by May, Lana N.
He parked right in front of the school, in a spacious spot reserved for students. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, adjusted his belt, and stepped out as soon as the doors opened.
He saw her. She saw him. Time seemed to stand still. Was it love? No. Not yet anyway. Cupid’s arrows were long and pointed. They flew slowly through the air. Their target: Johanna and Thomas.
Their first encounter. At least, the first encounter in which they actually perceived each other. He looked deeply into her eyes. She brushed a strand of hair away from her fair face with one hand and used the other to wipe away bits of cream from her cook’s apron. Instead of being wiped away, the little blobs of cream became large spots. She looked at the full lips that seemed to invite her to kiss him but didn’t dare, of course, because she didn’t even know him. His gaze stuck to her like glue. It was like he was under some kind of spell. He was awake, that much he was sure of, but when he saw her, he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off her. A longing started to grow in him; she was captivating. She looked at him with her stunningly soulful eyes. Then Paolo clapped and loudly called everyone to order, ripping Johanna and Thomas out of the spell they both seemed to be under.
Johanna was in a daze as she accompanied Thomas to his cooking station; she let her apron come undone, then she dropped her wooden spoon. They bent over at the same time to retrieve it and lightly bumped heads, which made them both smile shyly.
Paolo turned out to be a genuine master in the kitchen, skillfully and charmingly using his extensive cooking vocabulary; many of the terms were unfamiliar to the students. He was a follower of classical French cuisine; he combined this tradition with fun. He wanted to instill this knowledge into his students in an entertaining way.
Johanna was especially busy this evening—and bewildered because of the magical encounter with Thomas; in spite of or maybe because of this, she was an excellent assistant to Paolo. Though she gazed repeatedly at Thomas, she kept everything under control, as if she’d been working at the cooking school for months. She had natural talent for the work, and Paolo was appreciative. With much love and dedication, she helped the students with their dishes; she brought fresh ingredients and watched Thomas as he struggled to mince his vegetables properly. Wielding his sharp knife, he looked as though he and his vegetables were fighting to the death. The truth was that he was just distracted by Johanna. She seemed a lot more important than carefully preparing the kohlrabi.
Attracted to Thomas like a magnet, Johanna nonetheless tried to appear aloof. She didn’t trust herself to help him, but she had no other choice after Paolo sent her over.
“I’m Thomas, by the way.” He smiled and reached his hand out to her.
“Oh, you shouldn’t do that, or you’ll have to wash your hands again,” Johanna exclaimed.
She instantly regretted rebuffing him.
Thomas nodded, pulling his hand back.
Both were silent as Thomas looked at his main dish, the Stefanie meatloaf.
“Your meat with egg is going to be great,” she said as she stared at his beautiful broad hands and milky-white fingernails. “Um, I meant your Stefanie loaf. Oh gosh. I’m Johanna.”
She almost made a bumbling joke about how she’d thought maybe Stefanie was the name of the cow—but fortunately, a higher power must have intervened.
“Johanna,” Thomas repeated as he smiled. “Jo . . .” He’d heard this name recently and wondered where; he couldn’t quite place it. They stood there tongue-tied, feigning interest in the meatloaf, which sizzled pleasantly in the oven.
“Yes, it’s definitely going to be delicious.”
“Yes, definitely.”
“It’s cooking to a perfect golden brown . . .”
Johanna was abruptly called away to help at another workstation where someone had suddenly fallen ill and thrown up. So much for romance. All that was left now was to serve and eat the meal, so Paolo insisted that Johanna take her break. She didn’t even get to say a proper good-bye to Thomas. They looked at each other longingly as she left the kitchen.
As soon as Johanna’s break was over, she ran as fast as she could back to Paolo’s kitchen. She would have run ten miles just to see Thomas one more time. But Paolo was the only one there, putting all the leftover ingredients in the fridge.
Damn, she thought, and hung her head in disappointment.
11
That Saturday morning Martin and Thomas met for their weekly run. They chatted about their work, Linda, and their last basketball game. There was something else Thomas wanted to talk about, though, something urgent. As they neared the end of their run, Thomas couldn’t hold back anymore.
“I just met someone. Actually, I didn’t exactly meet her formally like on a date, but I saw her, or, I don’t know, I just kind of bumped into her.”
Martin’s eyes widened in surprise and he panted, “What? You met someone? At work?”
Thomas shook his head excitedly. “It was last Wednesday night, at the cooking class. There was this woman there . . . I can’t get her out of my head.” Thomas started running slower, until he finally stopped altogether, his heart racing. “I don’t know,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “There was something between us . . . I mean, maybe it was just a passing infatuation? She was graceful and, at the same time, fragile. I would have loved to take her in my arms and protect her from the world. I don’t know. I’ve never had that kind of intense feeling about any woman in my entire life,” he added dreamily.
“Don’t worry too much about it. Maybe it means you miss Clarissa and you just wanted to be close to someone, or something like that.” Martin patted Thomas reassuringly on the shoulder.
That’s probably what it was, Thomas told himself.
At the bookstore, Johanna found several of the cookbooks Paolo had recommended to her. He’d even written out a list. “Only if you want to, but you don’t have to,” he said as he wrote the titles of his favorite books on three yellow Post-It notes. He stuck the sticky notes in her jacket pocket, so she wouldn’t lose them. “At some point, I’ll write a book, too, Johanna, mark my words,” he added as he zipped up her pocket securely.
In the bookstore, Johanna bought some coffee from an automated coffee machine for fifty cents. The brown brew smelled a lot better than it tasted. She sat down in a reading corner with green plastic furniture that theoretically would have been leather if the bookstore had a bigger budget. She was distracted by an affectionate couple; he gently took her hands, she smiled at him devotedly, and then they kissed. She observed that they didn’t even have books, though book shopping might just have been a good excuse to come here in the first place.
“Well, where is your boyfriend?” asked a sarcastic old lady who sat down next to Johanna and gestured at the loving couple.
The question was ridiculous and an insult to all single people. All single people needed to be protected from such dumb questions. She shot the old woman the nastiest look she could muster.
“Oh, maybe he’s working,” said the old woman as she sheepishly flipped through her book.
Johanna didn’t pay further attention to the couple or her hurt feelings. She wasn’t thinking about Daniel; she was thinking about Thomas.
When Johanna got back home, she found the apartment empty. Martin and Linda were at work. Johanna took her new cookbooks out of the bag and leafed through them. She quickly decided to try out two new recipes. She wrote down the ingredients for red beet soup and pumpkin risotto. She would cook enough for Martin and Linda so that they could all sit down and eat together this evening. She ran out, excited to buy the ingredients.
Thomas had a busy day at the office, but made time to examine the sheet with Paolo’s instructions. The chef had given everyone some simple homework: chop some onions; cook some noodles al dente; give away or, better yet, dispose of your prepackaged items immediately; and surprise someone with a lo
vingly homemade Stefanie meatloaf. The chef had neatly written this to-do list for each participant on small sheets of colorful paper and taped them onto a wooden cooking spoon, a gift for their first evening of cooking.
Examining the spoon, he wondered whether this detail was Johanna’s idea, and what kind of person she actually was. Was she funny? Did she like to go out? Or was she the type who would rather stay at home and read books or cuddle up in front of the television to watch her favorite show? Did she have a boyfriend? She was probably married already. No, she wasn’t old enough for him to assume that, though he wasn’t sure how old she actually was. But she didn’t wear a wedding ring, or he hadn’t noticed one—or maybe he’d just forgotten to look because he was just so content to gaze at her face. Her eyes, to be more exact. He’d never really thought about checking for a wedding ring—until now. He didn’t know anything about her; he didn’t even know her last name, or else he would have looked her up on the Internet. He found the cooking school’s website, which featured an oversized, professionally staged photo of Paolo, looking like the consummate professional with his apron, chef’s hat, and spoon. He scrolled down and saw picture after picture of the employees, all of them afterthoughts next to Paolo, but there was no trace of Johanna on any of the site’s pages. If Paolo was the school’s flagship, Johanna was a stealth submarine.
How am I supposed to find her again? Maybe I should call and ask about her? he thought anxiously. After a few minutes, though, he happily realized that the next cooking class would be in just a few more days. He was being ridiculous, worrying like a lovesick teenager over somebody he didn’t even know. He’d see her again soon enough; a gentle and excited shudder came over his entire body at the thought of it.
Thomas’s cell phone chimed. It was a text from Martin.
Hey, Thomas. Come by tonight for dinner and a beer. My sister cooked enough for everybody.
He had already committed to dinner with his parents, which was a shame, since he was curious about Martin’s sister; he hadn’t even seen her yet. He’d heard for years that their parents’ deaths had traumatized her and that she was kind of odd as a result. Thomas texted Martin his regrets. At seven o’clock, he turned off the office lights and made his way to his parents’ house. He paused when his phone rang. It was Clarissa. He turned the ringer off, but it continued vibrating as he got into his car and drove away.
The housekeeper, Gabriele, opened the door and greeted him warmly. He’d known her since he was a child. Everyone regarded her as a full member of the family; there was no doubt about that. The housekeeper didn’t act like a family member, though; she was much too formal and polite. That said, she liked the job and felt quite comfortable with the family. She would probably keep working for them until way past retirement age.
Thomas’s mother rushed to the door and hugged her son around his neck.
“Thomas, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said as she continued to hug him until he could hardly breathe.
His father was more conservative with his affection. He was the family member that kept his composure; his wife was definitely more passionate. He greeted Thomas, but less effusively than his mother had; he did it in his own way, shaking his son’s hand firmly as he looked him in the eye. His father secretly envied passionate people who felt comfortable showing their emotions. It was difficult for him; actually, it was practically impossible. And that would never change. His son took after both his parents; he seemed to have found the ideal middle ground.
“How’s Clarissa doing in New York?” asked his mother nosily. She accompanied him to the dinner table as she smoothed her slightly wavy, graying hair.
“I’m not sure; I haven’t talked to her since she left.”
“Ah, she’s probably really busy. She’s definitely going to be famous. I can feel it,” she said, and sat down on her chair, which was upholstered in pristine white linen.
Thomas found it interesting that his mother assumed Clarissa hadn’t tried to contact him, when in fact it was Thomas who’d been ignoring her calls since her departure.
His mother loved imagining Clarissa as her daughter-in-law and had been dreaming about a wonderful wedding in her garden on an equally wonderful summer day, with catered food and fine music, for quite a while now. Money would be no object, and no doubt all the requisite wedding clichés would be honored to the max. Thomas’s father wasn’t averse to becoming a grandfather, but his mother wanted grandchildren desperately. The house felt like a hollow, empty shell to her. She wanted as many grandchildren as possible running around to fill it with life again. She’d eat ice cream with her grandchildren, play in the sandbox with them, and even change their diapers when necessary.
“How’s Gertrude?” asked Thomas as he sipped his beer.
“Well, you know, not so well. The doctors are saying she doesn’t have much time. It’s hard on her and on us.” His mother put down her soupspoon and paused, as if taking a moment of silence to honor her friend.
“She hasn’t been able to beat this cancer,” his father said as he gently touched Henriette’s hand. “She’s strong, but she just can’t do it and she knows it.”
Gertrude was his mother’s best friend, a strong and loving woman who’d had a very hard life; two husbands had cheated on her, so she’d divorced twice, and she’d lost one of her adult sons in an accident. Now she had cancer.
“At some point, one’s strength starts to give out,” said his mother emotionally as she lifted her eyebrows. Her face had few wrinkles, despite her age. “Maybe you could visit her; she would be so happy to see you.”
Gabriele served the main dish. Thomas enjoyed it very much. After dinner, Thomas and his father moved to another room to drink some whiskey. It was customary for them to smoke cigars together, though Thomas never actually put the cigar to his lips. He just held it in his hand for the sake of camaraderie with his father. Pretending to smoke when he really didn’t was one of Thomas’s traditions when he was at his parents’ house. In real life, he was a nonsmoker and never so much as touched a cigar or cigarette, even for fun. Why would he? To look cool? He was at least fifteen years too old for that kind of nonsense.
“You look good, Thomas,” said his father with satisfaction as he puffed on his Cohiba.
“Yes, I’m doing well. I hope you and Mama are, too?”
“Yes, don’t worry about us. We’re great. You know, we’re really enjoying traveling a lot,” he said, then puffed on his cigar again and let the smoke blow out his mouth gently as he closed his eyes.
The evening with his parents was peaceful, with good conversation. It was nice as always. Thomas stayed relatively late; then it was time to say good night.
Johanna’s red beet soup and pumpkin risotto were imaginative dishes that didn’t just look or sound good—they were delicious. Linda and Martin declared her their own personal chef goddess.
“Mmm, it’s so delicious.”
“Wow, really great.”
“You should cook every meal.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, though, they changed the subject to Daniel; maybe it was prearranged.
“Now tell me, what’s going on with your new boyfriend?” asked Linda as she laid the checkered napkin beside her plate.
“Mmm . . . Daniel,” Johanna said as she cupped her chin in her hand and thought about it. It was almost a struggle to remember who Daniel was. “Well, I don’t know what I can tell you, exactly. He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not really a couple; we just had a nice date.”
“Well, that’s just swell, now you’re downplaying it,” Martin complained. “When you first told me about him, you were practically on cloud nine,” he reminded Johanna, who was twirling a strand of hair around her finger pensively.
“Yeah, well, I guess I was, but I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she replied as she stood up to do the dishes.
She wished they’d let i
t go. She’d only known Daniel for a short time, and she was concerned about his reaction when she hadn’t invited him in. Of course, maybe she’d feel more effusive about their date at the Thai restaurant if the encounter with Thomas at the cooking school hadn’t shaken her to the bone.
“Hey, would you like to go out with me and some of my girlfriends?” asked Linda as she cleared the glasses off the table.
“Yes, I’d love to!” Johanna responded enthusiastically.
“Good, we’re going dancing on Saturday. It’s a big music festival and we’re leaving the men home,” she explained.
Using her smartphone, Linda found the festival’s homepage and showed Johanna its location. Johanna was nervous because she hadn’t gone dancing in a very long time; she wondered whether she could dance at all anymore. She would have to practice in her bedroom and work on her skills. Johanna had gone out dancing and drinking every week before the night of her parents’ death. Since then, of course, everything about Johanna had changed, and her love for dancing—her dancing-star persona, as she’d thought of it—had been in exile all these years.
12
Clarissa finally got Thomas on the phone.
“I’ve tried to call you a dozen times. What was going on that you couldn’t pick up or call me back?”
“Sorry, honey, I was completely snowed under every time,” he said in his defense, knowing it was a lie. “All hell broke loose here at work. But tell me, how’s everything going in New York?”
“The job is exciting, but I’m not sleeping very much. We’re in the studio from early in the morning to late at night. But it’s going really well, at least that’s what Chris, the photographer, says.”
It was true that Clarissa was working a lot, but she didn’t bother to tell him that all the models, male and female, were spending their nights barhopping all over the city.