One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) (11 page)

When he’d started at the academy, she’d made a point of letting him know he could email her after hours but she didn’t want any other form of communication. “I don’t have your personal number, remember?”

She emptied the contents of the bags onto the counter. “We can remedy that easily. Remind me before you leave.”

Simon resisted the urge to grab his phone and add her number at the very moment. “I will.”

For a few minutes, they busied themselves sorting the ingredients into categories.

Isabel handed him a black apron with a border of red hearts. “This is the manliest apron I own.”

Simon took it from her and tied it on. “Not a problem.”

“The first thing you need to do is brown the beef.” She placed a wide sauté pan on the stove.

He peeled back the butcher paper and dumped the beef in the pan.

“There’s another singles’ activity tomorrow. Are you coming?” Simon stirred the beef.

“I don’t think so. The whole premise behind these activities sounds suspicious to me.” She leaned against the counter for a moment. “Everybody there has ulterior motives.”

“They’re not so bad. And sometimes it’s fun to meet new people.”

Isabel laughed. “If you could see your face as you said that. I’m sure you have the same expression when you’re telling someone about going to the dentist.” She lowered the pitch of her voice. “Oh, it’s not so bad getting my teeth pulled.”

“I sound nothing like that.” Her impression wasn’t very good and Simon smiled. It was impossible to keep a straight face when she was teasing him and looking so adorable doing so. “I don’t even have a British accent.”

Isabel placed a package of spaghetti on the counter. “You don’t sound like a Yankee either. How does an American end up in England anyway?” She eyed the onion on the cutting board. “Don’t stop chopping. You can chop and talk at the same time, you know.”

“Yes, Chef.” He chopped too slowly, but Isabel waited until he was done.

She showed him how to smash a few garlic heads which he added to the same large pan with the onions and olive oil. “Okay, pay attention now. This is called a
refogado
. It’s the base for most stews, soups, rice, anything else considered good cooking.” She gave it a quick stir and then handed the wooden spoon to him. “Don’t let the onions burn, we just want them to sweat.”

“Which is…” Simon took the spoon and stirred.

“We only want the onions cooked through and translucent without crisping the garlic. Then you can add the browned beef.”

Simon poured the beef in the pan. “This is a lot to keep up with.”

“You’re fine, Simon Ackerley.” She handed him the can of tomatoes. “Stop overthinking it. Cooking is supposed to be intuitive.”

He added the tomatoes to the pan. “Why the canned tomatoes instead of the fresh ones?”

“This time of year, the fresh tomatoes are from a hothouse and they lack flavor. So tell me, how did you end up in England?” She repeated the question.

“My father is English and he met my mother at BYU.” He looked at her. “That’s one of the church-owned universities, named after the prophet Brigham Young. It’s located in Provo, Utah.” Simon paused, as his mind went through the photos in the big album that sat in the library at home, the ones Mom had patiently told him about over and over when he was little. “After my mom died, Dad decided to return to London.”

“So is it just you and your dad? Do you have any siblings?” she asked.

“No siblings. My mom said I was her miracle baby.” Simon gave the pan a stir. “Mom was an only child and Dad has a brother just outside of London, so it just made sense to move.”

“Was it very hard?” Isabel asked.

Very hard? How could he tell her about it? About the people he didn’t understand despite knowing they spoke the same language he did, the strange food and stranger habits? Or the kids who whispered behind his back? And all of it while missing his mom, and knowing he probably wouldn’t go back to Utah for a long, long time, if ever.

He shrugged. “It could have been worse. I got through it eventually.”

“There you go, being all optimistic about it. Even so, it must have been difficult for you.” She glanced at him as she went through the spices in the cabinet. “How about school? How did you manage that?”

He winced a little. “School proved harder than we’d thought. We moved in the middle of the school year so I finished those few months at home and then started the ninth grade in the fall instead of moving up to the tenth.”

“As if you didn’t have enough going on.” She handed him a small jar of dried oregano. “I hope at least you made some new friends.”

Simon nodded. “I was lucky I did.” Blessed, really. “I met a friend in ninth grade and that helped me a lot, to have someone to talk to.” The best friend he ever had.

Isabel held his gaze for a little while, and the understanding in her eyes almost matched all the things he wished he could tell her. “Come on, it’s time to make the salad.” She brightened. “You have made salad before, right?”

“I’m going to assume you mean something more than opening a bag of pre-washed lettuce and greens?”

She rolled her eyes. “Simon Ackerley, how did you get to the ripe old age of thirty without knowing how to prepare a salad?”

Isabel also showed him how to cook and drain the spaghetti, to which he added the meat and sauce in a serving bowl. She had set the table earlier and as she approached the chair to sit, Simon held it out for her. He paused for a moment, staring at the back of her neck and the unobstructed view of the trail of stars imprinted there. His fingers itched to reach and touch the graceful curve, and he patted the sides of the chair instead.

Isabel turned around to face him. “What’s the matter?”

“Your tattoo. What does it mean?”

She brushed at it. “It’s an interpretation of the north star. Stars, I should say. It has a tail. Just a reminder to look up and find my direction. Avó Marta said something to me once and it gave me the idea.” She pulled her hands down to her lap. “You don’t like it?”

“No, nothing like that.” He liked it too much, and had the urge to bend down and kiss her there. He rounded the table and took a seat. “I think it’s pretty.”

He offered to say the blessing on the food and Isabel bowed her head. When he finished, she prompted him to take a forkful.

The flavors amazed him. “Wow, this is really good,” he said. “What do you call this dish?”

“It’s like a Portuguese version of spaghetti a la Bolognese, and you’ll find as many versions as there are cooks, since everyone likes to add their own touch. As you get more confident, you’ll start doing the same.”

“I’m not sure I’m brave enough for that.”

“Of course you are.” Isabel smiled wide. “Didn’t I say you could cook?”

“Only because of you.” The tone of his voice surprised him.

Could she feel it, this sense of gratitude that washed over him, the warmth that infused his chest? Whatever he’d accomplished tonight was thanks to her. Simon put down his fork and reached for her left hand. The moment his fingers touched her skin, the contact electrified him. It shot up his arm and straight to his chest. His hand rested on hers, and he didn’t know what to do next. Other than some brief handshakes, he’d hadn’t touched her. Only this was no ordinary touch.

Isabel stilled, her eyes wide. The fork lay forgotten at the edge of the plate. The smile on her lips wavered a bit, but she didn’t move her hand.

She had felt it. Whatever this was between them, she had felt it too.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Isabel turned in bed. The chink of light through the window tiptoed across the opposite wall. Mornings were lazy coming in as winter approached. Was it Friday or Saturday?

The memories from Friday night rushed in. Simon in the kitchen. Simon cooking dinner. Simon laughing and listening to her. They’d talked and they’d had fun and they’d worked together.

And then he’d touched her.

Simon had touched her hand, and she’d almost jumped in her seat. How could something so simple carry so much heat, so much meaning? Just the memory of his hand on top of hers raised gooseflesh up her arm. Her cheeks heated and Isabel blew out a slow breath.

She hadn’t expected this connection to Simon. The invitation to cook with her at the apartment had come almost as a challenge. When he’d hesitated, Isabel hid the disappointment quickly. But he’d changed his mind, and she was glad for it.

Why couldn’t their relationship be this easy at work? She wasn’t proud of the cold way she treated him at the academy. He was only doing his job, which was making things better for the faculty and students. But somehow she was unable to lower her defenses and it usually ended up showing in her behavior or in her words.

Church, on the other hand, was the neutral ground, the place where they treated each other as if nothing ever happened at work to put them at odds with each other. In the beginning, she hadn’t wanted to sit by him, as not to give the wrong impression—to whom, she really didn’t know, but that didn’t matter anymore. They were some sort of friends, right? Friends could sit by each other without people assuming there was more to it, couldn’t they? Not that anyone noticed her. Simon was an attractive man of marriageable age, and the girls in the ward knew it, even the ones too young to be contenders for his dating pool. And with the russet hair and green eyes of his, with the way he cut a figure in the well-tailored dark gray suit, Simon stood out, whether he meant to or not.

Isabel didn’t want the fragile relationship between them to become more complicated. He’d felt the connection between them when their hands met. He’d sucked in his breath and his eyes had widened. She’d feared he’d bring it up later, but he hadn’t.

Instead, Isabel had agreed to accompany him to the singles’ activity. A misplaced sense of duty, something she was not ready to fully analyze. Friends did things with friends. It was as simple as that.

How awkward was it going to be when they saw each other? Isabel took a breath and chided herself. She was overthinking it.

By the time Simon rang the bell, she had changed outfits three times. Not that it mattered. She was only going out with a friend.

Deep breath.

She swung the door open and Simon greeted her with a wide smile. Isabel grabbed the door jamb. It wasn’t fair the way her heart sped up a little at that smile, at the sight of the man in front of her.

Only friends. Nothing more than friends.

“You look great, Isabel,” he said.

“Thank you.” Simon did too but she couldn’t get the words out. The dark jeans, the brown blazer and a rust colored sweater gave him a casual look he didn’t wear too often, and Isabel liked it.

When they reached the street outside, Simon gestured toward his car parked close by. “Are you sure you don’t want to drive there?”

Isabel had argued the benefits of taking the Metro instead. “No, let’s leave your car here. I’ll show you how fun the Lisbon underground can be.”

The afternoon was warm for the season, a late summer kind of day instead of late fall, with a soft breeze blowing in from the river and playing with the brightly colored leaves on the sidewalks. Isabel guided Simon in and out of underground stations, surfacing at streets where she could show him something typical and picturesque of the city. It was the kind of day to be spent outside, not at some church with a bunch of other singles. Maybe she could convince Simon to do something else, instead.

They walked from the last station, just around the corner from the building where the activity was scheduled.

Isabel checked the time. It had started twenty minutes ago. “I think I made us late. I’m sorry.”

Simon looked in her direction. “Don’t be. That was the most fun underground ride I’ve taken in ages.”

When they arrived at the main door, Isabel stopped and turned to Simon. “Do you know what the activity is today?”

“I don’t, but I guess we’re about to find out.”

A few people stood in the foyer in small groups. They turned to look at Simon and Isabel. Why had she come at all?

Simon stepped closer to her. His arm brushed hers and he took her hand. A rush of heat crept up Isabel’s neck and her breath stopped short. She looked up at him and he squeezed her fingers gently, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

He leaned in her direction and lowered his voice. “Let’s see how this goes.”

She nodded, unable to think of a reply as she tried to deal with the reaction to his proximity. What did he mean by it? Did he want people to think they were together? Technically, they were since they’d come together. But that was only it, wasn’t it?

Simon led them down the hallway and toward the noise where it sounded like most people had congregated. They stopped at the open door to a large room similar to the one in the building where she went to church. What did they call it, the all-purpose room?

Men and women gathered in groups on white mats with large, colored dots. Some stood in precarious positions, some holding onto each other, laughing and falling back down.