Morning Glory(22)

I slice the bread, prepare a quick vinaigrette to drizzle over the chopped romaine, then squeeze a lemon wedge over the chicken in the pan and sprinkle it with chopped garlic, the way James used to. Finally, I uncork the wine and pour a splash into the pan, breathing in the intoxicating scent.

“Hi, my love,” I hear him say. No one ever called me that before him. It was the Italian in him. The romantic. My Romeo.

“I miss you,” I say. My words reverberate in the lonely space in the kitchen.

“I want you to be happy,” he says.

“But I can’t,” I say. “Not without you.”

He shakes his head. “You have to try.”

“I don’t know if I can, James,” I say.

“Do it for me?”

I wipe away a tear and carry my plate of chicken, salad, and a slice of crusty bread out to the deck. It’s after six, and though the breeze is light, there are still a few sailboats inching along the lake with sails puffed out. I take a bite and notice Alex paddle up to his dock in a green kayak. “Hi,” he says, climbing out onto the deck as his eyes meet mine. He’s wearing jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a gray baseball cap.

“Hi,” I reply.

“I take it you haven’t burned the place down yet,” he says with a grin.

I hold up my plate and smile. “Success.”

He nods. “Whatever it is, it smells amazing.”

I shrug. “Just chicken. Nothing fancy.”

“Well, it sounds better than takeout.”

I think of the extra chicken breast in the pan, the bread on the cutting board, and the bowl full of salad I’ll never eat. “Why don’t you come over?” I say suddenly, hardly recognizing my own voice.

He sets his oar in the kayak and his smile widens. “Really?”

“Sure,” I say. “But full disclaimer: It’s nothing cookbook-worthy.”

“That’s the best kind,” he says. “I’ll just get my camera, then.”

He returns from the houseboat with his camera strapped around his shoulder, then climbs into the kayak again to paddle toward my dock. “Hi,” he says a moment later. I watch as he climbs out onto the deck and ties the kayak to a cleat, then he takes his hat off, holds it to his chest, and bows. “Thank you.”

I can’t help but laugh at the dramatic gesture. “For what?”

“For saving me from Thai food.”

“Oh, but I love Thai food.”

“So do I,” he says. “But after fifty-six consecutive nights of green curry and spring rolls, well, you know.”

“Come on,” I say, standing up. “Let me make you a plate.”

He follows me inside to the kitchen, and I dish up his dinner. I set it on the bar, and he immediately whips out his camera. “Do you have a cloth or a piece of fabric? Something for a background?”

“I really don’t think this dinner is photo-worthy.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is. Look at the gloss on the chicken.” I don’t tell him it’s one of the few things I know how to cook.

I pull out a striped dishcloth from a drawer near the sink. “Will this work?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking into the viewfinder. The flash goes off once, then twice. He slips off his shoes and climbs onto the counter. I can’t help but notice how his biceps move as he lifts the camera and then positions it over the plate. One more flash, then another. “There,” he says, jumping down beside me. His arm brushes mine as he keys through the images stored on his camera. “See?” he continues, pointing to the image, which looks one hundred times more appetizing than the dish I made.

“Wow,” I say, astonished.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, grinning. “And I didn’t even have a food stylist.” He leans in and whispers mockingly, “They’re a fussy lot.”

He leans over the bar, slices into the chicken, and takes a bite. “Good,” he says, covering his mouth.

I smile. “Well, anything would taste good after a thousand days of takeout.”

“No,” he says, with sincerity in his eyes, “you’re a great cook.”

I nod and find another wineglass in the cupboard. “Can I pour you some white?”

“No thanks,” he says. “I don’t drink.”

We make small talk as he finishes his dinner, then I refill my wineglass and we sit on the sofa overlooking the lake.

“I found your book,” I say. “The barbecue one.”

He nods. “What did you think?”

“It looks great. James Beard award—very impressive.”

He shrugs. “I gained fifteen pounds shooting that book.”