One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) (9 page)

This was not happening. Isabel took a deep breath. “He’s after my job, you know that. That pretty much makes him my enemy.” Maybe enemy was a strong word but that didn’t mean he had to come over.

They stopped when the bell rang a second time. Isabel leaned against the peephole. The red hair. It was him, indeed.

Cristina glared at her. “Well, he’s on the other side of this door. If you don’t want him here, you tell him that.” Then she walked toward the living room.

At least he didn’t speak Portuguese, or he would have heard the whole conversation. He wasn’t even inside yet and already it was awkward.

She unlocked the door and opened it. “Mr. Ackerley.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I mean, Simon. Hi.” She brightened her voice, hopefully not so much that it sounded fake. “Sorry for the wait.”

He still wore the caramel pants, but his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he’d lost the necktie. How was it possible that he looked even better than earlier in the day? His hair was styled messily, like he’d raked his fingers through it too many times, which worked well for him. Isabel clung to the side of the door.

Simon Ackerley in her home. Too bad she’d given up alcoholic drinks or a glass of white wine would have been great. Liquid courage and all that.

He smiled at her. “You did know I was coming, right? Cristina Fonseca invited me over.”

Isabel returned the smile. How could she not? It was the first time she saw something akin to insecurity in his eyes. She knew the feeling all too well. “Yes, of course. Come on in, we’re just getting started.”

He followed her to the kitchen.

“You already know Cristina and that’s her boyfriend, Armando.”

Cristina stood at the counter, separating the sliced onions into rings, and Armando waved from the sofa.

Simon help a hand up to them. Then he turned to Isabel and handed her a box. “Here, you might want to put this in the freezer for later.”

Isabel took it from him and put it away. “You didn’t have to, but thank you.” She took over from Cristina and finished arranging the rest of the toppings for the first pizza.

Cristina washed her hands at the sink. “My boyfriend’s English is not very good, so I’m sorry if we seem to exclude you from our conversations. We’re not being rude on purpose.” She walked to the sofa and sat next to him.

Simon smiled. “It’s fine, don’t worry about me. I never say no to a home-cooked meal, so I hope you don’t mind me coming.”

Cristina cocked her head at Isabel and gave her pointed a look. Even without words, Isabel knew what she was trying to convey from across the room. Isabel wanted to roll her eyes. Yes, he was nervous, she could see that herself. And no, he wasn’t that adorable. Puppies were adorable, not grown men with messy red hair.

Isabel worked on the pizzas. After a moment, Simon took the stool and sat by the counter. “So I’m guessing you got your oven repaired.”

The timer beeped, and Isabel carefully transferred the pizzas onto the hot surface, side by side but with room to expand. She closed the oven and turned back to the counter. He remembered their conversation at the academy’s kitchen. “Yes, I was beginning to have withdrawals.”

He leaned his elbows on the granite surface and glanced at the pizzas. “Not pepperoni?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but pepperoni is not on the menu tonight.”

“I’m curious, but definitely not disappointed.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips.

He had a large mouth with full lips. On anyone else it would have looked out of proportion, but not on his face. It fit well with the straight nose, the green eyes, and the myriad freckles. She looked down at his arms. Strong arms with the russet hair and more freckles.

Simon cleared his throat and Isabel grabbed a bowl from the counter. He’d caught her staring at him. Again. He was supposed to be the one feeling uncomfortable, not her.

“What kind of pizzas are you making?” he asked.

The pizzas. Right.

Isabel turned the water on the dishes in the sink and cleaned the granite counter surface. “Three different ones. A spicy honey caramelized onion with Portuguese cured ham, fresh cheese and arugula on a traditional crust. The second one is shrimp, olives, and mango on a whole wheat crust, and the last one is a simple version of the classic margherita with fresh mozzarella, basil, and purple heirloom tomatoes.”

It was his turn to stare back. “You had me at caramelized onions. Wow.”

Isabel shrugged. “Don’t be impressed yet. A couple of them are experiments and I’m trying out a white garlic sauce instead of a traditional tomato sauce for the base.” She knew better than trying experiments on dinner guests, but she hadn’t had the time to test the recipes first.

“You’re amazing, you know that? You run a private school by day and make artisan pizzas at night.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Like I said, super powers.”

Her cheeks heated. Darn compliments. She did not have any super powers. Isabel grabbed the edge of her apron and fanned the air around her. “Excuse me, could you open that door to the balcony behind you? It’s getting a little hot in here with the oven on.”

It was only the oven working too well, nothing else.

* * *

Simon opened the glass sliding door and the breeze blew the curtains. Isabel’s cheeks were flushed but whether it was the oven or his compliment he couldn’t tell. He’d noticed how she always blushed when he complimented her.

She’d changed from the conservative pantsuit and sensible heels she wore at the academy into cropped skinny jeans and bare feet. Her T-shirt was light blue with white letters proclaiming
It’s a kale thing
, and at her waist she wore a ruffled apron in a floral print.

Isabel Antunes was a contradiction, a very interesting, very attractive one. The more he got to know her, the more he wanted to become her friend. Not a casual friend but a true one. She didn’t trust easily and he understood why. Their relationship at work was delicate, even though he had no intention of taking her job. As he’d suspected, her friend had extended the invitation without telling her. Even if he didn’t understand Portuguese, he’d heard his name through the door to know that she was surprised to find out he’d come, but she’d covered it well when she’d let him in. His presence tonight was an attempt at forming a friendship with her. Simon had taken a risk in coming, but how could he pass up the opportunity to see her outside of the academy?

The kitchen opened to the living room through a double-wide doorless opening. On the sofa, Cristina and her boyfriend sat too cozily in front of the TV, a bit too close for Simon’s comfort. A tall bookshelf displayed tightly packed books and small frames with photos on the opposite wall, and he approached to peruse the book spines. When he found a Portuguese edition of Sherlock Holmes, Simon pulled the first volume out and held it out to her. “Are you a Sherlock fan?”

Isabel looked up from her task. “A friend of mine recommended it.”

“I grew up reading these stories.”

She paused to look at him. Her eyebrows wrinkled, but she didn’t reply.

Simon turned to replace the book on the shelf and hide a grin from her. He hadn’t planned the slip up about something Elliot had told her, but maybe he could start dropping little hints.

He went to help Isabel set the table placed between the counter and the sofa. “You didn’t come to the singles’ activity and I didn’t see you at church.”

She arched an eyebrow, and he had to agree. His words hadn’t come out as casually as he’d intended.

“Just curious, that’s all,” he added. She was still a new member, and he had to keep that in mind.

She turned off the oven. “I was at church. For a bit. But on Saturday I had to wash my hair.”

He eyed her shoulder length hair. “How long can it really take?”

“I bet you don’t know about deep conditioning treatments, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I do it once a month. The tap water in London is very hard.” He kept a straight face.

Her lips twitched. “Then you know what a time commitment it is. We have the same problem in Lisbon.”

Cristina stood from the sofa and gestured toward the television. She said something in Portuguese and motioned them to come closer. Simon walked to the sofa. It looked like an ad for a cooking show of some kind.

Isabel shook her head and replied to Cristina, but Cristina pulled at Isabel’s hand until she sat between her and the boyfriend.

“Sorry for the drama. Cristina thinks I should enter this,” Isabel said to him. When the ad was over, she returned to the kitchen.

Cristina turned to Simon. “Don’t you think she should enter the competition?” She walked in the same direction. “You’d kill it, Isabel.”

Isabel removed the pizzas from the oven and set them on the counter.

“What kind of competition is it?” Simon asked.

“It’s an amateur chef competition,” Isabel replied. “There’s a preliminary audition and if you pass that, you go on the live TV show for two rounds. The first round starts out with twenty contestants who are voted off by viewers, and in the last round the four remaining contestants go face to face in front of a panel of professional chefs, food critics, and celebrities.” She held a pizza wheel in her right hand. “As you see, no pressure at all.”

Isabel called everyone to the table and he found himself seated across from her, the girls on one side and the guys on the other. In the center of the table, the pizzas were cut in squares and arranged on long rectangular white platters. A row of small white bowls with different colored sauces sat in between.

Simon waited. Would Isabel ask someone to say a blessing on the food? Next to him, Cristina’s boyfriend helped himself to the different pizzas and Cristina followed suit. Isabel caught Simon’s eye and gave a small shrug. Her expression was soft and apologetic, and Simon nodded back at her in understanding.

When Cristina’s boyfriend tried to fill Simon’s glass from the bottle of white wine, Isabel and Simon reached over to cover the glass.

“He doesn’t drink,” Isabel said.

“I don’t drink,” Simon said at the same time.

The guy withdrew the bottle and Cristina looked between Isabel and Simon. “You don’t drink at all? Are you one of those Mormons like Isabel?”

Isabel blushed. “What if he is? What’s wrong with that?”

Cristina turned to Simon again. “For real?” He nodded and she went on. “There’s nothing wrong, of course. It’s just kind of funny that I’d never heard about Mormons and now I know two of them already.”

Simon eyed a bottle of something that looked like soda.

“It’s Sumol, Portuguese pineapple soda,” Isabel said to him. He poured himself a drink.

Then she gestured at the bowls. “Those are dipping sauces: lemon-chive, honey with rosemary, and yogurt dill.”

For a few minutes, they spooned the sauces onto their plates and tried the different pizzas, experimenting with combinations.

Simon slowed down and almost closed his eyes. “Wow,” he said. He looked at Isabel. “The lightness of the sauces with the texture of the crust and the rich flavors of the toppings—I don’t know what to say.”

All eyes turned to him. Isabel held his gaze and her cheeks pinked up, her eyes wide.

Cristina chuckled. “It sounds like you know what to say just fine. See now why I want Isabel to enter that competition? She’d be perfect.”

“Truly, this is incredible.” He took another bite.

“Plus, the prizes are fabulous,” Cristina went on.

Isabel shook her head.

Cristina elbowed her. “Really? Tell him what the prizes are and see what he thinks.” She pointed at Simon.

Isabel took the last piece of the arugula pizza onto her plate, then stood and placed the empty platter on the nearby counter. “The second prize is a six-month paid internship at the Tivoli resort, in southern Lisbon, across the river. They have the best chefs in the country.” She sat down and pushed the last platter onto the center of the table. “And the first prize is twenty-five thousand euros in cash plus everything you need for the start-up of your own restaurant in downtown Lisbon.”

Simon opened his mouth to reply, but Cristina’s boyfriend asked Isabel a question as he reached into his pocket. She replied, shaking her head. Then he gestured at the balcony and said something, and Isabel said no again. Whatever it was, Cristina and the guy laughed it off awkwardly. When Isabel started clearing the table, Simon took the empty plates and followed her to the kitchen.

He joined Isabel at the sink as she filled it with water and soap.

She lowered her voice. “Sorry about that. Armando wanted to smoke and I told him no.”

“And then he asked to smoke out in the balcony and you said no again,” he said to her.

Isabel nodded. “Yes, I did.” She drew her hands out of the suds and wiped them on her apron. “And it’s not just because I became Mormon, you know? Apart from all the reasons why smoking is just not good for anyone, even being next to a smoker interferes with smell and taste. And I don’t like that. Besides, all the smoke clings to the walls and furniture.”

“It’s your home; they should respect your rules.” Simon set the glasses by the sink.