not even noon. And I’m not finished cooking.”
He kissed the top of her head and moved his hands up to cup her breasts. Bridget remembered all the wonders of the night they’d spent together. Her whole body trembled with sensual pleasure and she leaned back against him.
“Screw the cooking. I want a kiss, Bridget.”
She turned in his embrace and put her arms—her oniony, floury, oily arms—around his neck. “I’m a mess,” she said.
“I don’t care.” He bent his head down and claimed her lips with real passion, giving her a good, long, hot kiss.
“Mmm,” she whispered when he stopped to breathe.
He reached out an arm to turn off the stove without looking into the pan. “Whatever was in there is dead now. Boiled dry.”
“Oh, shoot. The giblets. We might have to use gravy from a jar.”
Jonas sighed. “I think it’s time I took over, little lady.”
She went to the sink to wash up. “Fine with me. Where’d you learn how to cook, anyway?”
“My first roommate in New York was an apprentice chef.”
She looked him up and down. Tall and brawny as he was, it was hard to imagine him living in a small New York apartment, let alone sharing one with a roommate.
“I didn’t know that.”
Jonas smiled slightly as he stuck a fork in the giblets. “You know, I think these are salvageable. Just give me that little cutting board and a knife, and I’ll show you what to do with giblets.”
In another couple of minutes, he’d minced them and strained the broth they’d cooked in, putting both into a saucepan and putting it in the fridge. “You add the dark drippings from the turkey pan after it’s roasted—skim the fat first—and some cream if you like, and season to taste. That’s how you make giblet gravy.”
“I’m impressed. The more I know about you, the more I find to like, Jonas Concannon.”
He poured her a half glass of wine. “You sit down and sip that. I’m going to get the turkey in the oven.”
“I preheated it.”
