He pushed Play, and words filled the screen. “Are there subtitles?”
“I forgot about that.”
He snuggled close to me. “You’re worth a few subtitles.”
I watched, mesmerized, until the scenes in which Babette began to prepare the feast. No one in the village knew what she had sacrificed to make that splendid meal—one meal to open their hearts to friendship and forgiveness, one pure effort. Instead, they saw the food as an indulgence and agreed not to savor it or enjoy it. They planned to shun the gift.
I had shunned the gift.
“Hey, what’s this?” Nick tilted my chin up with his finger and brushed a tear away. “Do you want to turn it off?”
“No, it’s beautiful.”
He leaned over and kissed me gently. “Watch your movie.”
I absorbed every detail of the meal. First the wines, an 1860 Veuve Clicquot and an 1845 Clos de Vougeot, which the diners sipped surreptitiously, but then enjoyed as the feast’s sensory and transformative experience moved them and they finally accepted Babette’s offering without question, as a gift of grace. Then came the sublime Cailles en Sarcophage, “entombed quail,” Babette’s signature dish—the brilliance, the care, the offering, the love . . . When did I forget?
I nestled into Nick’s side as he wove his fingers through my hair . . . and I soon fell asleep.
At least I think I did . . . part movie, part pain, part painkiller . . . images flooded my mind at an ever-increasing rate. The timers were set too short, the ovens too hot, the spices too old, the wine tasteless, the vegetables rotting. I raced around the kitchen seeking perfection, seeking life, but none was there. I couldn’t find it. I worked harder, spun faster as it decayed around me like Miss Havisham’s wedding feast in Great Expectations.
I heard a voice. “Are you okay?” And I felt a hand on my hair. “You’re safe. Just sleep.”
Was it the movie? Was the voice in my dream? It felt real. I turned back to the kitchen, and it was light, and although it looked empty, it was full of voices, happy voices—a kitchen full of people creating, sharing, enjoying, loving. Where were they? I searched; I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them . . .
The next morning I woke to find myself lying across Nick’s chest. He was fast asleep, his head slanted at an awkward angle. I lifted myself off, embarrassed that I’d blabbed, cried, droned too long, and fallen asleep. As I sat up and tried to sneak from the couch, Nick’s eyes popped open.
“Sorry. I woke you up.”
He rubbed his neck while pulling himself up. “That’s okay. I was awake earlier. I must have drifted off again.” He stretched his back. “How’s the hand?”
“It’s throbbing horribly.”
“I should’ve woken you last night. It’s bad to get behind on managing the pain.” He brought me a glass of water and a big white pill. “Are you hungry?”
I shook my head. “Thanks, Nick . . . for everything.”
“Shall we get you back to Jane’s?” His voice dropped. “Your dad may even be there if he left super early this morning.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“You okay?”
I nodded again as he pulled me into a hug. “It’s okay to need people, you know?”
I shook my head minutely within his hug.
He softly chuckled. “Yes, it is.”
I stepped back and swiped at my eyes. “I’m not sure about that. Another week and you’ll be gone too.”
“We can still be friends. Miles don’t have to change that.”
I shrugged and headed toward the door. If I knew anything, it was that I didn’t want to be “friends” with Nick.
Chapter 26
I SAT ON THE BED, RESTING MY HAND ON A PILLOW, AND tried to explain the injury to Paul. “Sliced through the tops of all four fingers along the second joint, right where you fold your fingers to chop.” I held up my hand as if he could see it over the phone, but I refused to offer up FaceTime.
“How bad was it?”
“The surgeon needed to graft some skin from the side of my hand, but he says I’ll only be stiff, no permanent damage.”
“That’s good.”
“I know, but it means I’ll need another week at least.”
“I figured as much.” Paul’s voice sounded resigned.
“I’m sorry, Paul. You’re being so generous, and I’m so close. I mean I was close. I could feel it. Designing those meals, planning for them . . . I was alive. It’s what I’ve been after for—”
“I miss you, Elizabeth.” Paul cut across my words. “I know you don’t want to hear that. I know you’re focused on Jane and Feast and now your hand, and I certainly don’t want to divert you from that, but I need you here.”
“Why?” It slipped out before I could stop it. Part of me wanted to know his agenda even if it pressed an awkward moment.
“Myriad reasons. We won’t go into them now.” Paul didn’t have awkward moments.
“I’ll be back soon. Game on, I promise.”
“Good. Go heal, Elizabeth.” His quiet, firm tone surprised me. “Heal. Then come home.” And he was gone.
I clicked the phone off and closed my eyes, leaning back on the bed. Suddenly life felt complicated, and it had nothing to do with my injury.
I woke up four hours later, startled that I’d slept so long. I wandered to the living room and found Jane reading.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Dad looked in on you and said you were sound asleep.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s running some errands, then grabbing the kids at school. I think he sat by your side a full half hour before I could get him to move.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“He said not to, and I understand. Sometimes I like to watch the kids sleep, knowing that in sleep they are safe and their bodies are healing.” Jane smiled more at the memories than at me. “He’ll be back with them after Danny’s soccer game.” She pointed to my hand. “Does it hurt?”
“Even on painkillers it hurts.” I plopped onto the couch, bouncing it—which hurt more. “I still can’t believe it.”
“What happened? I mean I know what happened, I got to clean it up, but why did it happen?” She curled up next to me, folding her knees to her chest.
“Someone, Brian or Donna perhaps, called Health Services on me. Reported me for running a business from a private kitchen. As a chef, that’s a big deal—at least in New York it would be.”
“Are you okay? Will you lose Feast?”
“No and no. And it’s all okay, really. The guy didn’t ask about my work, so I didn’t lie, and he let me off with a warning because I live across the country. So that’s that.”
“Then what happened to your hand?”
“I wasn’t so calm about it yesterday. I was angry and careless. I just felt lost and alone—again.” My stomach growled.
“What can I make you for a late breakfast?”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
“ ‘I can cook, you know,’ ” she mimicked as she pulled me off the couch and dragged me to the kitchen.
I leaned against the counter and watched her pull out the eggs, green onions, salt, milk, a bowl . . .
“I want to finish Tyler’s food.”
“They’ll understand.”
“I need it, Jane. I’d already told him these meals were gifts. I need to see them through.”
“But you can’t cook now.”
“You could help me?”
Jane looked at me and paused. “Does it matter that much?”
“It does. I feel like I’m wrapped up in this, and for once I’m not trying to prove my worth as a chef or even as a human. I just want to give Tyler something from me, something that can help him. Not much matters more right now.”
“I understand that,” she said. “Tell me what to do.”
I felt deeply and inexplicably thankful. “First, let’s call Cecilia. It’ll be too much for you alone.”
&n
bsp; I reached for my phone, dialed Cecilia, and launched. “Hey, it’s Elizabeth. Are you working today or do you want to cook?”
“I’m off in a few hours. I’ll come right over.”
Cecilia’s enthusiasm washed over me. “Excellent.”
I turned back to find a plate of scrambled eggs sitting next to me. Jane waited. I picked up a fork and took a bite, chewing with a slow, exaggerated motion. “Hmm . . .”
“Hmm . . . ?”
“They’re excellent.” I smiled.
“I know. What do we do now?”
I looked at her, then down at myself. “Get dressed.”
After I inhaled Jane’s yummy eggs, we headed upstairs. Within minutes she was dressed and standing in the guest room doorway. I’d pulled on a short-sleeve T-shirt but couldn’t button my jeans.
“How am I supposed to go to the bathroom?”
“I’ll get you a pair of sweat pants.”
“Not yet. I can’t do that.”
“What’s wrong with sweat pants?”
“What’s right with sweat pants?”
“Forget it. Let your fly hang open long enough and you’ll give in.” She pulled me toward her by my waist and buttoned the jeans.
When we reached the kitchen, the task ahead of us overwhelmed me. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
“No second thoughts now. Cecilia’s coming, and I’m excited about this. It feels dangerous—almost Robin Hood-esque.”
I chuckled. “Here are the lists for the dishes. Let’s pull out all the ingredients and divide them into piles.”
Soon Jane started deconstructing a chicken, and I continued to sort greens and fruits for the smoothies and salads. The doorbell rang.
“How can she be here already?”
I went to answer it and found myself uselessly fumbling with the knob and lock. “I’m getting there.” I finally swung it open to find Nick, camouflaged by a huge bouquet of flowers.
“These are for you.” He stepped through the threshold and kissed me—no brush of the lips, nothing tentative—a full-on multi-second moment of bliss. “How’s the hand?”
I buried my face in the flowers to hide my shock and delight. “Okay for now. Come on in. Jane’s in the kitchen and Cecilia is on her way over.”
Nick narrowed his eyes, clearly asking, What are you up to?
“We’re finishing the meals for Tyler.”
His eyebrows shot into a lock of hair hanging over his forehead.
“Jane is helping me. Cecilia too. It’s import—” I felt my lip tremble. Nick noticed and touched it with the tip of his thumb. I stilled.
“What can I do?”
“Cook?”
“ ‘As you wish.’ ” Nick winked at me.
Princess Bride? I shot him a look, but he’d moved on. I rolled my eyes, sure I was attributing more to those three little words than he could possibly mean.
“You’ve come to join our lunacy?” Jane commented.
“I have.”
“Great. Start chopping these, and I’ll brown this chicken.” Jane pushed the cutting board toward him.
“Should you be doing this?”
“The sum is greater than the parts, buddy, which is good. We have very defective parts.” Jane flashed me a smile.
Exactly.
Nick looked as if he couldn’t quite discern Jane’s meaning, but I got it. It simply meant we were in this together and could conquer anything.
He picked up the knife and started chopping. He glanced over at me, twice. “I’m sensing something’s wrong.”
“Your form isn’t right.” I bit my lip, certain I sounded dictatorial. “Can I show you?”
He held out the knife. I stepped within the circle of his arms and rested my bandaged hand on his left arm, pinning it in place. I then used my right to curl his left fingers under, so the tips touched the board rather than the pads.
“In theory, this is safest. Now take the knife and cut near the curl; use it as your guide.”
“How’s this?” he whispered behind me. I felt a blush creep up my neck.
“You’re a natural.” I ducked out from under his arm and found Jane staring at us, her mouth slightly ajar. “What?”
“You never taught me how to chop vegetables like that.”
“Get back to work.”
Jane grinned, Nick chuckled, and I turned away. Soon we settled in to a rhythm, and it felt comfortable. It felt like home. I looked over at Jane; she was a touch pale.
I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a small pressed ham loaf with mustard I’d made a couple days earlier. I cut a slice and laid it on a plate with a few dried apricots and cornichons.
I passed it to her. “Sit and have this. I made it a few days ago. Think Mary Musgrove’s ‘cold meat’ from Persuasion. I think you’ll like it, and you’re a little pale.”
Jane nodded once, mouthed, Thank you, and sat.
“Now when we get to this dish”—I pulled a messy printout from the chaos and turned back to Nick—“follow the red marks rather than the original recipe. I changed it after remembering some food in A Farewell to Arms. Really, Frederic Henry is either eating or thinking about food throughout the entire book—and drinking. The man doesn’t stop drinking. This is an Italian lentil dish with tomatoes and Gorgonzola, but I want to add parsley and chives along with the dill, and I’ve marked to double the thyme. Use fresh and lay it on the tomatoes for roasting, then we’ll throw it away and—”
“Slow down a sec. I’m reeling that you remember who ate what in A Farewell to Arms.”
“And I want to know what we’re throwing away,” Jane added.
“Nothing. We quarter the tomatoes, put them on parchment paper, drizzle olive oil and balsamic, and then lay the thyme on top. That’s how we’ll get the flavor. Nothing is—”
Nick touched my arm. “She’s messing with you.”
“Oh . . .” I watched him turn back to the cutting board as Jane dropped her plate in the sink. She then returned to her onions in the Cuisinart, Nick continued to cut, and I laid out more ingredients. Nick threw Jane a comment, and she shot it back and then looked to me. I laughed and caught her quick smile. Banter. This was what banter in the kitchen felt like. This was what cooking with others, offering yourself to them, as well as to the food you created together, sounded like—and felt like.
“Thanks, you two. I can’t tell you what this means to me.” My voice cracked.
“Don’t cry about it.” Jane smirked.
I flashed my eyes to Nick, remembering that I’d yelled at him that crying was not bad. He caught it and raised his eyebrows. A shadow crossed his face. “Does your hand hurt? Your face just pinched.”
“How’d you—It just started throbbing again. I’ll go get a pill.” I headed upstairs to grab the bottle.
Jane trailed me. “I need to lie down a bit.”
“It’s too much.”
“Don’t say that. I love it and I’ll be back down; I just need a little rest. Are you okay?”
I shifted my eyes from her gaze. “I’m fine.” I glanced toward the stairs. “He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
“He is. Peter and I have tried to set him up a few times. I’ve never seen him this relaxed. Who knew?”
“He considers me a member of your family. I’m safe—at least that’s what he said.”
“Interesting definition of safe.” Jane walked to her room.
I grabbed the bottle and headed back downstairs.
“I’ll open that for you.” Nick gently took the bottle while surveying the counter. “The chicken is done. I put it there to cool. And I followed your notes for the tomatoes. Check them, then I’ll put them in. You should also check the smoothies and some of the other salads before I seal them, but the quinoa and kale one is still too warm to seal.”
“That’s one you’ll love too. Its flavors are clean, and it’s got some olives and red peppers. It’s Hemingway’s Italian rather than Spanish work. Let’s pull a bit out f
or you and Matt.” I paused. “This was fun today, wasn’t it?”
“It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” Nick came around the counter and handed me a glass and a pill. After I set the glass back on the counter, he put his hands on my waist. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I am so glad I got to be here and do this. It felt like the movie, didn’t it? You as Babette?”
I smiled, feeling my cheeks burn with the width of it. It touched my ears. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To be so skilled, so poured out that you blessed others? Changed others?”
“That’s you.”
“Doubt it. I’ll have to wait to see what Tyler says.”
“This isn’t just about Tyler, and the outcome doesn’t even matter. Look at Jane. You said you two don’t relate, but that’s not what I saw today.”
“I didn’t cook today, and it all looks great. I’m not at Feast, and it’s thriving. Maybe that’s my takeaway.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t mean that and you know it. Enjoy it, Elizabeth. Enjoy what happened here today. Don’t run from it.”
He pulled at my waist, drawing me to him. “I learned something else from that movie last night: Babette used her gifts all the time she lived with them, getting the best produce for the best prices, working hard, but it wasn’t until she completely poured herself out for others that her past and her future came full circle.”
“I think I missed some of that.”
“You were asleep. I’m just saying . . .” Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath, slowing and articulating each word with a meaning I couldn’t grasp. “I don’t want to hide.” The words were significant for him, the movie significant, in a way I couldn’t grasp.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know you. I can’t explain it, but I do—even more now, and I don’t want to hide from that.”
“What do you—” The doorbell rang. “That’s Cecilia . . . but . . .”
“Later.” Nick pulled me close, gently laying a brief kiss on my lips before releasing me.
There were no pleasantries when I opened the door. Cecilia caught sight of my hand immediately and gasped.
“What happened?”
“I killed it. Dr. Wharton operated on it yesterday.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 42