Authors: Eileen Cook
“See you Monday.” Colin didn’t turn to face me as I left. It’s not that I expected a goodbye hug or anything, but it still felt strange. His door clicked shut behind me. I leaned against it for a moment. His elderly neighbor was unlocking his door, a bag of groceries in one hand, and a poodle that looked like the before ad for a hair replacement company on a leash in the other. He gave me a lecherous smile. I had the sensation that I was not the first woman he had seen leaving Colin’s apartment in yesterday’s clothing. I yanked my shirt down and strode toward the elevator. The day was already warm and the sun was too bright. I didn’t have any sunglasses with me. I cupped my hand over my brow and looked out into the street. At last something went well. I could see a cab turning down the street. I raised my arm and ran forward, away from the building.
Jonathon showed up at my door an hour later with flowers, a dozen roses, still cool from the florist’s refrigerator. The cellophane crinkled between us as we gave each other an awkward hug.
“I brought some wine too, I know it’s just past noon, but it has to be five o’clock somewhere.” Jonathon said, pulling a bottle of French merlot from a bag. My stomach did a slow roll over indicating that introduction of any alcohol was likely going to be met with violent protest.
“Super. Come on in.”
“No police waiting for me?”
“Not this time. You’re safe.”
Jonathon moved past me and into the living room. He hung his coat up and slid the wine onto the counter. He knew which drawer held the corkscrew and how if you pushed things too far back in my fridge they would freeze. I’ve never been inside his house. Granted, it would be difficult for him to give me a tour, what with his wife and kids most likely wanting some kind of explanation. I never mentioned it, but I had driven past his place a few times. His home is up in Madison Park. The houses there tended to be set back from the road, a few complete with iron gates. They were large and the yards always trimmed with military precision. The flowers lined up in straight tight lines, like high school marching bands. It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you would find a car up on blocks or pink flamingos in the yard.
“Want to watch a movie?” I asked.
“That would be great.”
I have a great collection of old romantic comedies, everything from The Thin Man series,
The Philadelphia Story
, and
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
. I picked one of my favorites,
His Girl Friday
. I put the movie in and rummaged in the kitchen for food. I pulled out a loaf of my own bread, some cheese, some grapes, and to make it a well rounded meal, some oatmeal cookies.
Jonathon had kicked off his shoes and was sitting back on the sofa.
“I love these old movies. I used to watch them with my grandparents when I was a kid.”
“They don’t make ’em like this anymore.” I placed the platter down and Jonathon dug in. I stole a few looks over at him from time to time while we watched the movie. I liked the way he laughed; it was full and rich. I felt the tension in my shoulders loosen up and sat back to enjoy the movie.
“What bakery did you go to? This bread is fantastic,” Jonathon said, taking the last piece.
“Chez Callighan.” He raised an eyebrow. “I made it.”
“You made it?” He looked down at the crust as though he were an anthropologist finding an artifact of unknown origin. “How?”
“How? They have these things called recipes, perhaps you heard of them? You know I like to cook.”
“Knowing you cook is one thing, knowing you know how to make your own bread is another. My wife can’t boil water.”
The mention of his wife stopped the conversation for a moment. There didn’t seem to be any good way for me to respond. I’d be damned if I was going jump to her defense, but mocking her inability to cook seemed rather slimy.
“Want me to teach you?”
“Seriously?”
“If you want.”
Jonathon jumped up and clapped his hands together.
“Let’s do it.”
We smiled at each other. My kitchen isn’t large, but it fits two fairly comfortably. I tied an apron on and pulled out my favorite cookbook, an old copy of
The Joy of Cooking
. Over the years I had marked notes in the margins of various recipes (too salty, good for company, tastes disgusting) and when I had found new recipes I had shoved them into the appropriate sections. The binding was cracked, and it opened fully to the bread section without any encouragement. The book had clear spots from spilled oil and crusty pages hardened flour, and egg made Braille-like bumps here and there.
I pulled various items from the fridge and pantry. Jonathon sat on the bistro stool pulled up to the island. He had been distracted by my food porn collection. I have years of issues of
Gourmet, Bon Appétit
,
and
Food and Wine
. The pages are dog-eared and various recipes are marked with Post-its. Every year I make the New Year’s resolution that this will be the year I will organize them, but it never happens. I’m almost afraid to do anything with them now; I know where everything is based on the cover.
“Listen to this one. Lamb tenderloin with rosemary and thyme, or herb-crusted beef tenderloin, or ooh look at this one, chocolate lava cake.” He flipped the pages.
“The lava cake is amazing. It’s made with cardamom and cinnamon. If you have some good French vanilla ice cream it sets it off perfectly.”
“Eating here must be like eating at a five-star restaurant.”
“It’s no fun to make it for myself. When it’s just me I usually eat a bowl of cereal.”
“How did you learn to cook anyway?”
“I always liked to cook. My mom taught me the basics, some things I picked up from trial and error. I took a few courses through the community college. They do a whole series on various ethnic foods. I make a mean lamb vindaloo.”
“I’m never going to want to leave.”
“All part of my master plan.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively. “Now come here and let me show you the miracle of yeast.”
The beauty of making bread is that it’s actually quite simple. Yeast, hot water, flour, salt, and a splash of milk. The yeast foams giving off a rich intoxicating smell. With the addition of flour it becomes dough with a wonderful tactile elastic feel. Jonathon was busy kneading the dough on the counter. He went at it with caution as if it were a tricky calculus problem. He rolled the dough in olive oil and placed it carefully in my large glass bowl so it could rise. He draped a clean towel over the top with all the care of tucking an infant into bed. He gave a satisfied snort. He had a smear of flour on his cheek. I reached up and brushed it away. He caught my hand and held it firmly.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we wait. The dough has to rise.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the bread.” He ran a finger slowly up my arm. The tiny hairs on my arm rose up to meet his touch.
“No?”
“Are you going to pretend we’re just friends? Bread buddies?”
“Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend?” I whispered softly.
“Oh, I want.” He leaned in and kissed me. His mouth pressed down hard, the palm of his hand cupping the back of my head and holding me firmly. He then bent me back further and began to kiss my neck. My breath started to come quick and fast. He smelled of flour and yeast. I knew this is where I should remind him that we weren’t going to get carried away until things were resolved with his wife, but my resolve seemed to have wandered off. He lifted me up on the counter, so that we were eye to eye.
Even though I hadn’t had any wine this afternoon, I felt intoxicated, slightly dizzy and flushed. Jonathon pulled me close so that I was perched on the edge of the counter pressing against him. My elbow hit the flour bag and sent it spinning to the floor. It hit and a shower of flour exploded upward. I gave a soft moan and then heard something.
“Wait a second.”
“Oh, Erin,” Jonathon groaned. “You are so beautiful.” He mumbled into my hair. There it was, that sound again. I looked over his shoulder to see if the TV was on in the other room. Then the sound again. It was the front door.
“Someone’s here.”
“Ignore them.” He continued kissing my neck. The knocking got louder.
“I need to get that.” I pressed my hand to his chest to create space. Jonathon stood back and I hopped off the counter. The floor was coated in a fine dusting of flour which clung to our clothes. We looked like extras from a Three Stooges movie. I gave my shirt a tug trying to pull on a bit of respectability.
Someone pounded on the door again. I opened the door to find Diana standing there. Her eyes were wide and she was shaking. Her hair hung down, she was wet as if she had been standing in the rain and her hands were caked with dirt. Jonathon was standing behind me and strode up quickly shutting the door in Diana’s face.
“Jesus, who was that? How did that homeless girl get into your building?”
“I know her, she’s not homeless.” I pushed Jonathon gently aside and opened the door again. “Diana, what’s wrong?”
Jonathon gave her a closer look.
“Hey, it’s you. The girl who breaks in. Nice of you to knock this time.”
“Not now,” I said to Jonathon. He crossed his arms and looked away. “Diana, is everything okay?”
“Something’s wrong with Rooster.” She wrung her hands together and a few tears gathered in the corner of her eyes. I touched her arm softly; she looked like she might fly apart.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. I think he ate something bad. Really bad. He laid down and won’t get up. He’s panting. I brought him water and he won’t drink. I don’t know what to do.”
“Rooster needs a vet. You need to take him right now.”
“I don’t have any money,” Diana wailed.
Of course she had no money. What had I been thinking?
“It’s okay. I’ll pay. Let’s go get him right now. There’s an emergency vet clinic on Fourth. They’ll be open.” I bent down and grabbed my handbag.
“How are we going to get him there? He won’t move.”
I paused. The odds of getting a cab that would take a sick dog, me and a girl who looked homeless were slim. I looked at Jonathon. He closed his eyes briefly.
“You want me to put the dog in my car? It’s a Lexus.”
“She’s a friend. I left my car at the office yesterday or I’d take him in mine.”
Jonathon gave a sigh and got his shoes. We followed Diana outside. Rooster was lying in the alley. Diana had him on a torn blanket. At one point the blanket must have been in a child’s bedroom because it was covered with a Disney princess theme. Rooster lay on his side, giving shallow pants.
Jonathon pulled his car up next to the alley and Diana carefully picked up Rooster, bundling him into the blanket. She gave an
oof
as she lifted, shifting his weight. For a tiny girl she was strong. She slid Rooster into the back of the car. He was a big dog and took up most of the seat.
“Diana, you sit up front. I’ll sit with the dog.”