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“Cubanos,” I said as I sat across from him at the small dining table. “They’re pretty standard where I’m from, so I thought you might enjoy them. I made one for Star without the pickles.” I pointed at a smaller sandwich off to the right.
“No wonder he loves you so much,” Irving said as he cut up the sandwich for the dog. “You spoil him rotten.”
“Well, he is a working dog and a very good boy.”
Irving smiled as he lowered the plate to the floor. “He is a very good boy. I’d be lost without him. Come on, Star. Snack time.” Star lumbered to his feet and walked to the plate. He gave the sandwich a sniff and then all you heard was snuffling as he tucked into his treat. “I guess he’s a fan.”
Conversation ceased for several minutes while we ate our sandwiches. I could tell he appreciated the flavors and nodded along as he chewed, finally stopping long enough to take a sip of wine. “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years. I had no idea they were so good.”
“You’d have no way to know, since a true Cubano is probably not served in too many places in the Midwest. At least not the way we make them down south.”
“I’ve honestly never seen one on a menu anywhere in the Midwest. I think you should make one for Ivy. They’d be on her menu the next week.”
My brows went up as I finished chewing. “You think so?”
“Heck yeah. What do I always order at the diner when I want something fast?”
“A club sandwich.”
He pointed at me with a nod. “Because I can eat them with one hand while I’m working. The diner is filled with factory workers and construction guys day in and day out and they love nothing more than a good, filling sandwich. I’m serious, Hazel. Make one for Ivy.”
“I don’t know,” I said, finishing my sandwich and sitting back with my wine to enjoy it. “It takes specific ingredients, not to mention the Cuban bread, to make it taste like that.”
“If Ivy decides to put something on the menu, she does it right every time, Hazel. That’s how she’s stayed in business all these years. Besides, she owns a bakery. I think she can manage to make Cuban bread. Is that what this was? It was fantastic.”
“It was,” I said with a nod. “It’s generally the only bread I eat, so I learned how to make it.”
“You are full of surprises, Hazel Cane,” he said with a smile. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re Cuban.”
“Nope,” I said, sipping my wine. “My dad is.”
“But you just said—”
“Sorry.” I waved my hand to stop him. “Technically, he’s my step-dad, but he adopted me when I was three, so I’ve called him Dad all my life. My real father went MIA before the test showed two lines, and my mom raised me on her own for the first two years of my life. She met my dad at work, they’re both chefs, and the rest is history, as they say.”
“Chefs? Now I see where your skills come from in the kitchen. I’m surprised you didn’t follow in their footsteps.”
I shrugged as I finished my wine then refilled my glass. “I love to eat, as you can tell,” I said, patting my well-padded middle. “But cooking, for me, was about spending time with my parents and enjoying good food. I had no desire to do it for other people, at least not the way they do.”
“Did you cook for other people?”
“In a way, I suppose. It’s how I got into social work to begin with, actually. As a teenager, I spent my weekends and summers cooking at the soup kitchens and doing outreach on the streets.”
“Wow,” he said, his expression telling me he was impressed. “Now, it’s easy to see why you went into social work. That’s starting out in the trenches.”
“The trenches in Florida are deep and wide when it comes to the housing insecure. I did what I could, but I could see if I wanted to have a true impact, to work in a place like this where low-income housing is the goal, I needed an education.”
“I speak for all of Bells Pass when I say we’re glad you’re here, Hazel.” He lifted his glass in the air and I did the same before I took another swig.
“Leave the dishes,” I said as I stood. “Let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable.”
I grabbed his glass of wine from the table and held it while he rolled to the couch and transferred into the corner, then I handed him his glass.
“Thanks,” he said, as I lowered myself to the cushion and pulled the small writing table over from near the chair where I’d moved it. I wanted him to have space to move his wheelchair around easily, so I didn’t have a coffee table to write on.
“What about you? What was your reason for social work?”
He motioned at his chair as though that should be enough of an answer. It probably was for someone like me who had insight into the career. Not so much for someone who didn’t.
