The minute they opened the front door to Maxi’s house, the florist was mobbed by a gang of children. Most of them, it turned out, her own.
“Can Zachary stay for dinner?” begged the larger of two boys. Kate pegged his age around seven. “Mama, please? Please? I told him how good fricasé de pollo is, and he doesn’t be-lieve me! Please?”
Kate looked over and saw the other boy—also around seven—standing off to the side. Looking eager. Zach.
“Mama! Mama! Mama!” said a younger boy of perhaps five while bouncing on sturdy short legs. “I got a sticker at nap time! On my arm! Wanna see? Wanna see? Mama! It’s got a truck on it!”
Meanwhile, the youngest, a little girl of maybe two, grabbed the leg of Maxi’s white jeans and hung on for dear life. She looked up at Kate with wide, dark eyes and grinned.
“And Zach’s never had fried plantains. Can you believe it? Not even once!”
“Well, Miguelito, we need to expand Zach’s culinary education,” Maxi said as she swung the little girl up onto her hip, and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Zach, we would love to have you stay for dinner. Call your mom and make sure it’s OK. And tell her we can bring you home after.”
“Yahoo! I told you she’d say it was OK!” Michael hooted. “C’mon, you can call her in my room!” And with that, the two raced off.
Still cradling the little girl, Maxi bent down and examined the sticker on her younger son, who had traded hopping for rocking up and down on his tiptoes. On closer inspection, Kate realized the “sticker” was actually a Band-Aid.
“Well, that is lovely, Javie! How did you get that?” Maxi asked, kissing him on the forehead and ruffling his wavy black hair.
“Jessica bit me,” he reported glumly.
“Did she now? I’m guessing there’s a note from your Miss Maxwell?” Maxi asked.
Javie nodded. “She says you need to sign it. And I’m s’posed to bring it to her tomorrow.”
“Mmmm,” Maxi said. “Is this the same Jessica who stole your cupcake at Bobby’s birthday party?”
Javie bobbed his head. “Miss Maxwell says she likes me. But I think she’s yucky!”
“I know a Jessica myself,” Kate said sotto voce. “My ex-fiancé’s new ‘friend,’” she explained with air quotes. “I’m with Javie on this one.”
Sensing a kindred spirit, Javie looked up at Kate, nodding earnestly.
Maxi giggled. “OK, for you, my young sir, peroxide and lots of it. Go wash that out, and I’ll meet you in the bathroom. And ‘wash’ means ‘use soap.’ Jabón!”
“Yes, Mommm,” he replied, springing away.
When he left the room, Maxi said, “Let’s hope Miss Jessica has had her shots.”
“Amen to that,” Kate said with a smile.
Looking around, Kate was amazed at how much Maxi’s house was like Maxi herself: bright, happy, and comfortable. Sun streamed through sparkling windows. And every nook and corner seemed to host a thriving plant or colorful flowers. While there were toys all over the place—and constant noise—it was happy chaos.
The fragrance wafting from the kitchen made Kate’s mouth water. Savory and spicy. Meaty. That’s when she realized that they had both missed lunch.
“So has your abuela gotten you a snack, Elena?” Maxi asked the elf in her arms. “Could you eat a little sliver of something while I finish dinner?”
The littlest Más-Buchanan nodded vigorously.
“I thought so,” Maxi said. To Kate she said, “You must be starved. I know I am.”
“I’d love to help with dinner,” Kate volunteered. “How’d you like a trained sous chef? Then maybe I could learn the secret to pollo, uh…”
“Spicy fricasé de pollo,” Maxi added with a grin. “It’s like chicken stew. Only better. And it’s my mother’s recipe. She’s been simmering it all afternoon. It should be falling off the bone by now. Oh, it smells so good! After I tend to Javie, I’m gonna put on the rice, fry up some plantains, and spell her in the kitchen for a while. If I can get her to leave. Course, if I tell her she’s being replaced by a professional chef we’re going to have one angry cubana. Better you just drink a glass of wine and keep me company. And we can do a little pre-dinner ‘tasting’ to make up for lunch.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can help set the table.”
“From pastry chef to busing tables in two short weeks,” Kate said, grinning. “My teachers at the institute would be absolutely horrified.”
“Hey, the plates and glasses may not match, but the food is muy buena. None better. Mi mami is a first-class cook.”
“Oh yeah,” Kate said when she finally got a taste of the spicy chicken stew. “Your mom could open a restaurant. This is seriously good!”
“Right?” said Maxi as she slipped a forkful into her mouth and closed her eyes. “It’s not just Cuban food. It’s goood Cuban food.”
“Deja algo para la cena!” A female voice from the den. Stern.
Maxi giggled. “She’s telling us to leave some for dinner,” she said softly. “Flashback to high school. ¡Si, mami! ¡Es tan buena! ¡Muy buena! ¡Y nos perdimos el almuerzo!” To Kate she said, “I told her we missed lunch. And that we love her cooking.”
“Definitely. She could teach a class. I’ve worked with pros who never made anything this delicious. But are you sure she’s OK with having extra people at the table?”
“We always have extra people at the table. Peter, the kids, mi mami—somebody’s always bringing friends. It’s part of the reason we put a large table in the yard.”
“Part of the reason?”
“Under that big tree in the evening, you get the best breezes. Even in the heat of the summer. Like natural air-conditioning. You have to be careful in November and December, though.”
“Why?” Kate wondered if there was another spate of hurricanes late in the year.
“Grapefruits. You’re sitting there minding your own business—and plunk! She drops one right on your head. Like big, hard softballs. I threatened to make the kids wear helmets. Peter talked me out of it. So we just keep her plucked—like constantly—during the season. On the bright side, lots of grapefruit juice and grapefruit ice and grilled fruit. Grilled is the best. Peter cuts them in half and throws them on the grate till they have those char marks. And I pop them on a platter and drizzle them with a little honey. Yum!”
They both heard the front door open and slam. “Hey, babe! Whatever that is, it smells great!”
“Ah, mi amor,” Maxi said with a grin. “I’ll be right back.”
Kate cradled her half-empty wineglass, looked around the warm kitchen, and wondered: Could she and Evan have ever ended up like this? Contented and cozy? If she could have convinced him to visit Coral Cay? If he hadn’t met Jessica?
Doubtful.
Evan was Evan. That’s why she’d fallen for him. And why it never would have worked. Not long term, anyway.
He must have realized that, too. Lately his phone calls had tapered off. At first, right after she’d thrown the engagement ring at him that horrible night, he’d phoned a dozen times every day. And sent flowers. Gradually, as she refused to answer (and refused the flowers), that dropped to a few calls a day. Then once every day or so. And in the past week: nothing.
Technically, she’d ended the engagement. But it was still painful. Raw.
She was almost glad that her phone was locked in the Cookie House. If she couldn’t see it, she didn’t have to deal with it.
The heck with it, and the heck with him, she decided. This isn’t what could have been. This is where I am right now. And I’m going to eat dinner under a grapefruit tree. Evan Thorpe can’t do that in Manhattan. No matter who he’s with.
“OK,” Maxi said, reappearing. “Peter’s going to get the troops washed and march them out to the table. And you’ve already set that, so we’re good to go.”
She grabbed the wine bottle from the fridge, turned to Kate, and grinned. “Pastry chef or no, one good Cuban meal can change your whole life.”