The morning was magnificent. Dani and Emily had all their windows open and the cold morning air streamed through a house that would soon be full of people and the heat of cooking. I went outside to build the coals that the ducks would roast over in their grill. While I was out there I poured the brine out of the cooler with the turkey in it into their compost.
When I carried the bird and cooler in, Gimli—their enormous orange cat—met me at the door, being suspiciously affectionate.
“Not for you, big guy.”
The look he gave me, and the yawning display of his teeth, was meant to make me reconsider my haste and my error. It didn’t work, so he trotted off in search of an easier con.
Gen, to her credit, immediately pitched in to help wherever she could. With her sweater off and her sleeves rolled up, an apron on, arms plunged into the sink to wash dishes we’d need again soon, she was no less beautiful than she’d been picking me up, or on our first date.
“You’ve got it bad,” Dani murmured out of the side of her mouth, as she passed by me with a stack of small plates, having caught me staring at my own date.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “You blame me?”
“Nope.”
By the time I could sit down with a hunk of bread and a too-thick double spoonful of honey butter to swipe it across, Gen had found one of the photos on the wall and waved me over.
She pointed to it. “When was this?”
“Well, you may note from the formal attire that it was a wedding. Dani and Emily’s, in point of fact.”
“Are you wearing a kilt?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Rental.”
“Ever think about getting one?”
“I am now.”
“Good.”
She briefly ducked her head against my shoulder while I chewed. I felt like eyes were on me and I turned and found Emily, in jeans and a sweatshirt and apron, grinning madly. I blushed, finished my breakfast, and got back to work.
Behind me, I heard Emily stage whisper something about kilts. I buried myself in work, flushing furiously but also feeling something curious and unexpected. I think it was happiness.
* * *
I don’t know if I was lucky, but I got the ducks off the indirect roasting heat and the turkey out of the oven and resting within five minutes of one another. I always like working with coals and open flames but I never quite trust myself; this was probably the best work I’d ever done with it. Both ducks were covered in crisp skin, the best of all delicacies. I was carefully arranging oyster dressing around them both on a huge wooden platter when I felt a hand on my shoulder and then Gen’s chin resting on my arm.
“Why not stuff them while they cook?”
I shook my head. “An invitation to cross-contaminating at best. Like building a hotel for food poisoning at worst.”
“But the dressing gets those crunchy bits that way.”
I turned around, smiling at her, and set down my spoon and bowl of stuffing. I went to the tool bag I’d brought and removed a culinary torch, adjusted the knobs, and lit it.
“You want crunchy dressing, you got it,” I said. In truth I was very sparing with the torch—what I wanted out of my dressing was for it to be flavorful and filling and crunch wasn’t a textural goal for me. But Gen was getting what she wanted if I was cooking.
By the time the turkey had been similarly prepared for presentation, a big crowd had gathered. I knew enough of them to not feel out of place—neighbors, friends, folks who’d been involved in Dani and Emily’s wedding three and a half years ago—but being on cooking detail meant I didn’t have to spend a lot of time making small talk. It looked like Gen was holding up the side in that regard, though. From the looks on the faces of people who talked to her—many asking who she was and how she knew Dani and Emily, from the number of times I saw her gesture towards me—everybody seemed to find her as charming as I did.
Of course they did. Who wouldn’t?
With tables finally set and me and Dani having carved the various birds and the buffet lining up, Gen slid up next to me again. I put my arm around her and she did the same.
“Okay. What’s good, and what’s low carb?”
I looked down at her with my eyes wide and she laughed, took a plate from the stack, and avoided nothing.
I made room on my first plate only for duck, turkey, and stuffing—all three kinds. If I was going to eat carbs, by God I was going to eat carbs.
About halfway through that plate I snuck my phone out of my pocket and held it in my hand. I heard the sound of a throat cleared across the table from me. Emily, an eyebrow delicately arched.
Sheepishly, I tucked it back into my pocket.
I could count all the calories later.
As dinner progressed, Emily set her sights on Gen.
“Geneva,” she said. “What do you do, if I may ask?”
“I work for ADI Holdings as an assistant. It’s boring, and it doesn’t challenge me, but it pays for as much graduate school as I care to attend.”
“What’re you studying?”
“Finishing an MBA, thinking about law school.”
Emily nodded, clearly impressed.
After that, the questioning of Gen seemed mostly to cease. No one pestered us about how we’d met. There was no cross-examination. Dani and Emily had invited me; I’d invited Gen. That’s all anyone there needed to know and they were satisfied with it.
I ate whatever I wanted. After my third glass of Pumking I let go of counting calories. I still didn’t eat any dessert; not because I was hanging on to my usual habits, but because I didn’t have much of a taste for it anymore.
It was the best meal I’d had all year. It always was.