MacKenzie Fire

by Elle Casey

  “Will do,” Ian says.

  Ian and I leave the room and both of us let out long sighs. His sounds refreshed. Mine is more depressed.

  He looks at me and I look at him.

  “What now?” he asks.

  I hold out my thumb and smile weakly. “Can I get a ride?”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE RIDE HOME IS ALMOST completely silent. It would have been the perfect time to grill Ian about Ginny and life since Ginny, but I’m too deep into my own pity party at this particular moment to care.

  “What’s your problem, anyway?” Ian asks, as he pulls onto the dirt road leading to the ranch. It’s more like an ice-chunk road now, but I can see bits of gravel and brown smears through the snow that tells me normally this is a place full of dust, rocks, holes, and snakes.

  “I don’t have a problem.” I look out the side window. My chest is achy. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu.

  “You got all sad in the hospital room. You should be happy for your friend.”

  I glare at him. “I am happy for my friend. Why would you say that?”

  “Because. You looked mad when we were there, and you beat it out of there pretty quick. Like you didn’t want to stay.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. First you bang your head on the door trying to get in and then all you want is out.”

  “That’s not what happened.” I look out the window again. I’m afraid if he catches my eye, he’ll guess what I’m thinking, that he’ll see he read the situation exactly right and it doesn’t say anything nice about me as a person.

  “So what happened, then? Tell me.”

  I glance over to see if he’s serious. He sounds like he actually cares. Normally I wouldn’t share my thoughts on this subject with anyone but Kelly, but right now I can’t keep it all in for some reason. I need a priest or something to confess to, but Ian is the only thing I have at hand. He’ll just have to do.

  “I was just … I don’t know. Feeling old or something.”

  He laughs. “Looking at a baby makes you feel old?”

  “No. Well, yes, kind of.”

  “You want to be a baby again?”

  “No, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What is it, then?”

  I can’t believe I have to spell this out for him. “I guess you could say it’s my biological clock or something. Reminding me I’m getting old and running out of time.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right. What’re you … twenty-five? You’ve got a lot of hours left on your clock, believe me.”

  I can’t help but smile just a tiny bit. “I’m almost thirty, actually, and I know I’m not old rationally, but seeing my best friend all settled and with a baby makes me feel like I’m getting left behind.”

  I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Talk about pitiful. I grit my teeth together to keep anything else from spilling out. Ian is so going to mock me hard over this. Here I was, just an hour ago, giving him shit about feeling sorry for himself about something silly. Now who’s the whiney-baby? Yeah. It’s me.

  He pats me on the leg. “Aw, you don’t need to worry about that. Everyone is on her own time schedule. You don’t need to be on hers and she doesn’t need to be on yours. You just need to be patient.”

  I bite my lip to keep from saying anything else. Ian being nice and understanding is not what I was expecting. Sarcasm and teasing I can handle. Kindness I cannot. I’m liable to start crying like Andie any second.

  “Here we are, home sweet home,” Ian says.

  Just that phrase makes my heart hurt all over again. Man, I’m in bad shape. Why is he being so damn nice?

  He drives over to the left to make room for a truck leaving the property. We stop when they’re side by side.

  “Where you headed?” he asks his father after rolling down my window.

  “To see the baby and pick Maeve up,” Angus replies. “Why don’t you see to dinner and we’ll join you later?”

  “Sure thing,” Ian says, rolling the window back up. I’m grateful, since it’s snowing again and several flakes were trying to get in and ruin my hair.

  “He wants us to cook dinner?” I ask.

  “Yup.” Ian pauses before driving into his space. “Can you cook?”

  I panic. Then I snort. “Are eunuchs de-nied at the pearly gates?”

  “So I heard.”

  “Well then, you have your answer.” It’s a total lie to say that I cook. I mean, it’s not just a fib or a slight exaggeration, but a straight up bold-faced LIE. But Ian doesn’t know that.

  I wonder how long it would take me to learn if I Googled it?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I HAVE MY ANSWER THIRTY minutes later: not long. This cooking thing is a breeze, apparently. Spaghetti and meat sauce, coming right up.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” Ian asks as I open up different cupboards trying to locate the pans that the online article said I’d need.

  “Of course. Do you have any ground beef anywhere?”

  “This is a cattle ranch, what do you think?”

  I look over my shoulder to find him smiling at me. “Where would I find it?”

  “Freezer.” He sits down at the table in the kitchen and turns his chair so he can watch me.

  “Garlic and onions?” I ask, trying to keep my nervousness from showing in my voice.

  He points to a wooden box on the counter. “In there.”

  “Okay.” I find a big old sharp knife in a drawer that looks like the one in the picture I saw, and put the papery vegetables on the cutting board that’s always out. “So I’m going to cut these up first.”

  “You might want to peel those outer layers off first,” he says as I struggle to figure out where to start.

  “Of course I will. I was just figuring out the best angle. There’s always a best angle for these things.”

  “Uh-huh. If you say so.”

  I work for what seems like way too long peeling off the fine layers of skin that surround the onion and the garlic thingies. When they’re finally bare, I cut them into squares. My eyes begin to sting so bad I can barely see. I think my nose might be swelling too.

  “Holy crap this garlic is strong.”

  “Sure it’s not the onion?” he asks. His tone suggests he knows the answer.

  “It’s both. Gah. I can’t see.” I turn around. Ian’s face is a mere blur through my half-open eyes.

  “Ma’s got goggles in the drawer if you want to use ‘em.” He points across the kitchen.

  “No, that’s alright.” I have no idea why he wants me to wear goggles. Do people wear goggles in the kitchen? I’ve never seen that on TV, and the article didn’t mention it. “I’m almost done.”

  I give up on chopping any more vegetables and just sweep them into a pan with some oil. Some of the onion is still pretty big, but oh well. They immediately start sizzling. By the time I can see properly again, they’re turning brown.

  “Sauce?” I ask, sniffing hard. My nose is running like crazy after the onion incident.

  “What do you mean, sauce?”

  “Where’s the spaghetti sauce?”

  Ian shrugs. “I don’t know if we have any.”

  My heart skips a few beats. No sauce? There was no contingency plan in this recipe for a kitchen without sauce. The ‘Quick-n-Easy Fifteen Minute Spaghetti’ might not be so quick and easy without that main ingredient. Oops.

  He gets up and walks into the pantry. A few seconds later he comes out with a can. “Here’s some tomatoes. Could they work?”

  “Of course,” I say, having no idea if this is sauce or not, but it has tomatoes on the picture and sauce is just tomatoes, right? I put on my brave face. “Open them for me, would you please?”

  “Sure.” He opens the can and hands it to me.

  I stare at it. The sauce inside doesn’t look anything like the pictures on Google. I dump it into the pan with the onions and garlic anyway because I don’t have any choice.

  “S
houldn’t you start the noodles?” Ian asks. He’s hovering just behind me.

  “In a minute. I need some …” I search my memory for the herbs mentioned in the article. “Basil, oregano, thyme, and uhhh … parsley.”

  Ian opens a cabinet right next to me, standing so close I can feel the heat from his body. “Take your pick.”

  I ignore the chemistry building between us and find the bottles I need. I have no idea how much to use, so I put in a few shakes of each.

  “Want me to do the pasta?” he asks.

  I put my hands on my hips and turn around to face him. He’s way too close but I don’t back away. “You seem very worried about the noodles, Ian. If it’s that big a deal, go ahead.”

  I’m actually glad he wants to take over because I’m clueless about how to cook that stuff. Never in my life has that mattered, because I prefer eating out or buying already made meals from this place down the street from my apartment run by cooking school students, but today it feels like a big hole in my life-education. How am I going to impress this man if I can’t cook him a plate of spaghetti? And why do I even care about impressing him?

  I watch very closely as he goes through the process of putting pasta on to boil. Seems simple enough. I could have done it, probably.

  “How do you tell if it’s done?” I ask. “I mean, I know how I tell, but what’s your system?”

  “Throw it on the fridge.”

  My eyes widen. “Throw it on the fridge? Are you serious?” Is that what everyone does? Have I been eating noodles that have been stuck to a wall or that have fallen on the floor my whole life and just never known it? Wow. I really should have tried to learn to cook when I was a teenager. I probably would have been anti-pasta my entire adult life if I had.

  “Yep. You’ll see.” He winks.

  I have to act casual, otherwise he’ll know I’m clueless. “Can’t wait,” I say, going back to my stirring.

  “You gonna add the meat anytime soon?” Ian asks.

  “Yeah, sure. Get some for me, would you?”

  There’s some rustling around behind me and then Ian’s there, holding out a hunk of red meat. It’s frozen solid.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  He shrugs. “Whatever you normally do? I don’t know.”

  My mind goes blank. What did that damn recipe say? I cannot remember. This is a major step, but I don’t have a single memory of its mention.

  I take the meat from him and dump it right in the middle of the sauce. “Thanks.”

  “You aren’t going to brown it first?”

  “No, this way is better.” Hell, I might not know how to brown meat, but I certainly know how to defrost stuff. Most of my meals have to be defrosted first before I eat them, and when my microwave broke one time, I just put everything in the one pan I have and heated it on the stove. This will work. Heat equals melted ice. Simple science.

  “Okay. If you say so. Need anything else?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You can just sit down and relax while I do all the work.”

  “How about if I set the table?” he moves over to another cupboard.

  “Sure.” Why a man setting the table makes me go all silly inside, I do not know, but it does. I’m nearly thirty years old and every meal I’ve had with a guy has been at a restaurant. This feels really intimate and nice. This baby thing has really messed with my head, apparently.

  I push the lump of meat around, accidentally spilling sauce over the edge of the pan. It catches on fire a little and starts to stink up the kitchen. I quickly wave the smoke away until it stops coming up.

  “Smells good,” says Ian from across the room.

  Turning around to see if he’s kidding, I see that he’s not looking at me, too busy setting the table for two. I lose my train of thought when I see what he’s done. There are candles in between the two plates. Were those there before or did he put them there? It strikes me as very romantic.

  I turn back to the stove so he doesn’t see my expression. I’m so confused right now. This dinner by candlelight probably means absolutely nothing to him, right? I mean, we need light and that lamp above the table is kind of dim. But what if it does mean something more than just illumination to him? What if he’s making it romantic on purpose? But then again, what if he’s playing a prank on me, letting me think that’s what he’s doing so that I’ll say something stupid?

  The way our relationship has gone so far, I could never trust him to be serious. And there’s nothing more embarrassing than thinking someone is into you when they’re just messing around with your head. No way am I going to fall for that. He’s still mad at me for almost shooting him. He’s definitely planning some sort of revenge. These candles could be part of that.

  “Are the noodles done yet?” Ian asks.

  “That’s up to you,” I say. “Better start throwing them around.” I can’t wait to see this.

  He stands next to me, using a spoon from a container on the counter to fish a couple pieces out. “I don’t think they’re ready, but let’s see.” Pulling one of the noodles off the spoon, he grins at me. Then, without warning, he throws it against the refrigerator.

  I stare at the pasta as it slides down the front of the appliance and then plops onto the floor.

  “Nope. Not ready.” He eats the other piece on the spoon. “Too hard.”

  I resist the urge to make a comment. Instead, I push on the slightly thawed hunk of meat, trying not to be worried about the pools of brownish-red something that are collecting around the sides of the pan.

  “Probably should’ve given you the ground sirloin,” Ian says, looking over my shoulder into the pan.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s better, that’s all.” He moves over to the table. He picks up a nearby folded newspaper and says, “That chuck has a lot of fat.”

  My heart seizes up. Who’s Chuck? Is he a person in the news or something to do with our dinner? I decide that silence is my best bet for a response.

  I stir the sauce, trying to mix in the brown stuff. Maybe it’ll make the sauce taste better, but I doubt it since it looks pretty unappetizing. It must be meat juice but why isn’t it mixing into the tomatoes? It just moves around making me chase after it with the spoon.

  “So how long have you been cooking?” Ian asks.

  “All my life pretty much.” Damn, that slipped out before I could stop it. I hate when lies get bigger on their own like that.

  “What’s your favorite thing to cook?”

  “Ummm … dinner.”

  He laughs. “I mean your favorite dish.”

  “Oh … uhhh … pie, probably. Lemon pie.”

  “Really?”

  I look over at him. He seems very interested all of a sudden, no longer reading the news about Chuck.

  He puts down his paper. “Lemon meringue?”

  “Of course? Is there any other?” I flash him a fake smile over my shoulder before turning back to face the stove and cringe. Is there a shovel in here? Because I think I just dug my grave a little deeper.

  “Oh, man, that’s my favorite. How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t.” Why did I have to say lemon?! I could have said chocolate or apple or … shit, whatever other pies there are that I can’t remember right now.

  “You’ll have to make me one of those before you go.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” Hello, Google? I need a little help. Or a lot of help.

  “You make your own crust?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t?” Oh, God. What am I doing?! Now I have to learn how to make crust too?

  “Mmmm, I can already taste it. I wish we had some lemons right now. I’d get down on my knees and beg you to make me a lemon meringue pie.”

  My eyes go wide. Could it be possible that the key to Ian’s heart is a simple lemon pie? I feel like I have true power in my hands right now with this knowledge. The question is, do I share this power with a worthy woma
n who will make Ian a happy man or do I use this power myself for selfish purposes? I try to picture Ginny making him that pie and it makes me want to punch her in the face. I think this means I’m going to be making a pie soon.

  “Noodles are probably ready,” he says. “You want me to drain ‘em?”

  His concern for the pasta wakes me up from my pie-making, girl-fight fantasy. “Yes, please. Sauce is almost done too.” The last hunks of meat are still clinging together, but it won’t be long before they’re separate. The stupid brown puddles are getting bigger, but maybe I can just scoop the sauce from around them and avoid them altogether. I’m afraid to taste the sauce and see if it’s fit for consumption.

  What if it’s horrible? I don’t know why, but I’m more afraid of admitting I can’t cook a single thing than having him taste something awful. Maybe because it doesn’t smell half bad. Maybe there’s hope.

  Ian’s busy next to me and then at the sink. A few minutes later he has two plates of noodles held out in front of him. “Ready, Chef.”

  “Ready?” I’m afraid there’s a critical step to spaghetti making that I’m not aware of.

  “For the sauce. Is it done?”

  “Oh! The sauce! Yes, it’s done.” I grab a large spoon and take my time, scooping out tomato chunks, meat, and all the sauce I can find that doesn’t have the brown goop in it. It’s only enough for the two plates of noodles he’s presented me with.

  I look down into my saucepan at the mess of onion scraps and brown goo. “I didn’t make enough for your parents.”

  “Eh, don’t worry about it. I’ll order them some pizzas.”

  I cringe inwardly, realizing that we could have done the same thing and spared both of us this experience. Please don’t let this dinner suck!

  He leaves me at the stove and sits down at the table. “You like wine or beer with your spaghetti?”

  “Wine if you have it.” I’m kind of surprised to find that they drink wine out here. I had them pegged as Budweiser people.

  “Yup.” He gets a bottle from a small collection on the counter. “Andie bought some when she was in Seattle. My mom likes this one a lot. Says it goes good with red meat.” He pours a glass for me and then opens a Sam Adams beer for himself. He’s standing behind his chair waiting for me.