It’s a great kitchen but it’s still just a kitchen.
Pulling away, she walks around the island, running her hand over the granite counter. Her eyes widen when she sees the stove. “Six burner with two ovens?”
Dylan and I share a look. Nobody has been this excited about the kitchen, ever. Well, except maybe Dylan.
“So light, bright, uncluttered and clean.”
“That’s because Dylan wipes up before he’s even let a drop fall,” I laugh.
“I hope you don’t mind leftovers,” Dylan says. “Bethany made a batch of Burgoo yesterday so I’m heating that up for you guys.”
Noelle’s eyes widen. “We don’t want to take your supper.”
Dylan and I both laugh. “She made enough to feed an army. Even with this pot we are going to be freezing some for later.”
“It’s really tasty,” Dylan says.
“I’ve never tried it. Isn’t it full of different meats and a ton of vegetables, right?”
“Yep! Yummy goodness,” I answer. “Unless you’re vegan.”
“No,” she assures me. “Besides, anything has to be better than the options back at the house.” She wrinkles her nose and turns, then stops as she sees the wine fridge on the back wall where the back wall to the mudroom used to be.
“That’s why we are here,” I tell Dylan. “Noelle really needs a glass.”
“Help yourself. Red on the top, white on the bottom.” The fridge is floor to ceiling but has never been fully stocked, though Dylan has come close a few times.
“Temperature controlled heaven.”
Her words are almost worshiping. “Pick out a bottle.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You go ahead.”
I don’t know the first thing about wine and only drink it when Dylan pours it for dinner. “I’m kind of a beer drinker.”
“Oh. A beer would be fine too.”
But, it wouldn’t be. I can tell by the disappointment in her voice.
“Red or white?” Dylan asks.
“Either,” she answers.
“Dry, sweet…”
“Dry.” That’s said with determination.
Dylan heads over to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle from near the top. “Try this one.” He hands the bottle to her and Noelle’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no. Don’t you have something cheap?”
“Yep, but you’ll appreciate this bottle more than anyone else in this house will.” He takes three glasses from the cupboard and gets out the corkscrew.
“Really, you shouldn’t.”
“What makes you think she will like it better than us?” I ask.
“Appreciate,” Dylan corrects. “She’s a chef, right, and a sommelier?”
“A what?” I ask.
“Wine professional,” Dylan answers with a chuckle.
Noelle frowns. “How did you know?”
I want to know the same thing. How does Dylan know more than I do? He just met her.
“Your grandfather mentioned it and nobody else would react to this kitchen the way you did if they didn’t cook for a living.”
She takes the glass that Dylan just poured, swishes it around, then closes her eyes and inhales before she takes a sip. The look of ecstasy on her face is almost orgasmic. Maybe I should start drinking expensive red wine.
“This is really good.” She takes out her phone and then snaps a picture of the label.
“What kind of chef?” I ask.
“Pastry, for the most part.” She takes another sip and lets it linger on her tongue before swallowing. This is one person that may appreciate wine even more than Dylan.
I take a sip, wondering why this one is so much better than the ones Dylan usually serves. It’s drier, for one, and it has a hint of cherry? I thought wine was all grapes. I kind of actually like this one. The girls tend to enjoy the sweeter wines, which I can stomach for only so long.
“Your grandfather said you attended culinary school in Paris”
I knew she was in school in Paris but nobody told me what kind. It kind of eats at me that Dylan knows more than I do. He already has Kelsey and doesn’t need to get all friendly with Noelle.
“Mom and Dad insisted that I follow my dream, so that’s what Moira and I did.”
“Moira?” I ask.
“My best friend since I can remember. Her family lives down the street.”
I glance at Dylan and he shrugs. We don’t now a Moira, but if she’s been in France as long as Noelle, we would have never met her anyway. We’ve only lived in this house a few years.
“The Murphys. Two blocks down. Moira is the youngest of ten kids.”
The name still means nothing, but we only know a handful of our neighbors.
“Anyway, she and I went all through culinary school together then stayed in Paris.”
“So, you worked together too?”
“No, she’s at a restaurant, hoping to become the manager one day. I work, or worked, at a vineyard, baking. I’m part of a team that keeps the cases filled with deliciousness when tourists come in for wine tastings, but it’s also a popular destination for weddings, so we cater those as well.” Noelle takes another sip and then sighs. “I haven’t been able to cook anything decent since I got back. The kitchen in the apartment I rented was no bigger than a closet, and apparently I won’t be able to cook at my grandparents either.”
She looks pointedly at me and I’m reminded that I haven’t explained yet.
The wine is so freaking delicious. Of course, that could be because I haven’t had a glass since I got off the plane. I didn’t want to drink around my brother, Dad only keeps beer and Scotch, and my grandparents never allowed alcohol in their house. Not that I’ve ever been a heavy drinker, with the exception of a few weekends after Moira and I moved to Paris and enjoyed the freedom we’d been lacking at home. However, I do enjoy a good wine and this is a very good wine.
But, I’m not really here for the wine. I need to know what’s going on with my grandparents and how bad it is. “Why did you disable the stove?”
“Your grandmother kept forgetting she was cooking. Three times she started a grease fire.”
I suck in a breath. “I didn’t see any damage.”
“That’s because I’ve painted it three times. Your grandfather got to it before it could destroy the kitchen and then the house,” Sean explains.
Grabbing the stool next to the island I sink down on it and take another sip of wine. She forgot she was cooking? I can’t even wrap my head around that. Some of my first memories are of Grams in the kitchen. If she wasn’t preparing a meal, she was baking. She was my first teacher and she always taught safety.
“He’d cook for the two of them but never really learned how, and he’s afraid that she’ll start another fire while he’s asleep and the next time it will be too late.”
“Now that I’m there, maybe we could we fix it?” Surely it can’t be that bad. There’s got to be some way that I can cook and still not have to worry about Grams.
Sean and Dylan are shaking their heads.
“What if she decides to cook while you guys are asleep and forgets.”
“Would she?” With four of us in the house, it’s not like we couldn’t keep an eye on her.
“Last time she decided to make breakfast for your grandfather, it was four in the morning and she wanted to make sure he had something before he went to work,” Dylan says.
A chill runs up my spine. “Gramps hasn’t worked in like fifteen years.”
Dylan adds more wine to my glass. “Your grandmother forgets a lot and gets mixed up on timing, dates, what she’s doing…” He looks at Sean. “She can’t really be left alone.”
“It’s that bad?”
“A form of dementia. Enough that she needs a full-time caregiver.”
“And why they only cook things in the microwave.” At least that makes sense but I can’t live in a house where I can’t cook. And, nobody should live on a diet of packaged, microwavable food
. It’s fine for a quick meal but not a diet.
“I send a meal on Tuesdays and other neighbors have taken a few days so they still get some homemade and healthy food,” Dylan says.
“Why didn’t my mom tell me?” I ask, but how would he know. He didn’t even know her.
“Protect you?” Sean offers. “She didn’t want you to worry?”
Suspicion settles into my gut. “The dresser, against the front door, that isn’t there because it was the only place to put it, is it?”
“Your grandmother likes to wander,” Sean says. “Nothing bad ever happened, but she’s gone out when your grandfather was napping, so for her safety, I made sure she—.”
“—Can only go out back, where there is an eight foot fence around the yard and the lock on the gate is too high to reach,” I finish. This is much worse than I feared.
“Yep.”
“Is that why the doors are all locked upstairs too?” That seemed really odd to me. I got that my grandparents didn’t want to heat and air condition the entire house, but to lock the doors too is rather excessive.
“Your grandfather doesn’t get around like he used to,” Dylan answers. “His hips hurt from years of playing football and then coaching and both knees need a replacement.”
Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me that either?
“Your grandmother wanders the house at all hours and he’s lost her a few times. He can’t keep searching her out because his knees can’t take going up and down the stairs all of the time. Zach’s had to go over a few times to find her,” Sean explains.
“But if all the doors are locked, she only has hallways and will eventually come back down,” I say as the reasoning dawns on me.
“Those were your grandfather’s thoughts and it’s worked.”
I tilt my head and study Sean. “Why hasn’t my grandfather had surgery if he needs it?”
“Can’t leave your grandmother alone for that long.”
“There are caregivers that actually have that job,” I remind them.
Dylan chuckles. “There are but your grandmother won’t allow any females, other than family, because they’ll try to steal your grandfather”
“Seriously?”
“Her mind isn’t as it once was,” Sean reminds me.
“And, your grandfather is too old-fashioned to allow a male caregiver. That’s a woman’s job in his opinion,” Sean explains. “So, they’re stuck.”
“Except, now I’m home.” My grandfather is going to have that surgery. He shouldn’t have to live in pain. “So, my grandmother is physically healthy but her brain is failing her. My grandfather’s mind is still as sharp as a tack but his body is giving out.”
Sean and Dylan share a look and shrug. “That’s pretty much it,” Sean finally says.
I finish off my wine and hope that nothing else has been kept from me.
The oven dings and Dylan takes out a tin of muffins. Then he grabs a basket and lines it with a dishtowel before dumping them out and covering them so that they stay warm. Then he turns to the stove, stirs the Burgoo one last time before putting the lid on the pot and removing it from the stove with hot pads. “This should get you through tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got the Burgoo,” Sean says as his picks it up from the counter.
I grab the basket of muffins. “Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” Dylan grins.
Three nice guys. Dylan who cooks, Sean who fixes things and Zach who plays cards with Grams and apparently also has pretty dresses.
I stop when we get to the door and look back at the house. It’s clean, and even though the living room wouldn’t appear on the cover of any design magazine, it’s not half bad. I think my grandparents said six guys lived here.
I look around again. Six guys, clean house, kitchen to die for, and a wine fridge.
Shit!
“You okay?” Sean asks.
Disappointed. “I’m fine. Just tired.” I open the door for him since he has his hands full and follow him out. I’m not going to lie to myself. I’m attracted to Sean. What warm blooded female wouldn’t be, but I’m pretty sure that I’m the wrong gender to be attracting him or anyone else in that house.
Still, it’s for the best. I don’t have time for a guy in my life, but they could be friends and nobody can have too many of those.
5
Last night sucked. After seeing Noelle back across the street and delivering dinner, she was kind of cool. Not exactly distant, but not quite as friendly either.
Maybe it was everything Dylan and I dumped on her, or maybe it was something else.
I had hoped to sit with her some more and talk, but she got busy in the kitchen to make sure her grandparents, brother, Tink and his friend got fed before she took care of herself.
Noelle allowed herself only those few moments in our kitchen to just be, enjoy wine and talk, but as soon as we left, she switched over to caretaker roll. All I can hope is that she lets someone take care of her and I’d like to be that someone.
Once I turned in, I didn’t really sleep worth a damn and when I did doze off, I had nightmares. The ones I had as a kid of my mom lying in blood and telling me that she’d be okay and to run. She wasn’t okay, but I did run.
At around four, I finally gave up trying to sleep and got up. I think this might be the first time I was awake before Dylan. The only time he isn’t in the kitchen and on his second cup of coffee before anyone else opens their eyes is when he spends the night with Mary. Even when she sleeps here, he’s up at the butt crack of dawn. If I had a girl who wanted to spend the night with me, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get out of bed.
Instead, it was me making the pot of coffee this morning and, as I sipped from the mug, I stood at the front window and looked across the street. Two guys are sitting on the front stoop. I’d take them a cup of coffee but they don’t know me and probably wouldn’t take it anyway because they take this job seriously. Not that they get paid or anything. Every guy that is a part of the local chapter is a volunteer.
A moment later Noelle walks around from the back of the house, carrying two mugs. Apparently she can’t sleep either. Not that I blame her. I’m not sure I’d be sleeping very well if I were her.
I hated to be the one to break the news about her grandparents and I know Dylan didn’t like it any better, but she needed to know, especially since she is going to be living in the same house.
She chats with the bikers for a few minutes and then heads back around the house. I watch her until she disappears, wishing I could somehow take some of the burden from her, but I can’t.
With nothing but time on my hands, I refill my cup of coffee and head to the basement. Maybe working will help. Or, at least it will keep me busy even though I’ll still be thinking about them.
After turning on NPR, I grab the sledgehammer I’d left in the basement the day before, I pick it up and take a swing, punching a hole into the bathroom wall.
That felt good, so I swing again and again and again, even when I don’t need to, but it feels so fucking good to take my anger and frustration out on the drywall and studs. After I toss everything aside to take to the dumpster, I start on the old, ugly green sink, and then the dark wood medicine cabinet, destroying all evidence that this bathroom was last redecorated, or maybe it was built, in like 1975. I’m all for keeping the character of the house, but the character from original construction, not a seventies ugly phase in history.
“Feel better?” Ryan asks.
He’s sitting on the bottom step, sipping coffee.
“How long have you been there?”
“Since you knocked the sink from the wall. Hope you didn’t screw up the plumbing.”
“It’s fine,” I dismiss. “You could have helped.”
“Nah.” He leans back, bracing his elbows on a back step. “You were having too much fun.” He takes a sip from his coffee. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about
.” I lean the sledgehammer against the wall and start picking up the destroyed drywall and chunks of green sink.
“So, the fact that you ran into Tink yesterday, and that there are bikers parked outside of the Dempseys’ where a kid is staying—a kid who witnessed his mother’s death, has nothing to do with this.” He gestures to the mess I created.
It has every fucking thing to do with it. “I didn’t sleep well and the bathroom needs to be bigger.”
“That was supposed to wait, you know, so we had a place to pee while working on the rest of the place.”
I look over at what used to be the bathroom. “There’s still a toilet.”
“What are you going to do, hang a curtain?”
“Since when did you get so prissy and private?” I bite back.
“It’s called modesty.” He smirks.
I cross the room and grab my mug and take a drink of the now cold coffee, my back to Ryan. “I didn’t think it would affect me,” I finally admit.
“The rest of us were waiting for it to sink deep enough to need to come out.”
Sometimes the guys know me better than I know myself.
“We’re here, you know,” Ryan reminds.
I know they are, but it’s not like that can take the nightmares and memories away. “I just thought I’d dealt with this. With what happened.”
“You did, but something like that is never gone. Buried, dealt with, but can also be waiting to be triggered.”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Has it ever happened to you?”
Ryan shakes his head. “My shit’s different.”
It is, even though Ryan has never really talked about his shit. He just has a few scars that resemble gunshot wounds, that he refuses to talk about. Instead, Ryan deflects and focuses on the beauty in everything, not the ugly. That’s the reason why he won’t talk about his past. It’s too ugly and he hates what he was, whatever that was. All I know is that whatever changed in his life made him start finding beauty and the good, and uses his camera lens to do it.
“If Sean’s done destroying things, breakfast is ready,” Dylan calls down.
I didn’t even know he was cooking, but at his words, the scent of bacon drifts down from the kitchen and my stomach grumbles. “We’ll get this mess cleaned up, then head to the lumber store and start building before lunch.”
Rattling Around: The Baxter Boys #5 (The Baxter Boys ~ Rattled) Page 4