by Lisa Fenwick
“Just ride it out?” I asked.
“It's worked well for me in the past. Just let myself be as sad and mad as I want to be for a day or so then get around to figuring out what to do about moving on.”
“Okay,” I said. “Take care on your flight, and drive safe from Boston, will you?”
“I’ll drive like the world’s most responsible adult. I promise.”
“Thank you, Noah.”
“Thank you, Amy.”
After I hung up the phone, I sat on the floor with Smokey for a long time. A few tears fell from my eyes as I thought about what Noah’d been through, not only in the past few days but in everything that had led up to that moment. I couldn’t fathom the depths of the multiple betrayals he was having to deal with. Just thinking about the pain piled on this man who I was finally willing to freely admit I was quite fond of hurt me.
Eventually, Smokey got restless and needed to go out. I grabbed his harness and took him outside. Once I’d started to move, I realized that I needed a long walk even more than my tall, lanky dog did. By the time we rounded the last corner back to my house, it was getting just dark enough that I could no longer make out the difference between the pale concrete and the dark grass.
“Smokey, edge,” I said. That was his command to walk strictly along the edge of the pavement on my right side so I didn’t have to worry about drifting off to the left side. “Good boy,” I told him, scratching the back of his neck. He’d been such an integral part of my life for years since I’d turned eighteen and left Birch Hills. He’d enabled me to more or less hide my blindness and had been my constant companion. For a very long time, I thought I’d be content with just Smokey and my house and a little bit of contact with the folks that rented out my cottage.
Over the past few weeks, that theory had been put to the test. I still loved my big Smokey dog, and he loved me. But I was noticing the lack of real human contact like I'd had at Birch Hills. I’d hold hands with the girls that guided me around, lean on them when we sat near each other, even curl up with them when one of us was having a particularly bad day. When I left the hospital, Smokey was right there in my life, and I forgot what it was like to touch another person.
I missed it.
Back in the house, I set out water and food for Smokey and went to the kitchen to start some early prep on the roast I’d be bringing to Noah. I laid out all the utensils I’d need, the big glass bowl I’d marinate the roast in. I arranged the spices and set out a few finger bowls so I could measure them out and have the jars put up before I started getting my hands on the meat and oil.
I let thoughts of Noah keep me company while I cooked.
◆◆◆
I was sitting out in the sunroom, enjoying the warmth of the early afternoon sun shining on Smokey and me. I had just finished my lunch and was lazily swirling the last of my iced tea around in my glass. Noah’s ring tone sounded from inside the house.
I went to retrieve it and walked back out to the sunroom while I answered it.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Amy. You okay?”
I was immensely relieved to hear that his voice was relatively calm. He was back to using his voice training to make it sound just like any other person’s voice, but there was an undeniable hoarseness to it. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t sounded a little bit raw after what I imagined his night had been like.
“Great to hear from you. I assume you’re at the cottage?”
“Yeah. Boy and I got in safely last night. I would have been home earlier, but I promised somebody I’d drive carefully.”
There was that word again, home, being used by him to describe my cottage. I couldn’t help but smile a little bit and blush when I heard it.
“Good. Are we still on for later?”
“Yes. I’m assuming the roast will want to sit in the oven for a couple hours. Feel free to come on over any time.”
“I can be there in about a half hour,” I said.
“Good. I did take the liberty of picking up some nice wine while I was in Boston and got us dessert. I hope that doesn’t step on anything you’ve prepared.”
“No, it doesn’t. I mean, I have a little bit of wine that I keep around for special occasions, but it’s nothing special. If that makes any sense.”
“It does,” Noah said.
“Good. Thank you. I also didn’t make anything for dessert. I was actually going to ask if you could handle that, but I kept forgetting.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Looks like we’ve got a plan, then. Just come on in when you get here. I am expecting you.”
“Soon,” I said.
One unexpected side benefit of not being able to see my own face was that I never developed much concern for my physical appearance. I knew how to check that my hair was neat just by touch, but I also favored a very simple, short cut that didn’t require any real maintenance. With the right product, I just needed to comb it as it dried after I washed it and then just left it alone for about ten minutes, and it stayed neat for the rest of the day. I used a subscription service for my clothing, which came with a personal stylist that worked regularly with visually impaired clients. Everything she sent had a little braille tag in it. As long as I matched the braille codes, my outfit would be stylistically coordinated. The funny thing was that since Noah had been in town, I’d bought two new dresses, more than I had in the last three years.
Any attempt at makeup would be hopeless, so I’d learned to just embrace the natural look. All in all, I knew that I looked reasonably presentable. Noah also knew about the particular challenges to my outward appearance and had shown no sign that he expected anything special from me.
The one place where I did worry was in the more personal garments. I could honestly say I’d never once purchased an undergarment that was meant to be seen by anybody. At best, I was able to make sure that the bra and underwear were the same color. I couldn’t believe I was stressing over such things. Noah was never going to see what was under my sweater and skirt combination, so I could have gotten away with anything, really.
But I didn’t want to just get away with anything. I really wanted to put in the little extra, even in the things he wouldn’t see. He deserved someone that would make an honest effort for him, even if it was just making sure everything I was wearing, visible or not, was chosen with care.
I put everything for dinner into an insulated bag, harnessed up Smokey, and we set out. The Johnson monsters were enjoying the mild Saturday out on the lawn, so they were right there as I came up.
“Poisoned apples for Snow White, witch lady?” one of them asked.
“No, it’s Granny and the wolf and Little Red’s picnic basket.”
“Oooooh. Did you and the wolf eat up Little Red Riding Hood?”
“Smokey, switch,” I said. He danced around to my left side, between the three untamed kids and me. I fumbled a bit with the bag and his lead, but we got it done. I thought I was safe with my tall “wolf” at my side until I heard one of the kids run up behind me. By the sound of it, it was the younger of the two boys coming at me, and all I could think of was him yanking my bag out of my hands and ruining dinner. I pulled the insulated bag up close to my body and turned in to Smokey. I could tell he was confused and needed me to give him some sort of command, but we never covered anything like that situation in his training. One thing the trainer impressed on me was to never just make up a new command on the spot and expect him to be able to read my mind and obey. “Smokey, stay,” I said, grasping for something that would at least keep him still so I could use him as a stationary shield.
He planted his feet for me while the Johnson brat tried to grab at my bag. “Is that apples in the bag or Red’s head?”
That started a chorus of “Red’s head!” from all three kids.
I tried to sidestep toward the corner, coaxing Smokey with quiet commands to come and stay, come and stay. I could feel that he was becoming really upset at the sudden chaos around him but
was still holding to his training. I finally reached the edge of my tolerance and said, “Smokey, speak!”
He opened with a big, booming bark. “Smokey, speak!” I said again, louder, letting my voice rise in pitch. Smokey barked again. The kids screamed and backed off.
“That dog bites one of my kids. I’m having it put down!” came their mom’s voice from inside the house.
“Your kids touch me one more time, I’ll bite them myself,” I shouted back. This got more noise from the kids, but with me commanding Smokey to bark once more, they kept their distance. That still didn’t stop them from tormenting me at the corner and halfway down the next block, though. I reached into the insulated bag to make sure nothing had spilled or gotten knocked around.
If they had ruined my roast or any of my sides, I thought I would become a witch and cook one of them.
It took me the rest of the walk to the cottage to settle down after the Johnsons’ extra-egregious display of poor parenting, but the moment I put my hand on the gate and felt Smokey start to fidget in excitement and heard Boy bark from inside the cottage, I reminded myself that the kids didn’t matter. Just Noah, our two dogs, and me.
I got through the gate and made Smokey sit while I unharnessed him. Noah kept Boy inside until I was done, and then we let both pups go.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asked. “I should have helped you bring this over. Or even just come over to yours. You’ve gone to too much trouble, Amy.”
“I should have asked you to preheat the oven to five hundred, with the larger cast-iron Dutch oven inside. Go take care of that. I’ve got all of this,” I said, ignoring his remark.
I followed him inside and took a nice, deep breath. In the time he’d lived in my cottage, he had completely displaced any memory of whatever my last renter’s name was. The place felt welcoming and warm. It didn’t smell like some lazy bachelor. The air inside felt clean, and there was a slight scent of his cologne in whatever room he was in, but it wasn't heavy enough to linger behind him as he moved around. Underneath it all was always some savory note centered in the kitchen, evidence that he knew his way around a spice rack and exercised that knowledge regularly.
But instead of something rich and herbal, which was how the kitchen usually smelled, it was fruity and sweet. “Pears, mascarpone, cardamom, vanilla?” I asked.
“Yes. The ginger will come right before serving. I like to use just a little bit of it but grate it fresh. It needs to be an accent for this dish, bright and up top, not the foundation of the flavor.”
“And what is this dish?” I asked.
“It’s a riff on a poached-pear dessert I had in Malta once. I was never able to perfectly replicate it, but I came up with a happy accident that I like better.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “When the oven is up to temp, we can put the roast in. Set the timer for ten minutes. Then we’ll drop the temperature and let it cook for two and a half hours. That’s when we’ll check the temperature and start on the sides.”
“So, we let the dogs wear themselves out for another fifteen minutes or so until we change temp. Then we can relax ourselves for a couple hours.”
“Yes. I don’t know if you’re the kind of guy that likes to help cook, but I’m so used to doing it completely alone and all by touch and things being exactly where I expect them to be.”
“I understand. I’ll park myself over in the corner so I don’t lose a finger.”
“I’d be more worried about me swinging a pan of boiling water into you,” I said.
“I’ll do my best to avoid that as well. Amy, you’re too good to me.”
I smiled. I didn’t know if he could see it, but being appreciated was one thing that I hadn’t heard or felt in a long time, and Noah was touching all the right buttons in more ways than one.
Chapter Sixteen
Noah
The Present
Watching Amy work in the kitchen was simply amazing. I was so fascinated by it that for the first time since I got the email about Lucy, I managed to go ten full minutes without thinking about Ashley. Just that little window of freedom from the memory of my former fiancée felt like a ton of weight off of me.
I had no idea how Amy managed to get the cast-iron pan out of the hot oven and transfer the roast into it from her glass baking dish where it had been marinating without burning herself. She made every motion large but also very smooth and precise. I chuckled a little bit as I realized that she reminded me of an industrial robot.
“Okay. Ten minutes of that,” she said, shutting the oven door. “I was going to stage the rest on the countertop here. Will you need any space between here and here from now until dinner is on the table?”
“No,” I said. “The little space to the right of the stove is plenty of room.”
“Good,” she said and started setting out more containers and utensils. “By the way, the dishwasher is a lifesaver. I’ve tried the clean-as-you-go thing, but I get too many things criss-crossed or discombobulated when I do that, so I just use as many spoons and bowls and whatever else I need and then throw it all in the machine when I’m done.”
“I’m the opposite of you.”
“That works,” she said. “By the time I’m done setting up here, you’re going to have one single spoon, a whisk, and maybe a stock pot left for cooking dessert.”
I laughed. “I’ll make do, I guess.”
“By the way, thank you for not rearranging anything in here.”
“You asked me not to,” I said.
“Too many people don’t care. You know why I need things kept exactly as I set them, but I suspect that even if you didn’t, you’d have still left the organization alone.”
“I assume that requests like that are made for a reason, so I do my best.”
“I appreciate that about you,” Amy said. She turned to push an extra button I’d noticed on her oven timer, with a little pictogram of a speaker, and tilted her head as if listening to it. She faced me again and said, “A little over two minutes,” which I could see for myself on the timer.
“The wine I got won’t go well as an appetizer. Is there anything else you’d like while we let dinner cook?” I ran down the beverage options I had.
As soon as I mentioned that I’d picked up some fresh-pressed cider at Motier’s, she cut me off right there. “No need to let me know what else you’ve got.”
I poured us each a glass, and we went out to the back porch.
“Please tell me if this is too personal,” Amy said once we’d settled into our seats. “But other than your ex, was your trip down successful?”
“It was,” I said. “I was glad I went, both despite and because of Ashley. I’d long had this sense that there was a lot more to her leaving me than what she was saying, and I knew some things about the night I’d been injured didn’t make any sense at all. If nothing else, I can put all of that behind me now. I won’t have the little doubts and questions in the back of my mind anymore. I'm so glad that I went. It really has made me confident about what I want and need.”
I took a drink of my cider. “And it was good to go down for Lucy’s funeral. She was very important to me, and I was glad I stepped up and went instead of using Ashley as an excuse to not go.”
“You sound a lot better today than you did yesterday on the phone,” she said.
“Yeah. I do feel better after getting back here. I appreciate you letting me have the time to myself last night.”
“You mean you appreciate that I graciously took you up on your offer to keep my plans the same instead of rushing them when you came back a day early?”
I laughed. “I guess if you want to put it that way. I was glad that my sudden change in plans didn't burden you.”
Amy reached over the little patio table between us and found my arm. She rested her hand on it and leaned back, closing her eyes. She looked supremely comfortable sitting next to me like that. A dozen questions about why she was doing that sprang to mind, but I set t
hem all aside. None of them seemed important enough to interrupt that one small moment of bliss. The lawyer in me tried to mumble something about professional relationship, but I silenced it and followed Amy’s lead.
It happened to be a perfect day to just sit back in the sun. We barely talked for the next two hours. I didn’t know about Amy, but I realized that I didn’t actually need to say anything. Occasionally I opened my eyes to check on the dogs. They eventually made their way up onto the porch, where they took turns at a big bowl of water we’d set out for them then lay down next to each other, panting and keeping watch over the yard.
It was only when I felt Amy nudge my shoulder that I realized I must have dozed off. “Huh?” I said, shaking off a sleepy haze.
“The kitchen timer. Do you want to stay out here or watch me be a robot again?”
“I’ll keep you company in the kitchen.”
“I won’t be able to talk,” she said. “I’ll need to keep facing the countertop while I cook, so I won’t be able to turn and face you.”
I pulled out my phone and switched on the voice to text. “We’re covered.”
“Perfect!” she said, offering me a hand to help me up. Boy and Smokey followed us inside and stretched out on the living room floor. I had thought her handling of moving a roast into a hot pan was impressive until I saw her with a paring knife. She handled onions, bell peppers, and cloves of garlic almost as deftly as a professional chef. The entire time, she sidestepped down the countertop, occasionally jumping the line to the stove then back to where she’d left off. We didn’t talk much at all while she worked, because she was busy concentrating, and I was just amazed at watching her. A few times she had me pick a spice jar out for her or deputized me to check the temperature of the roast, but otherwise, she took care of everything.
“Set the table, please,” she said once the roast came out of the oven. She was leaning close to the two pans on the stove, breathing in the scent of the food and listening to it. She had me leave three spice jars out for her, as well as a bottle of rice wine vinegar. Every third breath or so, she put just a dash of something into a pan.