Lessons in Lemonade

by Andrews, Kathryn

  “It is.” She looks away from me and back to the table. “And it’s our first year being invited to participate, so we are being very meticulous about the details.”

  “I can see that.” I chuckle as I follow her gaze and look around at the different place settings and crystal glassware.

  “It gets better.” She looks back up at me with the sheepishness in her facial expression now gone and replaced with excitement. “We sold out.”

  Of course she did. Anyone who has ever eaten her food would know she is the best.

  “I take it back—that’s not awesome, it’s fantastic. I’m proud of you.” I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. It slides down, and I gently hang on to her elbow.

  She’s pleased with my words as a small smile lifts her lips and long dark eyelashes sweep up and down. It’s easy to see the pride radiating off of her, and she should feel this way. She’s a damn good chef.

  “Yeah, we’ve been working on the menu and who’s going to be supplying what like the sparkling wines, flowers, et cetera, and I’m just so excited.”

  She steps toward the table, and my hand falls as she picks up two forks and holds them out for me to take. Both are a brushed dull metal, but one is silver with a long, skinny square handle and the other is copper with a thin round handle. I weigh them both and instantly like the copper one better. It feels heavier, which I prefer, and honestly I love the color. I hold it up so she knows it’s my choice. She grins, takes them both, and lays them back on the table.

  “When is it?” She may be sold out, but I’m certain I can convince her to make me a plate as well. I’ll toss out the best friend card if I have to.

  “Sunday, March twenty-second.”

  “That’s soon.” I smile, suddenly feeling a little anxiety for her. “I hope I can help you somehow.”

  She shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. It pushes her chest out, and I want to groan out loud at the sight.

  “Oh, I’m sure you will. It’ll be all hands on deck. Zach and Shelby will be here too.”

  “That’s great! It’ll be good to see him.” I push the sleeves of my shirt up, suddenly feeling warm.

  She pauses for a second, and I know she’s doing the math. Yes, I hope to still be here then. I know it’s a couple of weeks away, but I already promised myself I’ll stay out of her way.

  “So!” She snaps out of her thoughts. “The downstairs is basically a square. The dining room connects to the sitting room”—she points to the next room over—“and the sitting room connects to the family room, which then connects to the kitchen. The stairs you saw when we entered lead up to three bedrooms, but I’m going to put you in a room on this floor.”

  She brushes past me, the scent of sugar and oranges trailing her, and she walks down a short hallway that leads to the back of the house. I follow.

  “I’m thinking for the time being this one is probably best, even though it’s smaller.”

  She opens a door on the right, and as I peek in past her, it feels perfect.

  The bedroom is plenty large enough for me. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle, along with a dresser that has a mirror on top and a chair in the corner of the room. I brought my Apple TV with me and picked up a medium-sized flat-screen TV on the way so she wouldn’t have to worry about me being in her space all the time. The dresser will hold it perfectly.

  She’s paused, waiting for a reaction, so I face her and say, “This room is great. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m just thankful you’re letting me stay.”

  And I really am thankful. Sure, I have friends I’ve made over the years spread out across the country, but the only person I want to be with right now is her.

  “I told you to come visit me whenever you wanted.” She reaches up, places her hand on my bicep, and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I am, too.”

  A heavy pause falls between us and my gaze drops to her mouth. It’s free of lipstick, but she’s got some glossy stuff on her lips that makes them really damn inviting. Her cheeks flush pink, and she steps back into the hallway.

  “Your bathroom is here, just across the hall.” She opens a door that’s a little down on the left. “When you’re ready and you think you can manage the stairs, the bedroom upstairs has an attached bathroom. It’s up to you if you want to switch or not.”

  “Really, this is fine.” I’ll be out of her way but still near her. Quite frankly, it’s perfect.

  “Okay.” She smiles again. Damn, so beautiful. “This is my office.” She waves a hand toward the French doors. “Feel free to use it if you need it.”

  Leaving the hallway, we weave back through the kitchen and toward another door, which heads out into the little back yard. I know it shouldn’t surprise me considering food is her thing, but it still does when I see how many fruits, vegetables, and herbs she has planted around the small space.

  “Well, isn’t this something.”

  On the ground in the middle are perfectly arranged flat gray stones with a wooden pavilion over it. Underneath she has a table with chairs and a hammock.

  “It’s my favorite part of the house.” She reaches over and touches the soil of the plant closest to her. Pulling her hand back, she rolls her fingers together before brushing away the loose pieces of dirt.

  “Did you do all this?”

  “Yes, but at the time Shelby was still here and she helped.”

  “Well, you gals outdid yourselves—this garden is something else.”

  “Thank you. I’ve spent a lot of time out here dreaming up different ideas and recipes for the restaurant. If I’m not there, I’m here, and both places make me happy.”

  I nod, acknowledging her, but I’m thinking back over her social media pictures for the last year. There have been a couple where she’s posing with ripe vegetables or some type of flower, but I never got the impression that they were from a home garden. My level of awe of her has graduated to blatant wonderment—straight hero status.

  “So, what do you want to do now?” she asks.

  “Anything you want, or nothing at all. I don’t want you to change your life in any way because I’m here.” A breeze blows by us, and stray pieces of her hair fly around her face. She smooths them down and smiles up at me.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t, but I am excited that you’re here. I like having a roommate. The company will be really nice.”

  “Good.” Reaching over, I tuck a loose strand behind her ear. Seriously, I could touch this girl all day every day if she would let me. “I’m going to grab my things out of the truck and get settled.”

  “Okay, I’ll help.” She walks back in the house and toward the front door like she’s on a mission.

  “You don’t have to,” I call after her.

  “I want to. And then afterward we can . . . I don’t know, maybe Netflix and chill?” she asks, glancing hopefully at me.

  A laugh bursts out of my mouth, and she frowns at my reaction as I catch up to her.

  “You know that doesn’t mean what you think it means, right?”

  Her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

  “Though I’m definitely down if you are.”

  “What do you mean that’s not what it means?” she asks, looking up at me curiously.

  “Nothing. Come on, gorgeous.”

  And with that I turn and walk outside.

  Shrimp Lasagna Roll-ups

  I’VE NEVER MET a man who smolders as much as this one.

  Yes, he’s always had this dark sexy look to him, but before I could let it roll off like it amused me. Here, now, it’s more. It’s like he’s got this untapped emotional heat burning under his skin, and every time he looks at me, I feel singed, from the moment his eyes landed on me at OBA and just about every time since then over the last couple of days. It’s unnerving, it’s flattering, and it’s made me confused because we’re just supposed to be friends. I declared it with a thick line in the sand, but every now and then I catch
myself dreaming about something more. I don’t know what that more is exactly, but it’s always him in the thought with me.

  A thought I refuse to entertain, no matter how he makes me feel.

  Jack and I very quickly settle into a routine. He’s still a lot more melancholy than I expected him to be at this point, but then again, this is all change and change can be hard, especially when it’s a change not of your choosing.

  In the mornings I make a pot of coffee on my way out the door, and he texts me sometime a bit later to say hello. After the lunch hour slows down, he comes in to eat, and then he drives me home as Taylor closes us down. Taylor loves this arrangement as she’s getting to sleep in. Then at night he offers to cook us dinner, to which I laugh and tell him to sit down, and then we eat in a comfortable silence. Sometimes we eat at the island, but my favorite times are when we eat outside. Afterward, we curl up on the couch together, talking about anything and everything, and we’ve watched a bunch of movies and television series.

  It was like this when Shelby lived here, too, but with Jack . . . I don’t know. It somehow feels more right, and I would be lying if I said that didn’t scare me a little.

  “Okay, I’m ready for you now,” I call out to Jack, who is on the couch watching SportsCenter.

  Slowly he gets up, makes his way to the kitchen island, and sits at the end. I ladle up the first bowl of soup and place it in front of him. His hair is messy, his face is scruffy, and in his lounge clothes he looks like a favorite blanket I want to curl up in.

  “Did you know before modern medicine, soup was essential to healing for a lot of different cultures?” I ask him.

  “I’ve never given much thought to it, but yeah, I would guess so. There has to be something behind the whole chicken soup thing.” He slides the bowl closer and takes the first spoonful. His eyebrows shoot up as he tastes it, and I’d be lying if I said his reactions didn’t please me immensely.

  “There is. Chicken contains a compound called carnosine. It slows or blocks movement of white blood cells, which lowers inflammation in the respiratory tract from the common cold.”

  His eyes find mine as he keeps eating the soup, listening and not responding.

  “Others believed meat from a strong animal could help a weak man and protein-rich soups would help milk production after giving birth to a baby, and in China they made soup with snakes because it was supposed to help with joint pain.”

  The spoon pauses midair as his face turns horrified. “You didn’t put snake in here, did you?”

  A laugh bursts out of me. “No, silly, but try this one now.”

  I move over to the stove and fill the next bowl with the second soup.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is that I’m tasting?” he asks, picking up the first bowl and drinking from it to finish it off.

  “Nope, not until you’ve tasted them both. Knowing the ingredients may sway your decision based on what you think you like better versus what actually tastes better.”

  “If you say so.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then takes the second bowl, lowers his head, and sniffs it. “Smells delicious.”

  “It should taste delicious, too.” I grin, untying the little apron around my waist. I toss it on the counter next to the sink and watch as he swirls his spoon then tastes the second soup.

  Unbeknownst to Jack, he actually showed up in Charleston at the perfect time. I have been tossing around different ideas to serve at the brunch for the festival, and he’s been the perfect guinea pig to try everything I’ve made. He never complains, seems to love everything I make, and is always ready and willing.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask him.

  “The first one.” He leans back in his chair and licks his lips.

  “Why?” I have to force my eyes up to his face.

  “It’s lighter, coming after the grapefruit I think it pairs better, and well, it made me feel good. Don’t get me wrong, this one is fantastic, too, but that one”—he points to the bowl—“can I have more?”

  And that right there is always the answer. If you can keep them coming back for more, you have a winner.

  Feeling satisfied with his choice, I refill his bowl and make one for myself.

  “It’s asparagus and pea soup with homemade parmesan crackers.”

  “What was the other one?” he asks as I sit down next to him.

  “Artichoke soup with fennel seed yogurt. The asparagus is easier to make, so I’m slightly relieved.” I take a sip and sort through the layers of flavor. This soup actually takes me back to my grandmother’s table. It’s created a connection to my childhood, and I can only hope it will for the guests too.

  My grandmother was something else. She grew it all and then preserved it. It was how she was raised, and in return it’s how I was. I spent so many hours in the sun picking things, and it’s probably why I love my own garden so much.

  “The parmesan crackers are a nice touch,” he mumbles, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  I can’t help the smile that takes over as we both eat without speaking.

  “Do you want anything else?” I ask once I’m done.

  Getting up, I move to grab some reusable containers to put the soups in the refrigerator. Another thing I’ve learned about Jack is he loves leftovers, eats them cold right out of the container.

  He chuckles and runs his hand through his messy hair. “No. As it is, you’re already making me fat. I need to eat less. Can I help you clean up?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got this.” I smile at him as he stands. “And maybe you should stop blaming the food and get back in the gym.” My tone is teasing, but I’m not fully joking. I think it would be good for him to get back to a regular workout.

  “I’m actually meeting an old friend tomorrow. He’s going to help me.” He takes the bowl in front of him, rinses it out, and puts it in the dishwasher.

  “Really, that’s great. Where is this friend?”

  “The Citadel.” He limps back to the couch and sits down.

  “Wow.” I’m surprised, although I shouldn’t be. Of course he’s going to go to the college gym. “You know, I’ve never actually been to the campus. You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

  I watch as he reaches down to rub his knee. I don’t think it hurts; it’s just become sort of an involuntary tic.

  “I will. I can’t imagine it’s anything less than perfectly adequate. My trainer back home was happy.”

  ‘Back home’—a flash reminder that here isn’t. He will get better and then leave.

  “How do you know him?” I ask, shoving aside the unwelcome feelings and moving into the living room to sit next to him.

  “College. We played together then, and he was my first roommate.” He bends over, and I watch as he takes the brace then the bandage off to bend his knee. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since we were at the hospital and they unwrapped it after the flight. Fresh dark pink scars artfully decorate his skin.

  “Wow, those are some mighty fine scars you have.” I didn’t expect them to be so large. What happened to microscopic incisions? I thought that was how they performed knee surgeries these days. I frown at the sight and hate that he now has these permanent reminders.

  He lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah, just par for the course. I keep reminding myself that finding a football player who doesn’t have a knee scar is rare, so technically I’ve joined the club.” He gives me a lopsided grin, but it doesn’t exactly reach his eyes.

  “I have a scar, too,” I blurt out without thinking.

  “Let me see it.” He shifts and turns to look at me more directly.

  Feeling a little nervous and a lot self-conscious, I stand. I never show people the scar—not that they ask, and certainly never a man; it feels private, like something that’s just for me. Even so, I slowly undo the button on my jeans and pull down the zipper. His face lights up and his brows rise like he’s pleased with the direction of my undressing, and I just roll
my eyes. Such a guy. Lowering the front part of my underwear, I reveal the seven-inch scar there between my hip bones. I’ve been told it looks similar to a C-section scar, but whatever, it’s not. It’s a cancer scar.

  “It’s bigger than what I was expecting, too,” he says softly.

  “That’s what she said,” I murmur, and his eyes snap up to mine just before he laughs.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” He’s grinning, his dimples finally making an appearance, and it reminds me of preinjury Jack.

  “Why not?” I take a step back and zip up my pants, trying not to feel awkward.

  “I don’t know, you just surprised me.” His face has turned thoughtful as he watches me.

  “That’s me—full of surprises.” I flop back down next to him and kick off my heels. I forgot I was wearing them and could have ditched them an hour ago.

  “Does it bother you?” There’s concern written across the muscles of his jaw. I know he wants to talk about the cancer—I’ve watched him try to find ways to bring it up before—he’s just not sure how to.

  “No. There was a tiny period of time where I wished I had my old body back, but the reality is, I’m not that person anymore. This is my new body, and because of this body I’ve learned a lot about myself and I’m stronger for it. No going back, right?”

  “No, no going back.” The tension eases as his gaze drifts over my face. “What did you learn about yourself?” he asks attentively.

  “Well, for starters I learned that the body is amazing. As much as I was mentally fighting for me, it was fighting for me physically. Yes, I lost weight. Yes, I lost my sense of taste. Yes, I lost my hair. And yes, I was housing quite a large tumor that it welcomed the departure of by healing quickly. I am so much stronger than I ever thought I was. Even on the hardest days, I know I can push through it, because I already have. It’s given me the confidence to know I can defeat anything.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, not saying anything, just staring at me with those eyes.

  A blush deepens my cheeks. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. This wasn’t and isn’t about him. It’s about me.