“I think he wants us to leave,” I whisper.
“If I wanted to irritate him, I’d spread the blanket in the living room and have our picnic there.” Sean gets up and grabs the basket. “But then he’d supervise or chaperone or something like that.” He chuckles and holds out his hand. “Besides, I’d rather be alone with you,” he practically hollers behind him as we head out.
“So, why shouldn’t I think Ryan being in love with a woman he never met and only has a picture of is creepy?” I ask as we turn to walk in the direction of the park.
13
My roommates are not on the list of things I want to discuss with Noelle. Hell, I don’t have a list but I want to get to know her, not discuss Ryan.
But, it’s a conversation that could lead to more conversation that will let me get to know her. “He’s a photographer.”
“I got that.”
“Beauty.”
“So, he goes around taking pictures of girls he thinks are beautiful?” Her tone is the same as one might use when describing a stalker.
I take a deep sigh and try to figure out how to explain. “Ryan photographs the beauty in life. Not just beautiful women, but the beauty in life.” Well, that’s about as clear as mud. “It started in high school. It started when he got his first camera.”
Now she’s interested, but I don’t want Noelle to be more interested in Ryan than me. “The girl,” and I use my fingers for quote marks, “is someone he’d like to use in his show or on his website, but he needs to find her to get a release.”
Noelle is looking at me like she’s not sure whether to believe me or not.
“He’s been working on setting up a show. His first one, and he really wanted that photo in the collection so he’s kind of obsessed over it and finding her.”
“So, he’s not really in love with this stranger?” she asks.
“No.” I laugh. “But he was so obsessed with the photo and wanting to find her that we give him shit. Though he said that if her soul matched her face and eyes, he’d be a goner.”
“So, he saw her once and never again?”
Now she’s contemplating the mystery instead of being creeped out, thank goodness.
“Where did he see her originally?”
“This park.” I point across the street as we stop for the light. It’s a nice park and large for being in this part of the city. There’ a big playground and wooded paths that people run on, Nina included. “He was hoping that maybe she lived in the neighborhood and he just hadn’t met her yet.”
“I can see that.”
She’s looking around like she might find her and Noelle hasn’t even seen the picture. “We may never find out.” I squeeze her hand, determined to end any discussion involving my roommate. “So, why did you want to become a chef?” I ask as we head across the street.
Noelle blinks at me like I’ve surprised her with the question.
“Let’s find a spot and you can think about your answer,” I laugh.
“There was no specific time. I’ve always liked being in the kitchen, and cooking. Grams used to let me help her,” Noelle says as we stop near a tree. “It started with cookies.”
We spread the blanket out, out of the way of runners and kids playing.
“So, it was just always there. Not something that you decided in high school or at a career fair?”
“Pretty much. Since I pulled my first batch of cookies out of the oven, I knew I wanted to make more.”
I open the basket and take out a bottle of wine, glasses, and the cork screw. Dylan also packed grapes, cheese, and bread. This is a little much. Sandwiches and chips would be fine. I’m surprised he didn’t throw candles and flowers in there too.
“Did you cook with your mom, too?” After popping the cork, I pour wine into her glass.
“Sometimes.” She takes the glass. “How did you get into construction?”
I feel myself smiling. “Tink. Building sets at the art center.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You were there? At the center?”
“I visited for a couple of years. Before I moved.”
“He taught you ceramics too, didn’t he?” She’s smiling as I hand her a glass of wine. “You mentioned it when you were massaging my shoulders.”
“Yep. I guess he gave me the art bug too. I really got into sculpting.”
“I used to love going there.” She sighs.
I stare at her. I would have remembered her if we would have been there at the same time. I’m assuming Tink took her since he was really involved with the place. I always got the feeling he was part of the team that ran it but I don’t know that for certain.
Memories filter in. I was usually with the ceramics or building stuff but the place was always filled with kids doing after school and weekend programs from music, to acting, to painting…everything. And, there was an older woman in the kitchen. Sometimes a couple of women, and they made cookies.
That’s when I remember the older woman who ruled the kitchen and my jaw nearly drops. “The cookie lady…that was Mrs. Dempsey.”
Noelle laughs. “Yep.”
“Oh my God, how did I not realize that before now?”
“You were a kid,” she points out.
“Patience comes from gingerbread,” I hear myself saying.
“Yes it does. I still remember my first house,” she laughs.
“Those were such long Saturdays, and the best Saturdays.” Damn. I want to go home and make a gingerbread house. I don’t care if it is the middle of summer.
“Drawing up the design, calculating measurements, then cutting the shapes from the sheet and sheets of gingerbread,” Noelle says.
We both grin at the memories.
It was a lesson. Patience to see something through and not hurry. Patience in dealing with aggravation when it fell apart and you had to start all over. Patience for life’s upsets. Patience to work through and create something awesome that won’t fall apart.
“I remember one guy who didn’t build a simple house, at least not like mine.” She says. “His was two stories for the main part, with additions on each side. He even cut out and framed the windows and used candy to make it look like a brick house. He was there the longest. Piping in the frosting then holding the sides together, until he concocted a way to leverage both ends to hold until the icing dried while he worked on another section of the house.”
She looks up into my eyes and I hope to hell my face isn’t as red as it feels.
“I don’t think he talked to anyone, not like the rest of us were talking, as we held our sides, waiting for them to dry, and afraid if we took our hands away it would fall apart. His concentration was so focused it was almost like he was building a house he’d need to live in.”
“Did the kids make fun of him?” I know the answer.
“Some that were jerks but the rest of us were impressed and in awe. I was and then secretly studied what he was doing so I could build a better house.” She laughs. “His was the best house and set the bar. And do you know what?” Her eyes are wide with merriment. “The next year he—”
“—Built a castle.”
“Yes!” she cries. “He had asked Grams to mold rounded gingerbread for the turrets…” she trials off. “Wait, you were there.”
“Yep.”
Noelle leans in and looks at me, then her eyes widen and mouth opens as it hits her. “You are the great gingerbread house architect of the art center!” she declares more than asks.
“I wouldn’t claim that title,” I laugh. But, she did just describe my two houses.
“That castle was epic! With the four rounded turrets at the corner and the sprawling castle inside, and that drawbridge.”
“Stop!” I’m laughing. “It was gingerbread, not an architectural masterpiece.”
“Says you,” she comes back. “Yours is about the only one that didn’t have the roofs slide off in the middle of the night, like mine.” She shakes her head.
; “Because the rest of the house needed to set and settle.” I knew I was running out of time because I used up too much on the sides so instead of half-assing the top, I waited. When we came back the next day, some of the houses were still as they’d been left, some were missing roofs that had slid off and others had completely fallen apart. Mine, both times, was exactly as I had left it.
“Whenever I’m building gingerbread houses, I always think about that quiet boy and his two-story home and castle.”
“That was your mom, the woman who was helping your Grams?” I ask.
“Yep.” She says nothing else and picks out a piece of cheese.
I lean back and stare at her. “I can’t believe that we were in the same cafeteria, two years in a row, and probably more times than that, and didn’t meet.”
Noelle laughs. “What I remember about that kid is that he was quiet and always intent on whatever they were having us do.”
“I was a quiet kid back then.”
“Did you always want to build? Or, is that when it started—with gingerbread.”
I laugh and grab a grape. “It started with a set. It felt good to take a couple of pieces of wood, cut them, hammer, throw up some facing, plywood, add in some frames for doors, all of that. I’m not sure I’d ever felt satisfaction in a job until I stood in the middle of the theatre and looked at that completed set. Of course, guys like Tink did the heavy lifting and dangerous sawing, but I got to do more each time we built.” The two years that I spent at the art center were some of the best times of my life. The only good part between Mom being killed and Baxter. Gingerbread was an extension of that.
“Why didn’t you stick with ceramics and sculpting?”
“I wasn’t that good. Just good enough.” To get me into Baxter. But, I don’t want to talk about me. “So a pastry chef. Has it always been that?”
“Not really. I stayed in school to learn all disciplines and be well-rounded. My first job started off in pastries.”
“And, since it’s one of the things France is known for…”
She grins. “Worked out well for me.”
A moment later the light dims in her eyes. It worked out until she had to come home. “Was it your dream to live there and bake?”
“Oh, no.” she assures me. “The dream was to learn and come back here. Moira studied management; I studied the cooking. Our dream was that one day the two of us would own our own place. She’d manage it and I’d be head chef, or that we’d open a catering business, which now that I’ve worked on weddings, I’d really like to do.” She sighs.
I hope Noelle makes that happen. She was on her way until six months ago but she’s got the education and some experience so it shouldn’t be that hard to get back in the field. “Is Moira going to stay?”
“For a bit. She’s still got a lot to learn but eventually she’ll come back and by then, maybe by then, I’ll have a better feel for New York.”
I raise my glass to her. “To dreams and your future.”
She clinks her glass against mine.
“So, I take it that music isn’t your thing. Not like Kaden.”
“Nobody can play like Kaden. Well, nobody I know anyway.” She takes a sip.
“Not even your mom.”
“Nope.” She grabs the bread and pulls off a piece. Why won’t she talk about her mom? “So, she just baked with you.”
“Yep.” She plops a piece in her mouth and chews, like she doesn’t want to talk anymore. I do the same, but watch, wondering what is going on in her head.
“So, construction. Do you do your own contracting or work for a company?”
“I work for a company. I just had this week off because of jury duty. My boss decided that he didn’t want to be wondering each day if I was coming in so he cut me loose for the week.”
“But, hey, it worked out, right?”
In that I met you. “Yep!”
“You were able to work on the basement. I guess if you were at the day job that would be a weekend and night thing.”
“And it would have taken a lot longer.” I rub my head. “There is still a lot to do but we’ve gotten a lot more done than I thought we would and I’m no longer worried about meeting the deadline on the basement or the nursery.”
“What is the deadline?”
“December first.”
“Do you ever want to do anything else, or is construction pretty much it for you?”
I’m glad that she’s interested in me but I’ve barely gotten to know anything about her and it bugs me that when her mom is mentioned, it’s a one syllable answer.
“One day, hopefully, I’ll be able to quit the construction company I work for and open my own, and it will be strictly renovation and design.” Of course, there are already a ton of places out there doing exactly that, which is why I have one Pinterest Page under one name, and there is another, under my company name, with before and after pictures of work I have done as a sole contractor.
Crap! I hope Ryan got pictures of the basement like I asked him to before I started destroying things.
I guess we could still get them, maybe.
“Why renovation and not new?”
“Character.” It’s the only way I can describe it. “I like old buildings. I mean really, really like them, and I don’t see why they can’t be modernized and still hold the original character.”
“Like your place?”
“I hate seeing so many old homes getting cut up into apartments. That’s what the owner originally wanted, before we moved in. The apartment was already in the attic, which doesn’t really mess with the character, and this new one is in the basement, so it’s not like anyone can see that when they walk in. The bones are good, the old wood gorgeous and I don’t get why anyone would want to destroy that.”
“I should talk to my grandparents about letting you redo their house. It has the character and I think they’ve lived in it since construction, and never thrown anything out.”
“It isn’t that bad.” I laugh. “Besides, it predates them by decades.”
“You wouldn’t know it by walking inside.”
But there is a reason for that and we both know it but it’s got to be hard living there, especially if you have to tiptoe through somebody’s bedroom to get something from the kitchen.
“Was it always like that? When you and your mom lived there?” I’m pretty sure I was told Noelle and her mom lived there until her mom married Kaden’s sperm donor.
“Not so much.” I shrug. “Or, maybe it was.” Why is it that I get this lump in my throat and a tightness in my chest each time Sean mentions my mom? It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I can’ talk about her without wanting to cry so I won’t until I figure this out.
“So, you guys have been friends since high school? Did you go to college together too? All of you?”
“Yep. Best friends a guy can have even when they act like dicks.” He pops a grape in his mouth and chews. I like how he’s all comfortable on the blanket, lying on his side, supported by one arm. Comfortable and at ease with the world and himself.
Have I ever been that comfortable?
Well, not lately.
“What’s your dad like? I don’t think he’s been around?”
Why so many questions. “He’s great. He’s just really busy. We barely have time to see each other. I think I spoke to him more when I lived in Paris than I have since we got back.”
Sean tilts his head and studies me. “Why Paris? There are great culinary schools in the States. At least I assume there are.”
“There are,” I assure him. “I love Paris. My dad took me there many times.” My face heats. I must sound really spoiled to Sean. “My grandfather is from Lyon. He moved here after University. At first he was working in D.C. at the French Embassy, then he got a job at the United Nations as a translator.” I smile. “His gift is languages. He married an American and, soon after, my father was born. Fourteen years later, the marriage ended in divorce. My gran
dfather returned to France, where his parents still lived and my grandmother and Dad stayed in the States. Dad maintained his dual citizenship and visited France about once a year. When I was old enough, he started taking me with him.”
“Did you get to see your grandfather a lot while you were there?”
“Not as much as I would have liked, but it was nice having some family in the country.” I do wish I would have made a point to go to Lyon a lot more than I did. There are a lot of things I wish I would have done while living free in Paris. “Dad would visit me when he flew in to see his father, so that was nice too.”
“And, he’s been there for Kaden, right?”
“Yeah. Kaden wasn’t his, but he wasn’t going to leave him hanging either.”
“So, your parents still got along?”
“Always did. Even through the divorce.” I don’t want to talk about my family. I want to focus on good. My family is good but the bad things have overshadowed that. In fact, I’m kind of surprised at how strained this is. This conversation. I feel like I’m in an interrogation and not a pleasant picnic.
“Do you think you’re moving too fast?”
What is he talking about?
“In looking for a job. Don’t you think you need to take some time for yourself?”
“My bank account says differently.” I snort and take another sip of the dry red wine. Dylan picked another good one. I’ll have to remember it. If any is left. Maybe I’ll take it home, sneak it up to my room and finish the bottle in private.
Then again, Grams may have forgotten that she banned alcohol from the house.
Oh Grams…No, not going to think about that either. The day is too nice for problems, sadness and memories.
“You haven’t stopped,” Sean says, “Or I’m assuming you haven’t, since you got back. This is the first time you haven’t needed to care for Kaden or have to worry about a trial. If I were you, I may have just lazed around in bed all day doing nothing. Maybe read a book or watch television.”
I can’t help the smile. “I may have been tempted, if I had a television to watch. All I have is what Gramps watches in the living room and, well, his shows aren’t mine and it’s not exactly that comfortable or relaxing being around them.” Crap! That came out wrong. “I love them. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”
Rattling Around: The Baxter Boys #5 (The Baxter Boys ~ Rattled) Page 10