The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  “Thirty-six. Unless I’ve lost any today.”

  He looked surprised. “Oh, does that happen . . . often?”

  “So much.” She realized what he was thinking and said quickly, “Oh! No, no. They don’t die off. I think sometimes they accidentally click ‘unsubscribe’ when they mean to shut the video off. I’ve actually seen my mom do that more than once.” She shook her head. “They could get a bird’s nest of wires to make a Nintendo work on a TV that still had rabbit ears, but when it’s right in front of them, they can’t click for shit.”

  “It’s true. I remember my parents setting up an adaptor on another adaptor to get RCA cables to work on an old Zenith they got from my grandparents.” He chuckled. “My dad is not one to waste anything that he deems still usable. He was forty-two when I was born, so he’s basically on the heels of the Victory Garden age. Computers are never going to come naturally to him.”

  Margo nodded. “My mom was thirty-eight, which was still pretty old back in the day. I’ve heard a lot about the accommodations she had to make for her high-risk pregnancy.” She sighed. “Anyway, they’re with people who get them now, so it’s all good. But, seriously, don’t worry about the video.” She added, “I promise I’ll edit you out so it doesn’t seem like I’m capitalizing on your fame to get a thirty-seventh subscriber.”

  He took a moment, then put his hand out. “Give me your phone. Turn it on and hand it over.”

  She clutched it to her chest. “Sir?”

  “Come on, lady, we don’t have all day.”

  “Fine.” She turned on her phone and the video app and handed it over. “Have at it.”

  He took the camera, held it in selfie position, and tapped the “record” button. “Hello—” He hit “pause” and asked Margo, “What are their names?”

  “My parents? Charlie and Elise.”

  He cleared his throat and started again. “Hello, Charlie and Elise, and all the subscribers to Margo’s YouTube channel—”

  “June’s Cleaver.”

  He stopped again. “What?”

  “The channel. It’s called June’s Cleaver. From an old TV show. It’s a pun.”

  He quirked his mouth into half a smile. “I know what it’s from. Leave It to Beaver. Very clever. Clever Cleaver work there.”

  She felt her face grow warm at the compliment. “I—Yeah, yep.”

  He held the phone up again. “Hello to Charlie and Elise Everson and all the June’s Cleaver viewers out there. Margo is cooking up something that smells absolutely delicious here.” As an aside he said to her, “It really does. Am I going to get some?”

  “I thought you had to go to the wood store.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “To the wood store?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Specialty lumber store.”

  She smiled. “Oh, well, if it’s boujie . . .”

  He looked back at the camera. “So, as I was saying, we’re going to give this soup—”

  “Pasta.”

  “—this pasta a try, then we’re going to the boujie lumber boutique to make a bitchin’ kitchen counter and shelves at Margo’s farm.”

  That sounded good. “Really?”

  He kept his eyes on the camera. “Really. The last piece of the job is the floor, so we’re doing all the stuff that’s higher up first.”

  She was impressed. “Excellent.”

  “So where are we in this process, Margo? Have you finished the lesson or . . . ?”

  “No, not quite.”

  He took the camera off himself and trained it on her. “We’re going to do this Blair Witch Project style now, I’m going to film the rest of the process. I want camera and producer credit.”

  “Oh.” The idea of Max watching her every move was far more daunting than having the camera on her. “Okay, well. I’ve chopped ten cloves of garlic sort of roughly and I’m putting just a teaspoon of olive oil into a nonstick pan over medium-high heat.” She turned on the burner and went back to the chopped garlic. She knew her hands smelled of it and hoped she didn’t reek entirely.

  “Go on,” Max said. “I’ll follow you. You can edit me and my prattling out later.”

  “Yeah, people just hate when you perform.” She made a face, then looked back at the camera. “Start by putting about a third of the garlic into the pan.” Since she’d done a number of these videos already, she was pretty used to the process, and it took over her self-consciousness fairly fast. “Honestly, I’d normally use more. A lot more. But I realize not everyone likes vampire-level pungency. Or buzzard breath.”

  Max chuckled.

  Margo felt a flush come over her. “So if you aren’t a fan of sharp garlic flavor, you can put it all in right now and it will mellow over the heat.” She stirred with a bamboo spoon, waited a few awkward moments, then said, “Now I’m going to add a little more garlic”—she did so—“and about a cup and a half of chicken broth.” She poured it from the measuring cup and it sizzled onto the pan and shivered the garlic scent into the air.

  “Can’t wait to try this,” Max commented, like a golf voice-over admiring a fine drive.

  But there was something much more sensual to it. The steam, the scent, the low lilt to his voice. She’d call it the practiced masculinity of an actor, but for one thing there was a rasp to it, and for another she’d known this voice since well before he was an actor.

  She cleared her throat and returned to the job at hand. “It’s time to start the water boiling because we’re almost ready to eat.” She got her favorite four-quart All-Clad pan down from the pot rack and took it to the sink to fill with water. “As usual, you’re going to want to cover the pot so the water boils faster.” She did.

  “Care to explain the science behind that?” Max asked.

  “Nope.” She returned to the stove, smiling as she felt his amused gaze tickle down her back. “Now I’m going to add some white wine to the sauce, about a half a cup. Don’t worry, this won’t make you drunk, the alcohol will cook off.” She could already hear the fretful old voices picking and plucking about the amount of alcohol. “If you don’t want to add it, you can just let the chicken broth carry it, that’s fine too.”

  “I like a nice glass of chicken broth at five P.M. every night,” Max said casually. “I find it just helps me relax, let the day go.”

  “Hey, no one’s judging.”

  “My doctor says it’s fine, all right?”

  “All right, all right.” Margo laughed. “And there you have it. Max Roginski’s secret to health and relaxation. A nice hot mug—”

  “Flute.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I drink it from a flute.” He pantomimed drinking a glass of champagne, pinkie out. “It’s more festive.”

  “Ah. A nice flute of chicken broth every evening. Very civilized. Meanwhile”—she turned the stove off—“our broth has boiled down nicely and the pasta water has come to a boil. I’m using fresh pasta, so I’m only cooking it for three minutes but follow the directions to al dente on the package you use.”

  “I used to work with Al Dente,” Max commented. “Terrible actor. Just terrible.”

  Her laugh was completely spontaneous. It was an old dad joke, but so unexpected it got her. “He was on General Hospital, right?”

  “Passions.”

  “Oh yes. With the, ah”—she tried to remember the show—“the doll that came to life, right?”

  Max shot a finger gun at her. “Bingo. You can edit all of this out, right?”

  “Definitely.” But she knew she wouldn’t. She dropped the pasta in and watched the water bubble up and cover it as she stirred the noodles. Once again she could feel his eyes on her, and even though he was three feet away, it felt like he was touching the back of her neck. “All we do to finish the sauce is add a tablespoon or so of brown sugar and a splash of balsamic vinegar and it’s ready.” Trying to concentrate on cooking and not Max, she stirred the brown sugar in. It dissolved into the hot liquid immed
iately, and the pour of vinegar turned the sauce to a warm amber color. The smell rose again, and she realized she was being perfumed with it, her skin, her hair, everything. She was going to be like a skunk in the car with him.

  She frowned and returned to her task with perhaps a touch too much efficiency. “So. The pasta is done, so I’m just going to quick drain it, reserving a little of the cooking liquid, and”—she poured it into a strainer over the sink and flipped it back before the starchy water was all drained—“then pop it into the saucepan.” She worked too fast and it sloshed up and over onto the stove. Instead of commenting on it, she just went ahead and touched it a little bit with some tongs and said, “Now I’m going to let it sit while I get plates out and . . . there you go.” She set two plates on the counter next to the stove. “It’s done. Top it with some pecorino Romano or Parmesan and enjoy!” She smiled for the camera and then at Max. “Mom and Dad are going to be thrilled to see you.”

  “Don’t forget the other thirty-four.”

  She held a flattened hand out and tipped it from side to side. “Usually my videos get like eight views so . . . maybe some of the other thirty-four will see it, assuming it’s not just my parents playing the videos over when they want to pretend the whole family is there.” She took the phone and turned it off, excited to edit later on so she could see how it came out.

  Max gave a laugh. “Now that I know about your channel, I’ll be making up at least a hundred views of each. You are a star. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

  Her face felt hot, and she knew she looked like a goofy tomato. If only there was a way to control the unflattering splotches of pink that crept into her cheeks like splashes of paint every time he said something sweet or sexy or flirtatious. “You couldn’t or you’d have spent the whole time filming the floor or the refrigerator.”

  He smiled. “I got you, don’t worry.” He came over to the stove, moving in close to her. “Got a fork?”

  “I don’t like to brag but I’ve got a whole bunch of them.”

  “May I borrow one?”

  She smiled and opened the drawer between them. “Take your pick.”

  He took one and scooped some pasta out and into his mouth. He wasn’t even finished chewing before he said, “This is incredible.”

  She shrugged. “It’s pretty simple.”

  He took another bite. “You say that, but it’s perfect.” He wound more around the fork and held it out to her.

  She had no choice but to open her mouth and let him feed her.

  It was a big mouthful. She chewed, just hoping she didn’t choke and die right there in front of him.

  “Right?” he asked.

  She nodded and gave a thumbs-up. “And it’s light,” she managed. She swallowed and added, “There’s almost no oil or fat in it.”

  He looked at her like he was appraising an antique ring. He touched her cheek with his knuckle and said softly, “I don’t know how that idiot JB let you go.”

  She blinked, then expelled a breath, brought back to the moment. “You mean Calvin?” JB had been her college boyfriend for a bit when she and Max had been friends. He’d comforted her through that embarrassing breakup, and here he was for another one.

  This time it was Max whose face went red. He stepped back, the moment broken, his touch gone. “Calvin. Of course. I was thinking . . .” He shrugged and looked down. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “I do. You were just confusing names on the ever-expanding list of guys who have dumped me,” she said. “JB was in college. You met him a few times.”

  “Yes, I—” He shook his head. “I remember him. He was a moron, and so was Calvin. They’re both fools.”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard not to notice there is one common denominator.” She pointed at herself. “Hard to say who the biggest fool is. It feels possible that they both found something really annoying about me. Go figure.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Anyway.” She was terrible at transitions but she didn’t want to talk about the myriad reasons someone might have to break up with her. “How about we eat and hit the road? I need to get some garlic in you so that you can’t smell how much I reek of it when we’re in the car.”

  When he smiled she noticed, for the first time, the faint lines that were forming around his eyes and how he looked even better with a little bit of age on him. “How can I say no to an offer like that?”

  “You can’t.” She started to pile pasta onto his plate. “You really can’t. Trust me. It’s for your own good.” She made him a plate, and then one for herself (smaller), and they sat down at the table together.

  “You’re a hell of a cook, you know that?”

  “If only there were money in it.”

  “There could be. Isn’t your YouTube channel monetized?”

  She gave a laugh. “Again, thirty-six subscribers . . . and always dropping and shooting up, lingering around a measly number.”

  He nodded. “Noted.” He finished up the last of his pasta and stood up to take the plate to the sink. Something she’d rarely seen a man do. “Are you finished?” he asked, nodding toward the single noodle left under her fork.

  “Um . . . yeah, hold on.” She took the last bite, and then handed it to him.

  He smiled and took the dishes to the sink. She stopped him when he turned it on.

  “I’ll take care of those later,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  He looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, the dishwasher is full, and I don’t want to mess with it right now. Besides, I don’t know how late this wood boutique is open, but I imagine they don’t keep Lowe’s hours.”

  “Probably not.” He set the dishes down. “Got your phone? We’re going to need directions. Or at least an address.”

  “Got it.” She held it up then slipped it into her purse.

  “Good thing one of us is on the ball.”

  “Oh, I’m on it.” She smiled. “I’m all about the ball.” She shut up quick, horrified. What could that even mean? What a stupid thing to say! What was she supposed to say now?

  Nothing, it turned out. Max just grinned and said, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  They left without saying anything further.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Max

  He should have kissed her. Damn fool. The moment had been perfect and he could feel her wanting it the same way he did.

  Instead he’d decided to comment on the guys who’d dumped her. Because what could be a better aphrodisiac than that?

  He would have thought, with more than a decade of experience under his belt since they’d met, that maybe he’d finally have at least an iota of cool when it came to being with her, but no, he was as nervous and romantically inept around her as he’d ever been.

  What was it about her? It’s not like she was some ice queen with a withering gaze. She was a nice woman, and she always had been. She had the softest, sweetest blue eyes, the kind you’d expect to see on the first angel you meet in heaven.

  He’d always thought so. From the very first moment he saw her, she looked familiar.

  Which was why he’d put that line in Ironsides. She’d never guess it was about her. No one would. He’d buried his boyish unrequited love all over that play and covered it so thoroughly that no one would guess that he’d been, at heart, an insecure kid carrying a flame that was a little too heavy and wobbly for him to hold gracefully in front of her.

  So now he was a man with enough success under his belt to proceed with confidence in almost any endeavor, but what did he do when he had the opportunity to kiss her?

  Made her feel like he was calling her a loser, of course.

  He pulled his car up in front of the back porch at the farm and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. “You’re an idiot,” he said, then shook his head and opened the door. “Absolutely stultifying,” he told the fireflies that hovered in the evening air.

  “It’s not that hard,” he s
aid to the uneven ground on the way to the back door, nearly turning his ankle in a few holes. He made a mental note to get some ground fill. That he could do.

  He caught his reflection in the glass of the door and said, “The worst that could happen is that she’d say no, we’re just friends. And you’ve been there before, God knows, so it wouldn’t be new. Maybe this time she’d be into it. You just don’t know until you try.”

  He went in, flipped on the light switch, and the new lights he’d installed in the kitchen bloomed to life. Nothing special, just dimmable LED bulbs in the recessed housings, but it made a difference in the mood of the room, even though the rest of it was still in dire need of a face-lift.

  That was why they’d gone to the lumber store. The pieces he’d ordered were going to be cut and delivered in three days. In the meantime, he was going to paint the walls a lighter color than the current Years of Cobwebs and Dirt that was there. Brightening up the room with a good paint job would not only make a world of difference visually, but he hoped it would also freshen up the smell a little. There was the distinct smell of rotting wood and antiques in the air. But fresh paint combined with fresh air would get rid of that.

  No wonder her shit ex-husband had left it to her. He knew the guy’s type from Margo’s descriptions—the kind who wouldn’t see the potential in a house like this. He’d left it to more or less rot, and now he unloaded what he thought was a dump on his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  But he saw the potential, and he knew Margo did too. He could imagine her, getting the idea and industriously putting on some sort of “gardening costume” and going to the hardware store for spades and rakes and plants and seeds.

  But it was an overwhelming task for one person. And if she never got help, she could never have tackled this alone. And despite his own capability, thanks to his early years working for his dad’s contracting company, there were moments when he looked around and felt like he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

  But that was his loneliness talking, not his laziness. It was a lot easier to do manual labor with someone else to help out, or even to have a glass of iced tea with on the porch at the end of the day.