“How about I give you a hand in here?” Liam’s voice behind me shocks me right out of my skin, and I give a yelp.
“Jesus, you oaf, you scared the shit out of me.”
He grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I have a strangely light tread for an oaf. My mum always threatened to bell me like a cat.”
“Smart woman.”
“Yes, she was.” There is something in his face that falls a bit, but he recovers quickly. “You’ve been busy up here this week, I see; that looks amazing over there.” He gestures across the hall to the other closet. “Jag and the bairn seem to be all squared away downstairs, so I’ve been banished up here to help you, if you’ll have me.”
I almost wish Jag had sent Emily upstairs instead. “Come on in and I’ll show you the plan.”
I’ve got the layout for the closet install taped up to one of the windows; each piece is numbered, so it should go in pretty smoothly. I walk Liam through the plan, and we decide to start with the wall to the south of the window wall, since that wall and the one opposite the windows create an unbroken L, which requires a little trickiness in the corner, where I’ve designed a wedge-shaped unit of open shelving. The other wall is all hanging storage and shoe drawers, and we’ll wait till all of this is in before we link the two with the window seat unit, and then we’ll install the chandelier before we bring in the island.
“It’s like you’re planning an invasion of Kamchatka.” He gestures at my color-coded, numbered, three-dimensional printouts.
“Ha! I loved that game when I was a kid.” Risk was one of Joe’s favorites, and we used to play sometimes after dinner.
“Me too. Shall we begin?”
We grab the first piece and bring it into the room, using shims underneath to get it level, and screwing it into the cleat on the wall. While we’re working, it becomes clear that Liam is in a chatty mood today.
“I have to hand it to you, little Annamuk, this is not what I would have expected.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s so, um, romantic.”
“And you don’t think I’m romantic?”
“I think you’re refreshingly unsentimental. It’s what makes you a great builder.”
“I don’t think I follow.”
He pauses for a moment. “I think that your eye always goes to what will make a home function smoothly, what will make the people who live there comfortable. That is different than the romance aspect. Romantic people get focused on things like brand names and labels that evoke a certain feel for them, or focused on elements that may or may not work well for their space. Old-world crown molding in a modern loft space, commercial kitchen appliances for a family that doesn’t cook, the kinds of touches that actually make a space feel awkward or just off. Your places are always fully kitted out, with amazing attention to detail, and always designed with the actual usage and client in mind.”
“So why is this different?”
“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing, and still super-functional, but the chandelier? The painted floor? Very girly.”
“And I’m not a girl?”
Liam looks me dead in my eyes. “No, my darling. You are not now and have never been a girl. You are a woman. Every inch.”
His gold-flecked green eyes hold my gaze when he says this, and for the first time since the day I caught Grant soaping up his sous chef, my girl parts remind me that I am indeed a woman. One who cannot remember the last time a man looked at her with anything remotely indicating that he noticed.
“Thank you, I think?”
“It was intended as a compliment.”
“So you think we should change the design in here? Make it less sentimental?” I’m flushed and flustered and very much wanting to get back to work.
“Nah. I like it. It’s like a lovely little surprise. I like that you surprise me now and again.”
I can feel myself blushing deeper. “Glad I can keep you amused.”
“Oh, you do at that, lass, you certainly do.”
No wonder this man gets so many women. Despite the fact that my intense distaste for Liam has recently converted to reluctant tolerance, even occasional appreciation, my biology apparently could give a flying fart about anything other than the span of his shoulders. The stupid accent even works; he says nice things to me, and all of a sudden it’s all damp pants and sweaty palms.
Which is why when we go to grab the next section, it slips right out of my now-slick hands, and when I grab wildly to stop it from careening right into the wall, my wrist torques uncomfortably. “Ow, damn!”
Liam quickly shifts his grip to take the full weight of the piece and sets it down gently.
“Show me,” he says.
“It’s nothing, it’s fine.” But he takes my hand anyway, holding it firmly and moving each finger gently. This does nothing to stop my heart, and parts southerly, from quickening.
“Seems okay. Not sprained?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Good. But what say you let me be the big lunk I am and do the heavy lifting, and you focus on finesse.” He doesn’t say this like it’s a question, and I don’t argue. I move aside and let him lift the piece alone, watching his arm muscles flex underneath his thermal shirt. He brings the piece into the room and we shim it up, clamp it to the piece we already installed. He screws it into the cleat while I predrill holes to attach it to the first piece and then proceed to grab the wrong length screw, watching as the one I pick goes clean through both pieces, leaving a good half inch pointing out the other side, into the shelf space.
“Damn it.” Liam turns around to see what I’ve done, and since we’re working on the same three-foot-wide piece, when he does, he ends up standing right behind me, so close that I can feel the heat of his body along the full length of my back, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. “Oops. A little miscalculation there, lass.” He reaches his arm around me, resting his forearm on my shoulder, drill in hand, and deftly removes the screw. “Try this one.” He hands me the proper screw, from a small leather pouch on his belt.
I take the new one from him and it goes in smoothly. I’ll have to use a little wood filler on the other side, but not a big deal; it won’t be noticeable in the end. I’m not sure what is wrong with me today. We get that wall finished without further incident, but then, when we start the next one, I bring in a piece upside down, requiring we uninstall and reinstall it. Then, while doing the drawer slides for the shoe drawers, I put the first three I install in backward before Liam catches me.
“You’re not quite yourself today, eh? I think I know what’s distracting you.”
“You do?!” This raises alarms. If he knew that I was all thumbs today because he is being funny and charming and unintentionally sexy, I will simply die of mortification.
“You’ve got a lovely evening planned with your hubby, and can’t wait to stop work.”
I’m totally puzzled. “And what makes you think that?”
“I saw the fridge when I grabbed a bottle of water on my way up. Looks like the makings of quite the dinner.”
I’d read about a very delicious dinner Gemma made for Mr. and Mrs. Rabin for their 45th anniversary, the last menu fully outlined in her journal before it just stops. Steak Diane, all the rage at the time in the posh hotels, steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce, classic potatoes Dauphinois, a chocolate soufflé. It sounded like fun, and nothing beyond my capabilities, although the soufflé worries me a bit. Today would have been the Rabins’ 115th wedding anniversary. Seemed fitting to give the menu a try. Not that I’m going to tell Liam that.
“Yep, going all out.”
“Lucky man, Jag. Tell you what, you love-struck thing, let me finish in here. I’ve got your meticulous plan, and frankly, you’re getting in your own way a bit. You go start your dinner prep, take an afternoon off for a change.”
I begin to protest, and then realize that he’s given me the perfect way to get out of this room where his horrible testosterone is getting all over me.
“Thanks, Liam. I appreciate it.” I leave him to the work, and head downstairs. I snap on Schatzi’s leash, and we head down the front stairs.
“Taking the dog out for a bit,” I yell down the hall to Jag.
“Want me to do it?” Emily yells out.
“Nope, I got it, could use the air, thanks.”
“Have a nice walk!” Jag yells back, muffled behind the mask he’s wearing to protect himself from the fumes.
The fresh spring air is a little brisk today, but it feels good to get out and clear my head. Schatzi and I take a quick walk around the park, and then head back. I pull the recipes I’ve copied from Gemma’s journal.
A special private anniversary dinner. The party is Saturday, with all the children and grandchildren and friends coming to celebrate, but for tonight, it is just the two of them, and I wanted to do something very special. I spent a day with my friend Marcel who works at the Drake, learning how to make Steak Diane, the popular restaurant dish that Mrs. Rabin fell in love with on their last trip to New York. Instead of the dining room, I’ve set a table in the small sitting room upstairs, in the turret where they can see the park while they eat, abloom with spring, lush and green.
Once Schatzi is back in the kitchen, safely behind the dog gate, I go to the bedroom. I’m still weirdly hopped-up and on edge from my day with Liam. I’m hoping a shower will help clear my head a bit. I slip out of my work clothes and into my robe, grab my towel, and go to the bathroom. When the water is hot, I get into the shower, not a much better trickle than the one upstairs, and certainly not the luxury of the downstairs bath, but still, the water feels good. I soap myself, feeling the sweat and grit wash away, and luxuriating a bit in the slick motion of my hands over my skin. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve got one hand braced against the wall, my forehead pressed against the cool tile, my other hand feverishly working, until I find a quick explosive release. A small “oh” escapes my lips, and then an embarrassed giggle. I can’t even believe I’ve just indulged myself, especially with three other people in the house. I feel sort of wicked, and a little sheepish, but altogether better.
Sated, and feeling at once clean and dirty, I dry off, twist my hair into a bun, and put my robe back on. I go to my room and get dressed, pulling on jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. I head to the kitchen and begin to prep dinner. I invested in a fifteen-dollar handheld mandoline, knowing that my knife skills would never be good enough to get the potatoes thin and uniform. I shockingly manage to slice them all without opening an artery, and briefly cook them in a mix of cream and half-and-half, with a pinch of nutmeg, a sprig of thyme. I’ve got a buttered dish at the ready, which I’ve dutifully rubbed with the cut side of a half clove of garlic, but I’m suspicious of this maneuver; I can’t imagine it will really impart much flavor. When the potato slices are pliable but still not cooked, I transfer them to the dish, discarding the sprig of thyme, and add enough of the cooking liquid to barely cover them. I pop it in the preheated oven, wondering how that soupy mess of potato and cream will come together into a sliceable dish.
I follow Gemma’s recipe for hollandaise sauce to the letter, and it comes together beautifully. I put it in the warming drawer, which will hold it at the perfect temperature until I need it. Grant loved warming drawers, and there are two in this kitchen, one beneath each wall oven. Like the stove, the ovens and drawers are all BlueStar, top of the line and gorgeous. In addition to simply being the best equipment for serious cooks, their products come in pretty much the whole Pantone rainbow, so while we kept the range a charcoal gray to blend with the cabinets, we did the wall ovens in a deep poppy orange. Since they are on opposite walls, it creates little splashes of color that really save the kitchen from being too monochromatic. Grant hated side-by-side or up-and-down wall ovens. They are either too high or too low, or you are elbowing your partner in the eye while you are basting the Thanksgiving turkey and they’re baking the rolls. We installed ours on opposite sides of the kitchen at counter height, with the warming drawers below. One gas oven, for roasting, next to the range, the other electric, for baking.
My preparations go smoothly, and soon I’ve got the meat seared, ready to be reheated in the sauce last minute, the asparagus in the steamer, the soufflé in its dish, buttered and lined in ground almonds. I’m just putting the soufflé in the fridge to hang out till I bake it off while we eat dinner, when Jag comes into the kitchen. I toss him a bottle of water, which he drains in one go.
“Smells good in here, what are you cooking?” he says, wiping his brow.
“That is the potatoes Dauphinois in the oven. You do not want to know how much cream is in them.”
“Yum. Are the girls coming over?”
“Nope, just for you.”
His face falls. “Oh, Anneke, did we?”
I’m an idiot. I never checked with him to see if he had plans tonight. “No, we didn’t. You going out?”
“I was supposed to, but I can try to . . .”
“Don’t even think of it! I’ll have a feast here with Emily, and you can have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”
“You’ve gone to such trouble . . .”
“Really, I was just in the mood to cook, don’t worry about it. Go!”
“You’re sure?”
“If you don’t, I’ll be horribly angry with you.”
He comes around and kisses my cheek. “Best wife a guy could want.” And he heads off to his room to get ready for his night out.
“Bye, Anneke, I’ll see you later.” Emily pokes her head into the kitchen. “Mmmm. Smells good!”
“Where are you off to?”
“Meeting Georgia for a movie night. Have fun!”
I look around the mess I’ve made of the kitchen. I’m more disappointed that I won’t have a witness to what I think will be the single best meal I’ve ever made, the one I’m going to be proudest of, than I am about Jag and Emily both going out.
“Looks like just you and me, pup. Hope you like steak Diane.”
“I actually love steak Diane,” Liam says behind me, making me jump half out of my skin.
“LIAM! Seriously, you have to announce your presence when you enter a room or I’m going to have a fucking heart attack.”
“Sorry. I’ll get that bell coordinated. I’m done upstairs if you want to come inspect.”
I follow him past the bathroom where we both laugh at the sound of Jag singing a Beatles tune in the shower. He actually has a pretty good voice, and the joy in the way he is warbling makes me believe that he does in fact want to hold my hand. Liam and I head upstairs.
“Ta-da,” he says, pushing the door open, to reveal the closet of any girl’s dreams. He has installed not only the closet components, but the glass doors as well; the island is in place, and the chandelier sparkles overhead.
“Oh, Liam, thank you. It’s perfect!” I say, and without thinking, I throw my arms around him in a jubilant hug.
“You’re welcome. Smells quite tasty down there; how is the big dinner coming?”
“Little dinner, just me and the pup, I totally forgot that Jag had a previous engagement.”
Liam’s face goes dark. “Something he couldn’t switch? In light of the anniversary, all your effort . . .”
“It isn’t our anniversary, if you want to know the truth, it’s the anniversary of the original owners of the house, actually, my own weird thing. And he did offer to change his plans, I insisted he keep them. The cooking is as much for me as anyone else, I’m teaching myself. So not a big deal.”
“Well, if you don’t mind putting up with me a while longer, I’m ravenous, and my evening is wide open.”
Ha, like I’m going to let Liam stay here and have some d
elicious sexy dinner with me.
“Sure, there’s plenty if you really want to stay.” I could kill my mouth right now. I blame Grand-mère’s stupid etiquette training; I might want Liam to go home and leave me to my dinner, but there isn’t a single polite reason to decline his offer.
“Lovely. I will trouble you for a towel, if you have one, tidy myself up a bit.”
“Of course.”
I fetch him a towel, and he heads downstairs to the first-floor bath, while I go to finish the dinner. Jag spins through on his way out to say good night, and is gone in a flash, beard oiled and shiny, smelling of cologne. I’m just flaming the cognac for the steak sauce when an unexpected voice behind me says, “Opa!”
Which is how I singed off my left eyebrow.
More?” I ask Liam, pushing the soufflé dish toward him.
“Don’t mind if I do, Cyclops.” He winks at me.
“You ASS. If you hadn’t scared the SHIT out of me and distracted me, I wouldn’t have leaned over the stupid pan.”
“I’m kidding. It’s not terrible.”
He’s lying. It’s terrible. I went to the bathroom after to find that my left eyebrow was weirdly curly, and when I ran my finger over it, the whole thing crumbled and smeared black ash across my forehead. Now my eyebrow is just a bit of stubble over my eye, and I look strangely surprised. And the kitchen smells like chocolate and burnt hair.
“So much for my eyebrow modeling career.” I can’t help but laugh.
“It’ll grow back, sweet. My sister once plucked hers completely out altogether, and they came back.”
“Older or younger sister?”
“That one? Younger. Youngest, actually.”
“Of how many?”
“Sisters? Six.”
“And brothers?”
His face gets serious. “Was one.”
“Was? I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. He and Mum were coming home from his basketball game, hit by a drunk driver.”
Recipe for Disaster Page 29