Sam Woods didn’t typically cook test meals in potential clients’ homes. But Savannah Shipley had been both insistent and charming, and so, here he was on a Wednesday afternoon, outside a lovely old brownstone. A family home. Sam felt an unfamiliar pang of envy as he pressed the doorbell.
The door was answered by a woman in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt. Unsmiling, but not unattractive. Liv Goldenhorn, presumably. She was about the same age he was, maybe a pinch younger, which was a relief: clients in their twenties and thirties tended to be too demanding or too indecisive. Her gaze flicked to the bags of groceries at his feet.
“Kitchen’s straight through, do you mind?”
He went to explain he wasn’t a delivery man, he was the chef she’d been expecting, but Liv had already disappeared up the stairs. So Sam picked up his grocery bags and did as he was told. He walked down a hallway lined with art, past a wooden staircase curling up, and into an open-plan kitchen and dining room. Certainly, the brownstone was a cozy home, exuding a familial, artsy charm; a fridge papered with school artwork, a dining room table scattered with books and unopened bills, a fruit basket piled with overripe apples and bananas. But it was also a mess. The sink was heaped with dishes. The recycling bin was overflowing. Marie Kondo would have a fit.
“H-hello? Liv?” Silence but for the faint patter of a shower. Savannah Shipley promised she’d be there. He set down the bags and moved toward the patio doors to send her a text. The overgrown backyard was dominated by a fifty-foot weeping willow. It was, sadly, dying. Several of its beefy limbs were already deadwood. The whole thing needed to be chopped down.
The text to Savannah didn’t deliver.
Unsure what else to do, Sam started unpacking the groceries. There was barely enough room on the countertops, so he tossed the oil-slick take-out containers in the trash, wiped down the bench, emptied the dishwasher, and filled it up again. After locating an apron (brand-new and floral), he began chopping onions.
Ah, the noble onion. As reliable and ubiquitous as the faithful hound. Cooking onions actually diminished their bold taste but increased the flavor of the food around them, which Sam felt was generous. With deft, methodical fingers, he peeled his first onion, sliced it lengthwise, and placed it in the center of the chopping board. Then, angling the knife, which he noted was a little blunt, he made five even slices horizontally, cutting back toward the end, then sliced vertically. The result was a small white mound of perfectly diced onion. Cooking relaxed Sam, sending his body and brain into a meditative state. When things got bad, and they had gotten bad, the kitchen was where he felt safe.
He diced the rest of the onions and had all but forgotten about the earlier misunderstanding when Liv hurried back in, tightening a dressing gown. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her post-shower skin was pink and moist. She had a lovely complexion, alabaster and luminous.
Liv saw him. Stopped dead. Choked in a panicked, guttural gasp.
Shit. “Oh,” he rushed, “I’m not actually—”
Her gaze flashed to his hand.
He was holding the knife he was using for the onions. “No, I’m not—”
Liv rocketed to the dining room table, scrambling for a weapon, which turned out to be… a banana. “Stay back or I’ll scream.”
He flung the knife in the sink. “No, I’m Sam, I’m Sam—”
“I don’t care who you are! I’ll put you in jail, motherfucker!”
“Liv, Liv, Liv, I’m Sam, Sam Woods—”
“How do you know my name?” Liv brandished the banana again, but the gesture had become a distracted inquiry, as if trying to pinpoint why he was wearing a flowery apron.
Sam spoke slowly and clearly. “Savannah Shipley, who I believe runs a wedding-planning business with you, organized for me to come do a test meal. I’m Sam. I’m a caterer.”
The banana thumped onto the table. “You’re Sam.”
“Yes! Yes, I’m Sam.” He gestured at the front door. “I think you thought I was from the grocery store, but then you went upstairs and—”
“Right, right. That explains the apron. God almighty, I almost lost my mind.”
“Me too,” said Sam.
Their fright went out of them in a huff of laughter.
Liv twisted the towel off her damp hair and dropped it over the back of a dining room chair. “Look, I appreciate you coming over and Jamie Oliver–ing my kitchen. But I don’t think this will work out.”
It felt like cutting open a perfectly ripe avocado to find it brown and smelly inside. “That’s a shame.”
The front door opened. “Mom?”
Liv’s entire face lit up. “In here!”
Oh, Sam realized. She’s really pretty.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. A young boy ran in and threw himself on Liv in a hug.
She hugged him back in the way only a mom did. “Hey, baby. How was school?”
“Good,” replied the boy. He looked to be about seven or eight.
Liv asked him something about how a carpool went: he must’ve been dropped off by one of the other parents. It didn’t feel like there was a father in the picture. The house, the boy, the woman, were all absent of a spouse, somehow. Divorce? Divorcing? Or maybe something worse. That would explain the kitchen.
The kid went on. “We did an experiment with eggshells to see how soda stains teeth and wears down enamel.”
“Whoa!” Liv poked him in the side. “Did it make you want to drink less soda?”
“Nope,” he said, before noticing Sam, and becoming shy.
“Ben, honey, this is Sam. A… friend.”
“Hey Ben.” Sam bent down to Ben’s level. “I like your backpack. Is that Spider-Man?”
Ben nodded, his eyes on the ground.
“I have a question,” Sam said. “Who would win in a battle between Superman and Spider-Man?”
“Superman.”
“Really?” Sam was intrigued. “Then why isn’t he on your backpack?”
“Well, Superman is stronger but Spider-Man’s funnier and more, um, relatable.” Now Ben was looking at Sam. “He was just a regular kid.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” Sam said.
“I’m intellectually curious,” replied Ben.
Sam grinned. Liv was smiling too, proud and pretending not to be.
Ben wandered into the kitchen, taking in the groceries. “What are you doing?”
Sam rose to his feet. “Well, you know how your mom plans weddings?”
Ben nodded.
“I’m a cook. I make food for weddings. And I’m here to audition for your mom. You know what an audition is?”
Ben shook his head. A small smile edged his mouth.
One of those kids who loved learning. Like Dottie. Dottie loved learning new things, too. “It’s like a test. A trial. If your mom likes what I cook, she might hire me.” Sam and Liv traded smiles, easy as an underarm lob.
Ben rocked back and forth on his toes. “What are you going to make?”
Sam looked to Liv. She shrugged, then nodded. Permission granted.
“Zucchini lasagna, fresh pea risotto, and a few appetizers,” Sam said. “Vegetarian, gluten-free, one hundred percent organic, and yummy. Wanna help me?”
“Can I, Mom?”
A micro expression of surprise flashed over her face before Liv replaced it with something more neutral. “As long as you don’t chop your fingers off.”
“Don’t worry, I am an expert in not chopping off fingers.” It’d been a while since Sam had met someone he found interesting. Liv was interesting. Her gaze brought a little flush to the back of his neck. Maybe she was in the same sort of situation he was in. “All right Big Ben, I am going to show you how to shuck peas.”