“What kind of pizzas are you making?” he asked.
The pizzas. Right.
Isabel turned the water on the dishes in the sink and cleaned the granite counter surface. “Three different ones. A spicy honey caramelized onion with Portuguese cured ham, fresh cheese and arugula on a traditional crust. The second one is shrimp, olives, and mango on a whole wheat crust, and the last one is a simple version of the classic margherita with fresh mozzarella, basil, and purple heirloom tomatoes.”
It was his turn to stare back. “You had me at caramelized onions. Wow.”
Isabel shrugged. “Don’t be impressed yet. A couple of them are experiments and I’m trying out a white garlic sauce instead of a traditional tomato sauce for the base.” She knew better than trying experiments on dinner guests, but she hadn’t had the time to test the recipes first.
“You’re amazing, you know that? You run a private school by day and make artisan pizzas at night.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Like I said, super powers.”
Her cheeks heated. Darn compliments. She did not have any super powers. Isabel grabbed the edge of her apron and fanned the air around her. “Excuse me, could you open that door to the balcony behind you? It’s getting a little hot in here with the oven on.”
It was only the oven working too well, nothing else.
*
Simon opened the glass sliding door and the breeze blew the curtains. Isabel’s cheeks were flushed but whether it was the oven or his compliment he couldn’t tell. He’d noticed how she always blushed when he complimented her.
She’d changed from the conservative pantsuit and sensible heels she wore at the academy into cropped skinny jeans and bare feet. Her T-shirt was light blue with white letters proclaiming It’s a kale thing, and at her waist she wore a ruffled apron in a floral print.
Isabel Antunes was a contradiction, a very interesting, very attractive one. The more he got to know her, the more he wanted to become her friend. Not a casual friend but a true one. She didn’t trust easily and he understood why. Their relationship at work was delicate, even though he had no intention of taking her job. As he’d suspected, her friend had extended the invitation without telling her. Even if he didn’t understand Portuguese, he’d heard his name through the door to know that she was surprised to find out he’d come, but she’d covered it well when she’d let him in. His presence tonight was an attempt at forming a friendship with her. Simon had taken a risk in coming, but how could he pass up the opportunity to see her outside of the academy?
The kitchen opened to the living room through a double-wide doorless opening. On the sofa, Cristina and her boyfriend sat too cozily in front of the TV, a bit too close for Simon’s comfort. A tall bookshelf displayed tightly packed books and small frames with photos on the opposite wall, and he approached to peruse the book spines. When he found a Portuguese edition of Sherlock Holmes, Simon pulled the first volume out and held it out to her. “Are you a Sherlock fan?”
Isabel looked up from her task. “A friend of mine recommended it.”
“I grew up reading these stories.”
She paused to look at him. Her eyebrows wrinkled, but she didn’t reply.
Simon turned to replace the book on the shelf and hide a grin from her. He hadn’t planned the slip up about something Elliot had told her, but maybe he could start dropping little hints.
He went to help Isabel set the table placed between the counter and the sofa. “You didn’t come to the singles’ activity and I didn’t see you at church.”
She arched an eyebrow, and he had to agree. His words hadn’t come out as casually as he’d intended.
“Just curious, that’s all,” he added. She was still a new member, and he had to keep that in mind.
She turned off the oven. “I was at church. For a bit. But on Saturday I had to wash my hair.”
He eyed her shoulder length hair. “How long can it really take?”
“I bet you don’t know about deep conditioning treatments, do you?”
“Yes, I do. I do it once a month. The tap water in London is very hard.” He kept a straight face.
Her lips twitched. “Then you know what a time commitment it is. We have the same problem in Lisbon.”
Cristina stood from the sofa and gestured toward the television. She said something in Portuguese and motioned them to come closer. Simon walked to the sofa. It looked like an ad for a cooking show of some kind.
Isabel shook her head and replied to Cristina, but Cristina pulled at Isabel’s hand until she sat between her and the boyfriend.
“Sorry for the drama. Cristina thinks I should enter this,” Isabel said to him. When the ad was over, she returned to the kitchen.
Cristina turned to Simon. “Don’t you think she should enter the competition?” She walked in the same direction. “You’d kill it, Isabel.”
Isabel removed the pizzas from the oven and set them on the counter.
“What kind of competition is it?” Simon asked.
“It’s an amateur chef competition,” Isabel replied. “There’s a preliminary audition and if you pass that, you go on the live TV show for two rounds. The first round starts out with twenty contestants who are voted off by viewers, and in the last round the four remaining contestants go face to face in front of a panel of professional chefs, food critics, and celebrities.” She held a pizza wheel in her right hand. “As you see, no pressure at all.”
Isabel called everyone to the table and he found himself seated across from her, the girls on one side and the guys on the other. In the center of the table, the pizzas were cut in squares and arranged on long rectangular white platters. A row of small white bowls with different colored sauces sat in between.
Simon waited. Would Isabel ask someone to say a blessing on the food? Next to him, Cristina’s boyfriend helped himself to the different pizzas and Cristina followed suit. Isabel caught Simon’s eye and gave a small shrug. Her expression was soft and apologetic, and Simon nodded back at her in understanding.
When Cristina’s boyfriend tried to fill Simon’s glass from the bottle of white wine, Isabel and Simon reached over to cover the glass.
“He doesn’t drink,” Isabel said.
“I don’t drink,” Simon said at the same time.
The guy withdrew the bottle and Cristina looked between Isabel and Simon. “You don’t drink at all? Are you one of those Mormons like Isabel?”
Isabel blushed. “What if he is? What’s wrong with that?”
Cristina turned to Simon again. “For real?” He nodded and she went on. “There’s nothing wrong, of course. It’s just kind of funny that I’d never heard about Mormons and now I know two of them already.”
Simon eyed a bottle of something that looked like soda.
“It’s Sumol, Portuguese pineapple soda,” Isabel said to him. He poured himself a drink.
Then she gestured at the bowls. “Those are dipping sauces: lemon-chive, honey with rosemary, and yogurt dill.”
For a few minutes, they spooned the sauces onto their plates and tried the different pizzas, experimenting with combinations.
Simon slowed down and almost closed his eyes. “Wow,” he said. He looked at Isabel. “The lightness of the sauces with the texture of the crust and the rich flavors of the toppings—I don’t know what to say.”
All eyes turned to him. Isabel held his gaze and her cheeks pinked up, her eyes wide.
Cristina chuckled. “It sounds like you know what to say just fine. See now why I want Isabel to enter that competition? She’d be perfect.”
“Truly, this is incredible.” He took another bite.
“Plus, the prizes are fabulous,” Cristina went on.
Isabel shook her head.
Cristina elbowed her. “Really? Tell him what the prizes are and see what he thinks.” She pointed at Simon.
Isabel took the last piece of the arugula pizza onto her plate, then stood and placed the empty platter on the nearby counter. “The secon
d prize is a six-month paid internship at the Tivoli resort, in southern Lisbon, across the river. They have the best chefs in the country.” She sat down and pushed the last platter onto the center of the table. “And the first prize is twenty-five thousand euros in cash plus everything you need for the start-up of your own restaurant in downtown Lisbon.”
Simon opened his mouth to reply, but Cristina’s boyfriend asked Isabel a question as he reached into his pocket. She replied, shaking her head. Then he gestured at the balcony and said something, and Isabel said no again. Whatever it was, Cristina and the guy laughed it off awkwardly. When Isabel started clearing the table, Simon took the empty plates and followed her to the kitchen.
He joined Isabel at the sink as she filled it with water and soap.
She lowered her voice. “Sorry about that. Armando wanted to smoke and I told him no.”
“And then he asked to smoke out in the balcony and you said no again,” he said to her.
Isabel nodded. “Yes, I did.” She drew her hands out of the suds and wiped them on her apron. “And it’s not just because I became Mormon, you know? Apart from all the reasons why smoking is just not good for anyone, even being next to a smoker interferes with smell and taste. And I don’t like that. Besides, all the smoke clings to the walls and furniture.”
“It’s your home; they should respect your rules.” Simon set the glasses by the sink.
Cristina carried the last platter in. “Isabel, we hate to eat and run, but we’re going.” She turned to Simon. “Don’t leave on our account, Simon. Stay and keep Isabel company.”
Her boyfriend stood in the living room and waved goodbye. Isabel walked with them to the foyer and they all talked animatedly for a few moments before she closed the door behind them.
When she returned to the kitchen, he had his hands plunged in sudsy water, scrubbing one of the platters.
“It wasn’t my plan to have you do the dishes, you know.” She grabbed a clean dishcloth and started drying the ones on the rack.
Simon looked over his shoulder and smiled. “After the dinner you served tonight, I’ll gladly do the dishes every time.” He paused. “Not that I’m trying to invite myself over again. But if you do, I mean, invite me, I don’t mind washing.” His neck heated. “I’ll just stop now.”
Isabel smiled. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
Working together, they had the kitchen cleaned and everything put away in a few minutes. It surprised him, this side of Isabel. At the academy, she had a wall around her, always on edge every time he approached, as if waiting for him to say or do something against her.
But tonight she was relaxed. She looked younger, her expression was softer and more open, and Simon wanted to spend many more evenings like this one. It could even be a start for bringing up the subject of Elliot.
He had no doubts now. Isabel was Amélie. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d looked up Amélie’s ISP signature. Combined with seeing his letter in Isabel’s possession when they’d crashed, and the strong spiritual confirmation received when they’d met his first day at the academy, there was nothing left to doubt. Now he just had to find the right time to tell her.
He leaned against the door jamb, searching for a reason to stay a little longer, wanting to prolong his time with her.
Isabel opened the freezer and reached for the box he’d brought earlier. “Let’s see what you have in here.” She looked inside and then back at him. “You’re either very good at guessing or you had an inside tip.”
Simon shrugged. “I asked Cristina if I should bring something tonight and she said if I wanted to impress you, I should get lemon gelato from the Tricolore gelataria.”
“And you wanted to impress me?” She didn’t smile, but her eyes were soft.
“Did I succeed?” Simon couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to impress a girl this much.
Isabel set two white bowls on the counter. “I’m impressed you actually listened to her suggestion.” She scooped out the frozen dessert evenly and held out a spoon to him. “I usually eat mine straight from the carton. But I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
She sat on the sofa, legs crossed. Simon followed her and sat on the other end. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
Simon licked the spoon with the last bite. “This ice cream is really good.”
“It’s gelato, not ice cream.” She scraped at the bottom of the bowl. “There’s a slight difference. Gelato usually has no eggs in the recipe and is churned slower, which makes it denser than ice cream. But you’re right, it’s really, really good.”
“But not as good as your pizza. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
Her spoon clinked against the side of the bowl. “From my grandmother.” She glanced at him with a sad smile on her lips. “The earliest memories I have are of me and Avó Marta in the kitchen. I was too little to reach the counter so she got a chair for me.” Her eyes crinkled. “And the apron was so big.”
“Ah, so that explains your apron collection,” he said.
She raised her head. “When did you see my apron collection?”
He gestured towards the kitchen. “The pantry door was ajar. Impressive collection, by the way.”
She nodded. “Avó Marta sewed me the first ones.”
“Sounds like you were really close.”
Isabel put the spoon down and looked at him. “She was the one who raised me and we always did everything together.” She paused.
Simon leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Isabel. I know the memories are hard.” Couldn’t he say something better than such trite words? Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up.
Isabel walked to the sink and placed her bowl inside. “They’re bittersweet, you know? When I’m cooking, I feel closer to her.”
He was well acquainted with bittersweet memories. “I feel the same way when I read my mom’s favorite books.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Amélie,
This morning the sky was blue. There’s a nip in the air and the days are shorter. I haven’t had to carry an umbrella yet, but I know it’s coming. Until then, I’m determined to enjoy the sun in whatever form it comes.
My job is supposed to be like a 9-5 thing but that rarely happens. I don’t get overtime when I stay over, but I’m getting compensated more than those around me, and that’s not too fair to them or me. Too many misguided expectations on both sides, but let’s not bring that up.
I’m sorry that your last boyfriend was a jerk, but I’m not sorry that he left you. You deserve better than a guy who treats you like he did, Amélie. Nobody deserves to be in a relationship without mutual respect and appreciation, not to mention love and friendship.
Oh, the joys of dating. I could tell you some stories. The last time I went on a date, I let my dad convince me to meet this girl who was the daughter of an acquaintance of his. We’d attended the same uni and apparently that was enough in common to deem us compatible. Yeah, I know, a blind date— we were doomed before we met. The bigger problem was that she was still attending the same uni I had ten years prior. She was only nineteen, a little detail nobody thought to mention. She looked even younger, and here I was at my old age, taking her for a night out. I kept looking over my shoulder for someone to stop and accuse me of leading a minor astray. It couldn’t have been more awkward if we’d planned it.
I’m afraid the girlfriend I had before that didn’t end on a happy note either. What did I tell you? I’m not good at relationships.
And what does it say about me that I want to try again? Actually, I’d like my next girlfriend to be my last one. I’m ready to move on, ready for what comes after the dating.
Always your friend,
Elliot
P.S.—I attached a picture of the little bird who’s been visiting my window sill. I leave him bread crumbs and he leaves me—definitely not bread cru
mbs.
*
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Elliot,
I looked up that little bird on the internet (blessed Google) and it is indigenous to Western Europe. That narrows down a little your possible locations. Keep sending clues. ;)
I’ve never had problems with being lonely before, but lately I find myself yearning to be an important part of someone’s life. This feeling catches me by surprise, sometimes when I’m taking a walk and see couples holding hands, or when I’m in church and see a man place his arm around a woman’s shoulders. I feel like I’m a half of a magnet, pushing and pulling at everyone else around me, and not finding the other half that completes me. I’m not making much sense, I know.
Not too far from where I live there’s a belvedere with magnificent views of the city, and it’s been a favorite spot to go since I was a young girl. Sometimes I go there and sit for a while, imagining I have someone sitting beside me. That’s my pathetic life.
There’s something my friend wants me to do. She won’t stop nagging me about it. I told her it’s not for me but she insists it is. I’ll tell you a secret, Elliot: I really want to do this. I’ve been dreaming about this for a long, long time, and I know I could do it. But I’m scared because there are others who are better than me, and who am I to try it out if I’m not the best at it? So I stay awake at night thinking about it, but in the morning I still won’t do anything about it.
Well, that was a bit too personal. Sometimes I write these emails to you without a second reading otherwise I’d delete them. And there I go again into something I shouldn’t. Let’s get back to a safe topic, like the weather.
I think the crisp autumn weather is here to stay. Some of the shops downtown have started working on their Christmas displays, which is a little too early, if you ask me. I don’t like to think about it until December 1st.
What are your plans for Christmas? Are you going back to London to spend the holiday with your family?
One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Page 7