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“It’s tiny. Where’s the stove?” she asks.
“Don’t have one. I have a microwave and a toaster oven.”
“I’m betting no one delivers up here, so what are we doing for food again?”
“Ah, the one thing I do have is a stone pizza oven. It’s built into the fireplace. I added it when I realized we didn’t have a single pizza restaurant worth a damn in town. So, roll your sleeves up. It’s time to get your hands in some dough.”
We stand side by side at the island while I teach her how to make her own crust.
“Now what?” she asks.
“Now, we add a little olive oil to the glass bowls and use the pastry brush to make sure the sides are coated. Pop the dough ball in, cover it with plastic wrap, and let it sit for about thirty minutes.”
While the dough rises, Hannah takes a seat at the island, and I open a bottle of wine and pour us each a glass.
“Willa tells me that you just moved back to town from Seattle,” she says.
I slide a glass in front of her. “I did. Keller asked me to partner with him, and I packed up and was back in Lake Mistletoe the next week.”
“Don’t you miss it?” she asks.
“I miss a few things, but then I wake up in bed, look out at the horizon, and remember that I get to go to work with my best friend, doing what I love, and the feeling passes.”
“So, you didn’t land in Washington because of a dream job?”
“Nope. I followed a girl.”
She raises a brow. “What happened with the girl?” she asks.
“Nothing. The relationship just ran its course. It clearly wasn’t meant to be.”
“I can relate to that,” she utters.
“How so?”
She shrugs. “Relationships in general are a waste of time.”
“I didn’t say that. Just because one didn’t work out doesn’t mean one never will,” I say.
“I guess,” she mutters.
“You don’t like to date?” I assume.
“I’m married to my career. There’s not a lot of time for much else,” she replies before turning up her glass and swallowing the wine down.
I pick up the bottle to refill her glass.
“I think the dough’s ready,” I inform her.
We unwrap our bowls, and she watches as I take a pinch of flour and spread it on the counter. Then, I begin to knead the ball until it’s pliant before taking the rolling pin to create a round-ish, more amoeba-shaped, crust.
“Once you have it as thin as you want, you fold the ends over like this, take the brush, and coat the whole thing with a little olive oil. Then, score the bottom with a fork to make sure the dough doesn’t bubble, and,voilà, it’s ready for toppings. Now, it’s your turn,” I instruct.
She repeats the steps, and once we have the pies on the cast iron pans, she dusts off the counter, and flour flies into the air. I bring my good hand to my face and yelp.
“Oh no. Are you okay?” she squeals.
I blink a couple of times as my eye waters.
