A Full Plate

by Kim Fielding

Tully stopped and waited.

  “I’m sorry about the kiss, all right? I thought maybe— You’re still single, right?”

  “Immaterial.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Eddy blew a noisy breath. “I am sorry. I thought maybe— Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. You’re not into me. I get it.”

  Great. At least Tully didn’t have to put up a billboard with flashing lights: BRADFORD TOLLIVER IS NOT INTO EDISON HARRINGTON.

  Then Tully had a random thought. “Is your first name really Edison?” It seemed awfully coincidental for a man who wanted to be the next Ford/Wright/Jobs. It was also somewhat dissonant, now that he really considered it.

  Eddy stared for a second, perhaps reconsidering his decision not to call the police. Then he rolled his eyes like a teenager. “It used to be Edward. I had it legally changed when I turned eighteen. There. Satisfied?”

  Oddly, Tully was. He grinned. And then he started to laugh because the entire situation was so goddamn ridiculous. He laughed so uncontrollably he ended up staggering to a nearby tree stump and sitting down hard, and when a splinter made an ominous tearing sound on the seat of his trousers, he laughed even more.

  “Are you on something?” asked Eddy, who’d wandered closer to watch but remained safely out of reach.

  Tully was still chuckling. “Nope.”

  “Oookay. Will you still work with me?”

  “Even after I slugged you?”

  “I do admire an aggressive attorney.”

  For a long time, Tully said nothing. An engine droned somewhere far away, and closer, a couple of jays squabbled. He wasn’t used to being out in the countryside, and the relative silence wasn’t as oppressive as he might have expected. In fact it calmed him, encouraged him to inhale slowly and deeply, smelling green things and the hint of moisture in the air. He wondered if this was what it was like near Hair Shaker. Serene. Maybe he’d ask Carrie.

  Eddy stood nearby and scuffed his boot in the weeds. His attempt at patience seemed to take great effort, but he managed.

  “I’ll work on your case,” Tully said at last. He didn’t even know he’d reached a decision until the words left his mouth. “And I’ll give it my best. But you are not, under any circumstances, to make even minor sexual overtures toward me.”

  “Sexual overture. That sounds like a really fun night at the symphony.”

  “Do I need to put it in writing?”

  Eddy held up his palms. “Kidding, kidding. Fine. No kissing.”

  “No touching at all beyond a handshake. No asking out. No innuendos. We discuss your factory and the legal matters pertinent thereto, and that’s it.”

  “All right.”

  They made a few arrangements after that. Eddy needed to get a lot of paperwork to Tully, and Tully needed to spend considerable time researching. They agreed to meet again in two weeks—in a mud-free conference room at the firm.

  They shook hands before departing, the exchange brief and entirely businesslike. “I’m glad you’re on board,” said Eddy.

  Tully nodded, got into his car, and drove away. He was still going to have to go home and change clothes, but the tropical island plans would have to wait.

  Chapter Seven

  FALL settled in over the following weeks, but Tully barely noticed. He spent most of his waking hours bent over papers, books, or a computer screen, taking breaks for his gym workouts. Occasionally he met with Eddy, who kept their interactions professional. Tully saw Sage only in passing, but a steady stream of delicious dishes appeared in the kitchen, keeping him well-fed despite his exhausting schedule.

  He found the research interesting and didn’t mind doing it, but one gray Sunday, torpor overcame his work ethic and he dozed off on the couch, his laptop perched on his stomach.

  “You’re gonna break this thing.”

  Tully blinked awake to discover Sage standing over him, a smile on his face and Tully’s computer in his hands. “Wha?” Tully asked groggily.

  “It slid right off you. Almost hit the coffee table. Good thing you have the rug.” Sage set the laptop on the table in question.

  “Oh,” said Tully as he sat up. “Thanks. I must’ve nodded off.”

  “You were snoring like a drunken longshoreman.”

  “Get a lot of those in Hair Shaker, do you?”

  “My hometown is full of surprises.”

  Chuckling, Tully stretched the kinks from his back and shoulders. The couch was comfortable enough for sitting but not all that great for sleeping. “I should get back to work,” he said. But he didn’t reach for the laptop or for the pen and legal pad next to it, because Sage stood nearby with the faint scent of spices emanating from his clothes. “Have you been cooking already?”

  “A little. Got an experimental casserole going in the oven. If it turns out okay, it’ll last you till I get back.”

  Right. Because it was Sunday, which meant Sage would head east after he got off work.

  “Do any of your experiments not turn out okay?” asked Tully.

  “Now and then.” Sage snorted. “A while back I had this idea that maybe it would be interesting to make bizcochitos with bits of black licorice, ’cause usually—”

  “Bizcochitos?”

  “A kind of cookie. Usually folks flavor them with anise, but I decided to try licorice pieces instead. It was nasty. Baking’s not really my best thing anyway.” He rubbed his chin.

  “There’s no licorice in the casserole, is there?”

  “Nope. And no poppy seeds either, ’cause I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Homicide by spicing. That would be a new one for the DA, I bet.” Tully eyed the computer but couldn’t bring himself to pick it up.

  “Come grocery shopping with me,” said Sage.

  “What?”

  “We need a few things. And you need a break. Fresh air.”

  Tully glanced out the window. “It’s raining.”

  “Of course it’s raining. It’s Portland in November. You won’t melt.”

  Suddenly Tully realized that if he didn’t do something, he was very much in danger of leaping to his feet and kissing Sage again. Which would make him no better than Eddy. Worse, because Sage was trapped more thoroughly with Tully than Tully ever had been with Eddy.

  “Okay,” said Tully. “Let me go change.”

  Sage grinned and clapped his hands.

  They ended up walking all the way to the Whole Foods in the Pearl District, which was farther than Tully expected, and they got misted on as they went. But he didn’t mind because Sage turned out to be good company. Sometimes Sage asked Tully about a shop or landmark as they passed by, and Tully realized that with Sage’s long hours and weekly trips home, he’d had little opportunity to get to know the city.

  “What’s the deal with those things?” Sage asked, pointing at a four-bowl drinking fountain. “There’s lots of ’em.”

  Tully knew this one, thanks to a historical walking tour the firm had conducted as part of a Christmas celebration. “Benson Bubblers. This rich guy, Simon Benson—same one the hotel downtown is named after—was angry that his employees were getting drunk during lunch. So he gave the city a bunch of money to install these fountains. He figured the workers would drink water instead.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I’m doubtful. Yet the bubblers remain.”

  When they came to another fountain, Sage took a drink from it, and Tully sipped from the opposite bowl.

  At the next corner, a bicyclist zipped past and splashed them both from a puddle, but Tully and Sage laughed.

  “That kind of thing doesn’t happen much back home,” Sage said. “But once I almost hit an Angus steer with my truck. Damn thing was standing in the middle of the road in the dead of night.”

  “Road hazards vary. My foot got run over by a bus when I was eight. Broke my toes.” And then his father had sued for a hefty chunk of change, not because he needed more money but simply because the old bastard never passed up the chance to add to
his bank accounts.

  “TriMets are dangerous.”

  “Oh, this was the MTA. New York City,” he added by way of explanation.

  “Were you visiting there?”

  “Nope. Grew up in Manhattan.”

  Sage turned his head to glance at him. “Really? No accent. How the hell did you end up here?”

  Tully decided to go for the simplest answer. “I came west for law school and never left.”

  People usually accepted that explanation, but not Sage. “How come? Didn’t you miss your home?”

  “Not really. New York’s exciting, sure, but with my schedule, I wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it anyway.”

  “All work and no play.”

  Tully snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

  They reached the grocery store a few minutes later, and Sage took charge, commandeering a shopping cart and leading the way. Unlike Tully, he wasn’t tempted to pause at the wine displays or the aisles of protein bars, and he barely glanced at the baked goods. He went straight to the seafood section, where he and the saleswoman engaged in a lengthy discussion about salmon. Most of what they talked about meant little to Tully, but he was impressed by Sage’s obvious knowledge. Sage was as comfortable and competent speaking about fish as Carrie was in a courtroom or Tully was at a conference table.

  “But you didn’t get any,” Tully said when Sage walked away empty-handed.

  “I’m gone until Tuesday night, remember? But she gave me a good idea what should show up later in the week. I’ll stop by then.” Sage shook his head. “Too bad it’s early for dungeness. Well, just a few more weeks. When the season opens, I’m going to make you a crab-stuffed salmon steak that’ll knock your socks off.”

  Tully’s stomach rumbled at the very idea.

  Sage chose some chicken breasts and a couple of steaks that made Tully’s mouth water, but Sage made a face at the lamb. “I can get better than that at home.” He spent a long time with the cheese selection too, picking up rectangles and wedges and then putting them down.

  “But you can make cheese,” Tully said. “And it’s really good.”

  “Fresh stuff, sure. But not the aged kind. That’s a little out of my pay grade.” Then he made a triumphant noise and grabbed a large piece wrapped in cellophane. “Remind me to get some crackers to go with this. Mmm, too late for fresh figs, but we can get some dried.”

  Tully took the cheese from him and peered at the label. “Holy crap. This stuff is expensive.”

  Sage frowned slightly and reached for it. “Oh. Well, we don’t have to—”

  “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t realize cheese was so pricey.” Tully placed it in the cart.

  “That kind comes from a Croatian island where the sheep eat a lot of sage. So their milk is salty and herby.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Sage’s expression turned cold. “Yeah, us rednecks ain’t supposed to know nothin’ but dirt and grease, right?” He clutched the cart and began to wheel it away.

  After running to catch up, Tully grabbed the side of the cart, bringing Sage to a halt in front of a bottled water display. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Sage only glared and, when Tully let go of the cart, continued up the aisle. He stopped at the dairy case, where Tully blocked his access to the milk. “I meant,” Tully said, “that you told me yourself you don’t have formal training, and I’m guessing you didn’t have a lot of opportunities to work with Cretan cheese in Hair Shaker.”

  “Croatian, not Cretan,” Sage grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “You also work really hard—your hours are as long as mine, I bet, if we include all the cooking and cleaning you do at home. And you make that long drive every week, so I don’t see how you have any time to study. But you have this encyclopedic knowledge of everything edible. I just wanted to know how you’ve managed to pull that off.”

  Sage’s scowl had been replaced by a different expression, one Tully couldn’t read. It wasn’t hostile, in any case. Eventually Sage shrugged. “You know how you can plunk some guys down in front of a car, and they can take that damn thing apart and put it together, simple as pie, no manual needed? Or some guys, they can spout off words nobody’s hardly heard of—use ’em in sentences, spell ’em correctly—and throw in ten thousand bits of trivia about presidents and volcanoes and the main exports of Venezuela while they’re at it. Carrie’s one of them.”

  Tully nodded. If the opportunity ever arose, he would never be foolish enough to play Trivial Pursuit with her.

  “Well, that’s me with cooking. I just… I see how things work together. Tastes, textures, aromas. And food’s pretty much the only thing that’s interested me since I was little. I used my birthday money to subscribe to Gourmet when I was eight, and I kept that subscription going until the magazine went belly-up.” Sage tilted his head. “Were you that way about law?”

  “Not really.” In fact he’d switched his major several times with no real goal in sight, until his father sat him down and told him to major in political science. And you’ll be attending law school, Bradford, so keep your grades up. Tully hadn’t bothered to argue, in part because the plan seemed as good as any and in part because he hadn’t wanted his father to cut him off. Fat lot of good that had done him.

  “You put a hell of a lot of effort into a job you’re not really into,” Sage said. “How come?”

  “I do enjoy it. And… I don’t know. I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.”

  “But it’s not your passion. Interesting. What is?”

  Tully didn’t have a passion, so he shrugged. “When I asked how you knew so much, that was a genuine query, and a compliment to boot. I wasn’t judging you for being….”

  “A redneck.”

  “Um, of rural origins,” said Tully with a grin.

  Sage smiled back.

  After that, Sage spent an inordinate amount of time choosing yogurts. Tully waited patiently. The last time he’d gone shopping with another person was in his final year of law school, when he’d been sharing a crappy apartment with four roommates and subsisting largely on ramen or mac and cheese.

  Now, it was pleasant to watch Sage concentrating on the task, and to watch the other shoppers wander by. In the refrigerated juices section, a short handsome man was telling his somewhat taller companion—who must have been his boyfriend or husband—to hurry the fuck up with the shopping already so they could get on with their fucking day off. The taller guy was happily humming a song that sounded suspiciously like something from Mary Poppins.

  After Sage finally chose his yogurts, they proceeded to an aisle where he picked out some pastas and two varieties of rice.

  “Don’t we need sauce for the noodles?” Tully asked, waving at some cans. He was teasing, so it was gratifying when Sage huffed.

  “It’s not that hard to make sauce from scratch, and it tastes way better. Healthier too. In fact, if they still have some decent tomatoes, I’ll make up a big batch when I get back, and freeze it. My secret ingredient is fennel.” He winked.

  “Not licorice?”

  That made Sage laugh loudly. “Haven’t tried that.”

  In the produce section, Sage explained the uses of multiple varieties of apples, then thoughtfully considered some squash before apparently deciding not to get any. He held up a piece of golden-hued fruit. “Baking’s not my best thing, but I make an amazing cranberry-pear cobbler. Every Thanksgiving, I turn out a half-dozen batches, and my family—” He suddenly looked down at the floor.

  “Will you be able to go back home for it this year?” Tully asked gently.

  “No. Dolly’s is closed, but I have to work Wednesday and Friday. And I’m gonna have to put on my big-girl panties and deal.” He smiled weakly. “How about you? Do you go to New York?”

  “I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Your family’s not there anymore?”

  “They’re still there.”

  Sage gave him a quiz
zical look before striding swiftly toward the checkout counters.

  They had quite a bit to carry home, enough that they discussed calling a cab. But the rain had stopped and they decided they’d rather walk.

  They were three blocks from the store and waiting for a crossing signal when Sage spoke. “You want to talk about it, or is it top secret?”

  “Talk about what?” asked Tully, who knew perfectly well what Sage was talking about.

  “Right. Top secret it is.”

  They crossed the street. Tully felt like an asshole, because Sage had divulged details about his childhood and his parents while Tully had stayed mum about his. And it wasn’t a secret—it was just unpleasant. But then, the death of Sage’s father and the loss of the family business weren’t exactly comedy material, were they?

  “My father was rich,” Tully said. “Not filthy rich maybe, but definitely nannies, private schools, personal driver, penthouse-in-Manhattan kind of rich. My mother divorced him when I was three, took off to France with her new squeeze, and died in a car wreck in Italy a couple years later. Dad went through three more wives after that. He got older but they got younger.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” Sage asked, his voice softer than usual.

  “Two of each. They’re all half siblings, actually, from the wife before Mom. I’m the youngest.”

  Raindrops began to patter onto the pavement. The groceries were safe in waterproof bags, but Tully and Sage were going to get wet. Neither of them sped their steps, though. Tully made a sour face before continuing his story. “Dad was a leading light in conservative political circles despite the parade of spouses. I didn’t have the balls to come out to him until I was in law school.”

  “And then?”

  “He disowned me.”

  “Shit.” Sage sounded so sympathetic that Tully chuckled despite himself.

  “Yeah. Shit. I mean, it could have been worse. I was living here, so I had an entire continent between us. Being poor was rough, but it sure gave me incentive to work my ass off. And a few years later when dear old Dad kicked the bucket, it turned out he’d never quite gotten around to writing me out of his will.”