Washing dishes is soothing. There’s something about how methodical it is, how repetitive, that helps me come back to a less anxious side of myself. I’m still on edge from seeing my parents, and from having them compliment me on our venture. I never thought they’d be proud of this, of my being a chef, a restaurateur. The expectation of having an important job—lawyer, doctor, investment banker, that sort of thing—was always high, always pushed as the best and only option. Cooking, well, that was just for fun at home, if that.
I glance behind me. Lucy’s cleaning up the kitchen, turning off the oven, wiping down the stove and the counters, and gathering up all the leftover food, which isn’t much, thankfully. We’d guessed right. Or mostly right. There’s still enough produce left over, which means we’ll be eating frisée for a few more days at home. Or I’ll be taking it for lunch.
My stomach grumbles.
“Anything left for us?” I call out to Lucy.
“Oh yes,” she calls back. “Which do you want? I can make some more fish, or we can have the stir-fry.”
“Fish sounds great,” I call back. “With frisée, though, not the daikon?” I’ve been craving that truffle dressing all night.
“Of course.” Lucy sets the pan up on the stove and goes to chop some more ginger and green onions. I turn back to my work, sending another full tray through the dishwashing machine, and pulling out the clean tray. I gingerly grab the hot plates one after the other and stack them at the end of the counter, piles for the plates and for the bowls. Once they’ve cooled a bit more, I’ll put them back into their places.
I grab one of the trays for glasses and fill it, then stack another tray on top, filling it as well. By the time Lucy calls me for dinner, the dish area is nearly clear. I’m glad once again that we were able to find this space. It’s worth every dollar we’re paying Beatrice for the rental. I almost can’t wait to sit down with the books and figure out if we’ve made any money, or if we’ve broken even.
We take our plates into the now empty dining room and sit down at one of the vacated tables. Alice and Mama are sitting at a table near the door, chatting with Cindy.
“There you two are,” Cindy says. “Did you want any help with anything?”
I look at Lucy, who looks at me. “I think we’re good,” I say. “Just need to eat before I starve to death.” I rise from my chair and give her a hug. “You’ve been amazing. You don’t need to do anything else.”
Cindy grins and hugs me back. “I’ll head out then. See you on Monday at work.”
Work. Right. In the fuss of the last day or so, I completely put the firm out of my mind. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“We’ll head back to the farm,” Michelle says. “Leave you two to it for now. I’ll keep the porch light on.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Lucy says. After another round of hugs, Michelle and Alice leave. Lucy locks the door behind them and pulls the venetian blinds on the storefront windows. I look around at all the tables, the bits left over from the evening that we haven’t cleaned, and all the tablecloths. There’s still a lot of work to be done.
Lucy catches my gaze. “After dinner,” she says. “If I don’t eat, I’m going to fall over.”
We scarf down our food in a rather unladylike way—good thing there’s no one around to see us be so undignified. I push back my plate, setting my cutlery on top, and lean back in my chair.
“I could sleep for a week.”
“Me too,” Lucy says. “But this was brilliant. It went so well.”
“It really did.” We look at each other, the silence stretching, warm and comfortable. I’ve never felt so happy. And it’s all due to her. To us. “I love you, Lucy.”
Lucy’s cheeks flush. She clasps my hand. “I love you too, Kitty.”
The rush in my body, in my heart, warms me all over. This is how it was meant to be. Cindy was right.
* * *
We pull up outside home a fair while later than I’d planned, but Mama has indeed left the porch light on for us. Kitty and I stagger up the stairs, and I can feel the burn in my legs, the exhaustion filling me. I’ve worked long days, but there’s something about cooking and then all the cleaning that has taken it out of me more than a long day in the greenhouse. We kick off our shoes and tiptoe up the stairs in our sock feet. I’m pretty sure Mama is long asleep. She sleeps more soundly than anyone I’ve ever known.
“I need a shower,” Kitty whispers.
“Me too.”
“We won’t wake anyone?” Kitty asks.
“Unlikely,” I say, “and Mama wouldn’t mind even if she did wake up. She knows what it’s like to work in a hot, smelly kitchen.”
“Oh, good.” Kitty lets out a relieved sigh. “I could not stand going to bed. I must reek.”
“If you do, then so do I.”
I lead Kitty into the bathroom, grabbing fresh towels for both of us. Kitty shuts the door and we strip down, piling our chef’s whites on the floor. I lean in and turn on the hot water, testing it. The heavy splash of cold water on my arm raises goose bumps. Kitty rubs my back, chuckling.
“It’s warm in here,” she says.
“Not with the water,” I reply. I take my cold hand and cup her breast, and she lets out a gasp of shock.
“Lucy!” She sounds breathless, yet trying not to laugh. I take the moment to squeeze her nipple. She shifts so we’re touching from knee to chest, and I slide my arms around her, this time cupping her ass. Kitty chuckles. “Not much junk in the trunk,” she says.
“Doesn’t matter.” I squeeze her there too. “You’re just right.”
“Like Goldilocks?”
“Better. Way better.” I lean over to check the water. It’s hot, finally.
We shuffle into the tub and under the spray, and there’s almost nothing that feels better on sore muscles. The smell of cooking and food rises from us and I wrinkle my nose. Kitty bends to grab a bottle of body wash and a washcloth.
Unsurprisingly, we’re too tired to do much but wash. My dreams of another celebration will have to wait until morning.