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“Nope, not even close, but what’s your favorite food?” she asks. Her fingers stop tapping and she lays them out flat, still.
“Chicken and dumplings.” I had thought about making this tonight, but really the chicken needs to slow cook all day, whereas this sauce just needs a few hours.
“Wow, such a Southern dish.”
An image of my grandfather smiling and holding a large wooden rolling pin comes to mind, and a pang of grief hits me. He always let me roll out the dough, and never once did he scold me for getting flour on the floor. He would just sweep it up as if it wasn’t the messiest kitchen ingredient ever. It’s been seventeen years, but that doesn’t take away how much he meant to me, or how much I miss him. He was the best.
“My grandfather used to make it for me, it was one of his specialties. He was a big fan of the one-pot dishes and all that—less to wash. Just like with these meatballs.” I hold up the pot and then slide it into the oven.
“You’re roasting them?” she asks.
“Yeah, I turned on the broiler just to brown them and then I’ll put the pot on the stove and add in the sauce. Mix the flavors and all that.” I grab a towel from the counter and wipe my hands off.
“Sounds tasty.” She looks relaxed sitting here . . . and I like it. A lot.
“It is. So, what’s yours?” I move across the kitchen to the pantry and grab the peanut butter and bread.
“Barbeque,” she states proudly, sitting up a little straighter.
“Really?” Reaching into the refrigerator I grab the jelly.
She nods her head, and I move back to the bar next to her to make the sandwich.
“Well, I happen to know the best hole-in-the-wall barbeque place around here. I’ll take you there for lunch tomorrow after the appointment.”
“Seriously, you just made my day.” Her eyes sparkle at me, so large and blue, and have such a calming effect on me. Warmth spreads through me at the thought of making her happy, but then it’s gone. Her day—she wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. She’d be on her way back to New York.
“What’s your favorite dessert?” she asks, angling her body a little closer to me.
“Don’t hate me, but it’s not cupcakes.” She scrunches her nose up with disapproval. “Apple pie.” I place the sandwich on a plate, cut it in half, and toss the knife in the sink.
Her face smooths out and her head tilts to the side. “What’s your favorite part about it, the pie crust or the apple filling?”
“Apple filling. Warm and gooey, so good.” I push the plate in her direction.
“Challenge issued,” she looks down at the offered plate and then back at me curiously.
“I didn’t challenge you.”
“Yes, you did, and I accept,” she says triumphantly.
Well, this is a new side to her—spunky . . . I like it.
“What’s this for?” she looks at the plate and then back at me.
“You need to eat. You have an empty stomach and that painkiller might not sit well.”
Her eyebrows pop up. “You’re probably right. Thank you.”
“Welcome.” I stretch my arms in front of me on the counter and lean toward her on my forearms.
She takes a bite of the sandwich and with her mouth full asks, “So, what made you decide to buy a place here?”
“Clay and I are from here, well, a little town just east of here.” She pauses midair with the sandwich and looks at me.
“So, you and Clay go way back?” She takes another bite and I can’t help but watch the way her lips wrap around it.
“Yep, I’ve known him since I was thirteen. That’s when my grandfather died. His family became my foster family.” I don’t know what I would have done without Clay and his family. Of all the foster families out there, I was given to them, and every day I am thankful.
