“Say no more,” he replied with a shrug. “Just glad to be of assistance, I guess.”
“Not going to charge me extra for that, are you?” I asked as I squeezed by him and went into the kitchen.
“I'll talk to Peter about it,” he said easily, “but I don't think it'll be an issue. Now, if I have to to dinner duty, also, that might be an issue.”
I laughed as I began to pull out the ingredients I'd need: canned tomatoes, tomato paste, some ground beef that I'd picked up a couple days before, all the seasonings you'd expect in Italian food, and some romano cheese and wine.
“Cook often?” he asked as he slinked past me, surprisingly graceful for his large size, and grabbed the coffee pot.
“A little bit,” I admitted. “Mostly just for myself, though, but occasionally for my friend Sheila.”
“Not for Karen,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes. “Karen's got certain ideas about food,” I confided, “that I can't match. She takes pictures of her meals when we go out.”
He laughed. “I'll admit, that is a little strange.”
“She's sweet, though,” I said. “And I've known her forever. She and Sheila are probably two of my only friends left in Enchanted Rock, you know.”
“Why'd you move back, then?” he asked, taking a sip of his hot coffee.
“The mountains,” I said with a smile as I tried to reach one of the pots I'd stuffed away at the top of my cabinets. I went to climb up on the counter, not even thinking about it.
Richard touched my shoulder before I could climb all the way. “I got it.” He pulled down the pot for me, just like a gentlemen, and set it aside.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling and blushing. “Can you make julienne fries, too?”
He laughed and stepped back from the stove. “Actually, I think I've completely outlived my usefulness when it comes to the kitchen.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “You just think that.” I pulled a can opener out from the drawer and slapped it in his hand. “You can work one of these, right?”
And, like that, we started dinner. All that grace and quiet confidence seemed to fade from him as soon as we got into the cooking, in earnest. But, he never was afraid to ask what was next, or what I was doing. The recipe was one my grandmother had taught me, and I knew it by heart, so I walked him through the steps as I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass.
We talked about his life in the military, but not the war itself. I didn't want to pry. One of my friends from school was a vet, one who'd seen combat, and I knew enough to not try and dredge up old feelings. But, we discussed our families, our parents. He'd lost his, while mine had run from each other, to opposite ends of the country, as soon as I was in college. It wasn't the same, but as often as I saw them, it kind of felt that way. Especially when I thought about the brave front they'd tried, and failed, to put up while I was in middle school and high school.
“Just,” I said as I tasted the sauce, “like get a divorce, alright? That's what I wanted to scream at them my freshmen year in high school, you know? Leave me out of the fights.”
He nodded, laughing a little. “Yeah, I know how you feel. I'd rather have had a single mom growing up than have all the fighting.”
I nodded, the wife starting to take hold. “Sheila and Karen, they kind of understand. They were there for the fights, but Sheila's parents love each other, and Karen's father passed away when I was at college. Mom still hasn't remarried, due to the illness, but they loved her to death, gave her whatever she wanted.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It's tough to try and find people that actually understand where you're coming from.”
“How's that pasta coming?” I asked. “I'm starving.”
He checked the time. “Almost there. Smells delicious.”
We ate supper and, after taking Eli and Wallach down to the creek for a supervised walk, called it a night. It was early, but the stress of the day had exhausted me. I laid out his bedroll on the couch, blankets and sheets and a pillow, and we said our good evenings. I had to pry Eli and Wallach away from him so they'd come to bed with me.
As I lay there in bed, listening to all the night noises that accompany a secluded cabin in the country, I couldn't get Richard out of my thoughts. I couldn't help but feel like there was something between us, some sort of connection. Did he feel the same way about me? Was he tossing and turning as he tried to sleep on my couch? Or was I just another job, identical to all the rest? Of course he wasn't like other guys I'd dated. But, maybe that had been my problem? I'd always dated the same type.
Woah there, Jessica, my mind reminded the rest of me. You're getting ahead of yourself here. You hardly even know this guy, and he's spending time with you because he's drawing a paycheck. That's not exactly the basis for a long term relationship. Besides, shouldn't you worry about other, more important things? Like who the hell is terrorizing you and forcing you to hire private security?