“Nope. Did it myself.”
Her eyes widen. “No way. I’ve never seen you cook. And you have a chef at home.”
“Usually just too busy.”
I go to the kitchen and pull the pizza out of the special wood oven. It’s a pain in the butt compared to the gas variety, but the end result is worth it. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” she says, then flushes. “I keep craving more food.”
“Makes sense. You’re pregnant.” I pour her a glass of ginger ale. I noticed she was sipping it all through our trip to and from Virginia.
“Thank you.”
“We can sit out on the patio, put our feet up and eat. Kind of nice to watch the waves.”
The scene is already set: a pair of padded white chairs with separate ottomans. A single calla lily lies on the table between us, and I place the pizza there along with our drinks. In deference to her condition, I forego wine and have a Coke instead.
I serve her first. She studies the toppings. “What are they?”
“Grilled chicken and mushrooms cooked in dry white wine and truffles.”
“Fancy for a pizza.”
“Ah, but oh so tasty,” I say. “Try it.”
She takes a small bite then moans softly. A hot streak of need spreads through me at the sound. But underneath is a simpler, baser satisfaction and warmth—it feels surprisingly right to provide for her.
“Told you,” I say, not wanting to dwell on the squirmy emotion for too long. I start on a piece. All I had was a roast beef sandwich for lunch, and I’m starving.
“Why aren’t you in the restaurant business like your cousin Mark?” she asks.
“Because I’m not interested in it.” I grin at her surprised face. “Funny, isn’t it? Mark’s a successful restaurateur but can’t cook for shit, and I have zero interest in restaurants even though I’m freakin’ awesome.”
She shakes her head. “I want to complain about your ego, but…not while I’m eating this.” She takes another bite and closes her eyes, savoring it. “This is seriously gourmet. I doubt this was your first time making it.” She peers at me. “Or was it?”
“Nah, I’ve made it before. Do it from scratch each time.”
“When do you have the time? You’re always so busy.”
“At night, mostly, when I can’t fall asleep. I go to the kitchen and make pizza or pasta.”
“You make pasta from scratch too?”
I laugh. “I don’t make the noodles. And sometimes, you know, I just bake cookies if I’m feeling lazy. Then eat ‘em while I watch a movie.”
“Cookies, huh?” She looks at me, her eyes soft. “Comfort food?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I crave them from time to time too, except I never make them myself.”
“Why not?”
“They’re Mom’s cookies. If I made them, they wouldn’t be the same.” A faraway look enters her eyes for a moment, then clears. “I can’t see Geraldine baking. So I can see you making your own.”
She’s right. Mom’s never cooked. I don’t think she knows how to boil water, really. If there’s ever an apocalypse, she’ll be the first one dead from sheer inability to take care of her most basic needs.
I bite into my pizza and take a moment to collect myself. “Grandpa used to cook for us when we spent summers with him. So.” I shrug. Grandpa taught me because I hung out in the kitchen, wanting to spend every second with him. As I became better, he shared more of his recipes with me, and I loved that I had that part of him all to myself. I was like a puppy back then, starved for affection. “I like cooking,” I say. “It’s methodical and simple. I have to follow a recipe, but it’s not always set in stone. I can experiment a little, too.”
She takes another big slice and looks out over the ocean. “I’m glad you brought me here.”
“Where did you think the car was taking you?”
“I don’t know. Éternité?”
Éternité’s one of Mark’s restaurants, and it’s so saccharine romantic, it’s painful. He dedicated it to his fiancée Hilary. “Have you ever been there?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No…but I like this better. It’s relaxing. Just you and me. I know we’re putting on a show, but I feel like it isn’t like that when we’re out here.” Sudden flush heats her face. “Not, you know, that I’m forgetting the reason that we’re doing it or anything.”
I smile. “Don’t worry.”