And also maybe when his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and when that warm smile made her toes curl.
“Kids,” he said, “Monica helps me out every morning on the farm. She’s been learning a lot.” His smile broadened. “She’s been learning really well.”
Oh, my. I think he’s proud of me.
He’d never shown her much goodwill. She didn’t know what to do with it. Flustered, she asked, “Noah, is it too early for potatoes?” Her voice sounded breathy, unlike her.
“We might get a few new ones. I’ll show everyone a trick.”
They waited while he got a pitchfork out of the shed and joined them where they stood beside the potato plants.
“This requires real quick work. First, look for plants that have already flowered.” One of the boys pointed to a plant. “Thanks, Tyler. We’ll start with that one.”
Gently, with his good hand he inserted the fork into the mound of earth and extracted the whole plant. Small new potatoes clung to the roots. “Quick now. Take the taters. Gently!” The children worked quickly and when they were done Noah inserted the plant right back into the soil.
“Water,” he ordered.
Back on firm, normal ground with Noah, Monica ran and filled a bucket. By the time she returned, he’d already done the same with two more plants. They were firmly seated back into the soil and he watered them well.
“That’s all we’ll do. I like to leave them to grow to maturity for better yield. Same with carrots. I don’t do baby vegetables. I need to get all the food that I can out of the plants I grow.”
“So will those plants survive and give more potatoes?” Monica asked.
“Yep. It’s early days so they’ll develop more.”
Apparently potato plants were hardier than radish plants. Would she ever understand this farming business?
Hands full, they all returned to the kitchen, where the kids took turns washing vegetables.
Monica wandered around the first floor, studying the books on the overflowing bookshelves. Proust. Kierkegaard. Camus. She’d heard of them all, but hadn’t read them. Ken Wilber. Never heard of him. She tilted her head to read the spine. Sex, Ecology, Spirituality. Heavy. Next to that sat Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.
If ever she needed proof that Noah was too smart for her, here it was. He’d been right to ridicule her all those years ago.
After that thought, she stiffened her spine. No. Wrong. No one deserved ridicule for who they were. She had many fine points, even if Noah didn’t recognize them.
She wandered to the stairway to the second floor.
Her mother used to live here. A wistful knot closed her throat. How she would have liked to have known her. How strange that she’d never known of this house. She wouldn’t go up to the second floor without Noah’s permission—nor would she ask for it. It was enough to try to get him to let her cook the fish her way.
She returned to the kitchen, determined to get those fish cooked in parchment paper. “Noah, I’m serious.” Monica gathered enough courage to push for what she wanted. “I want to cook the fish in parchment.”
“Why is it so important to do it in paper? You know how I feel about wasting stuff. What’s wrong with just using a frying pan?”
Monica picked up a bunch of potatoes sitting in the draining rack and dried them with a kitchen towel. How could she explain how much she wanted to be a true part of this day and feel connected to these kids? “You showed them how to fish and a little about farming. I want to teach them how to cook. The way I want to cook the fish will be an experience they might never have elsewhere in their lives. It will open their young minds to possibilities with food, and with cooking vegetables in a way they will love. One of the boys already said he hates asparagus. How much do you want to bet he’ll love it cooked my way?”
Noah’s thoughtful nod gave her hope. He was coming around slowly.
“Listen, you don’t even have to do anything extra,” she said. “I’ll run into town and pick it up myself. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, but still, I hate wasting the paper.”
“I’ll wash it afterward and put it in the recycling bin.” She pointed to the potatoes the children had scrubbed and that she had dried. “Can you parboil these taters while I’m gone?”
“Sure. They’re minuscule. Should take all of ten seconds.”
By the time Monica returned from town with a roll of parchment paper, the potatoes were done and Noah and the kids were playing cards at the kitchen table.
“We need the table cleared. Come on. Quickly. Put the cards away.”
“She’s bossy, isn’t she?” Noah remarked drily, but softened it with a smile.
“There’s a method to my madness. We’re going to cook the fish en papillote.”
“On what?” one of the boys asked.
“It’s French. Here. I’ll show you.” She snagged a scrap of paper and one of Noah’s many pencil stubs and wrote it down for them. Then she pronounced it again while they read the word.
Monica taught them how to cut huge hearts out of the parchment paper. They lay a fillet on one half of each sheet. “Okay, the only items we’re using today that aren’t local are these lemons I just picked up. Now, squeeze some over each of your fillets.”
Next, each person got two small potatoes. “Slice them thinly and layer them along the top of the fillets. Sprinkle with a little salt.”
She handed them a couple of small garlic scapes each. “Slice them across into one-inch segments. The asparagus is super thin so cut it into the same length bits.”
She studied the meals spread out on the big old kitchen counter and the table where everyone worked. “You guys are doing a great job. Okay, now for some dairy goodness. Put dabs of butter on top of everything. Then add some more salt and a little pepper.”
She folded over the second half of the sheet. “Everyone gather around. This is the tricky part.” She folded over the edges, showing them how to do it properly. Then she did it again, so the food was double-sealed. “We don’t want to lose any of the amazing juices that are going to form while everything cooks.”
She supervised while the kids folded their packets.
“We can’t fit them all into the oven at the same time. Four of you go first and then the other two and Noah and I will follow.”
“But I’m starving,” Tyler said, and she believed him. “I can’t wait another hour.”
“Hey,” Noah interjected. “The beauty of fish is how quickly it cooks. These will be in the oven for how long?” He asked the question of Monica.
“The heat is high. About twelve minutes.”
In a group effort, they cleaned the counters and the table, setting it for four.
After the first batch came out, the other bundles went into the oven while the first four sat down to eat. Monica schooled them on how to open their bundles without getting scalded by steam.
“Oh, wow, this is awesome!”
“I’m glad the scapes didn’t escape. I like them!”
“My mom cooked us asparagus before and I hated it. I really like it like this.” Brad talked with his mouth full, but Monica didn’t have the heart to scold him when he liked her food so much. “I’m gonna get her to do this at home.”
Monica smiled at Noah. Mission accomplished, she thought. He’d taught them all about the outdoors, and she’d taught them how to cook what they’d caught and enjoy it. It felt incredible to contribute.
True to her word, she wiped off everyone’s papers, folded them and put them into the recycle box. The kids helped Noah wash and put away dishes.
Later, after the children had been picked up—and Monica had gotten hugs from all of them!—Noah stood beside Monica in front of her car. It was past time for
her to leave, but she lingered. She didn’t want this thoroughly amazing day to end.
A couple of birds spoke to each other in a tree at the edge of the house. Monica didn’t know what kind they were, but she heard them there whenever she came out to the farm. She should ask Noah. He would know. She kept her question to herself. She liked this stillness, this quiet moment between them.
They seemed to get their wires crossed too easily and she didn’t want that to happen now.
He’d seen the way the children had reacted to the food, and judging by how he’d wolfed his down, he seemed to have a new appreciation for her. For her cooking skills, at least.
They stared at each other. Monica didn’t know what she expected from him, or from herself, after such an excellent evening. She only knew that it had to end, but not how. She knew she didn’t want it to end. Tax her brain how she might, she couldn’t remember a day she’d enjoyed more and yet, something had been bothering her all evening.
She needed to get it off her chest. Because, while overall it had been a great day, parts of it had also been deeply troublesome.
“I’m not a princess, Noah. I don’t live in an ivory tower. It only looks that way.”
He didn’t respond and that irked her. He knew only what he saw on the surface and nothing about her inner landscape.
“While it’s true that I had advantages growing up, they were only financial.” She wouldn’t tell him about all of the hours she’d spent alone fantasizing about having friends or about how hard it was growing up without an extended family, living in an empty, echoing house. Or about all of those years when she had been the town’s rich girl in a county with few wealthy residents, isolated by social conditions that had nothing to do with her. Until high school, the other children hadn’t played with her. They didn’t know how to play with the rich kid, and she hadn’t known how to reach out to them. She had been shy and hadn’t known how to fit in.
Then, in high school, because of her savvy fashion sense fuelled by her love of magazines, especially vintage Vogue—hallelujah!—she’d become a trendsetter. Whatever Monica wore, the other girls wanted to emulate. So she showed them how to do it without breaking the bank, how to use knockoffs to get the looks that she could afford.
“I’ve known tragedy, too. I married Billy because I lov—” She hissed in a breath on a wave of anger and pain and grief that smacked her sideways. The shock of rampant emotions arising out of nowhere left her reeling. Where was this coming from, and why after such a lovely evening? Maybe because it had been so lovely? She’d been robbed of years of happiness. Her husband should have lived by her side into old age.
She was scared, terrified that Billy’s love for her had known boundaries while hers for him hadn’t. He’d been her world. He’d been everything. Had she been worth as much to him? Apparently not. He’d left her too easily, to head off to war, of all things.
She tried to stem the tide of her flaring emotions, but whatever was inside of her wouldn’t be held back. “He shouldn’t have died so young,” she blurted on a wave of pain. “He was full of life and happiness. It was rotten, rotten, that he died.”
She was yelling. The grief she’d kept in check, under tight, discreet rein, spewed out of her.
“Hey.” Noah touched her arm. “Oh, hey, hey.”
“He shouldn’t have gone to Afghanistan. He was never meant to be a soldier. I don’t know what he was thinking. Trying to keep up with Gabe? I don’t know. Why did he have to leave me? It got him killed.”
“It seems strange that he would go just because Gabe was.”
“It’s true.” But was it? She’d put off thinking too deeply about the issue because she didn’t want to learn unpleasant truths. What if Billy had been bored with his life here? What if he’d been bored with her? He’d needed constant stimulation, enough that living with him could be exhausting.
What if she had been holding him back, like a dull old pair of socks when he needed black silk stockings?
The thought caused an ache in her breast.
Billy, why did you go?
She brushed her hands across her cheeks because something was tickling her skin. Her palms came away wet. She was crying. She never cried, yet she’d done it twice today. And in front of Noah, of all people.
“This is ridiculous. I’m over my grief.”
“Apparently not.”
This was too embarrassing. She’d held it in all these years. Why here, why now, did Mt. Vesuvius decide to erupt?
“Sounds like you have a whole lot more crying to do.” In his voice, she heard empathy. She tried to get into her car, desperate to escape.
He wouldn’t let her go, but instead reached for her.
“Please,” she begged. “I have to leave.”
Ignoring her, he wrapped his strong arms—cast and all—around her and nested her head against his comforting chest. It was her undoing.
“It’s been five years,” she said, her voice a whisper now, clogged with tears. “I should be all done by now. I thought I was. Men just make me so angry. You make me angry, Noah. Sometimes you like me and sometimes you don’t.” It should have come out sounding more dignified than it did, but the flannel of Noah’s shirt and her stuffed-up nose made her sound childlike. In her effort to ease her pain, she couldn’t seem to tunnel closely enough to this man she respected, but didn’t really like. Well, not much. Okay, maybe a little.
He held her until she’d cried herself out, his heart beating a steady, calming rhythm beneath her ear. His arms across her back offered a warm hard support that didn’t flag. His cast dug into her right side.
“You okay?”
She nodded, too exhausted to speak.
“You sure?”
They stayed that way for long minutes while Monica hiccuped a couple of times before finally settling into an easy silence. This version of Noah was nice. She could stay here for hours.
He felt even better than Gabe.
She brushed her hand across his shirt. “Needs fabric softener.”
“What?” His voice rumbled up from deep in his torso.
“I remarked that your shirt is rough. Next time, throw a quarter of a cup of fabric softener into the wash.”
When he laughed, her head bobbed against his chest. “Now I know you’re back to yourself.” He set her away from him.
Her embarrassment had evaporated. Maybe it was because he’d held her effortlessly without being self-conscious. Or maybe it was because he’d laughed at her about the fabric softener. In that laugh, she hadn’t heard derision, but something akin to tenderness. Maybe he liked her peculiarities.
She rummaged in her purse until she found a tissue.
“You really need to start using cotton handkerchiefs—”
With a look, she silenced him. “Not now, Noah. I promise to pick some up, but I’m raw at the moment. I don’t need criticism.”
“Okay. You’re right.”
She dried the last vestiges of grief from her cheeks, feeling lighter than she had since Billy’s death.
For a long while, she stared at the fields, drawing a semblance of peace from the beauty of nature, as Gabe had taught her.
She thought back to when her experience of the town had started to shift, and when the town’s perception of her had changed. Sure, she’d earned respect when showing her high school friends how to dress, but the real change had come with Billy.
Billy had bought acceptance for her with the currency of his good nature and popularity, with his childish pranks and hilarious sense of humor. If he thought Monica Accord was okay, then so did everyone else.
Except Noah...
She turned to study his strong profile. After what they’d just shared, honesty was fitting. The timing was right. For once, he’d treated her like a real woman.
“Know what I think, Noah?”
He startled. Who knew what internal musings she’d interrupted? Hard to tell with him. He kept a lot to himself, sometimes hidden behind his intense frown and, at other times, submerged by his good humor. She saw more than people gave her credit for.
“No, what?” he asked.
“I think you call me princess so you don’t have to treat me like a real human being. So you can treat me like a caricature...and a not very nice one.”
“What do you mean?” She smiled, pleased by the hint of defensiveness in his tone—she was on the right track. There was truth in what she was saying and he didn’t like her bringing it into the open.
“As long as you can think of me as a princess in an ivory tower, with all of its attendant clichés, then you don’t have to admit that I’m complex.”
He tapped the fingers of his right hand on his thigh. She was hitting a nerve.
“As long as you think of me as only the shallow, blonde cheerleader from high school then you don’t have to admit I have depth. That I’m a good, sensitive person who cares about others every bit as much as you do.”
She glanced at him only to find his cheeks blazing red. Oh, dear goodness, she had so touched a nerve, but what nerve?
It hit her quickly and hard. She almost laughed aloud, but that would have hurt his feelings.
He liked her. Noah Cameron, to his utter chagrin no doubt, liked Monica. Oh wait, no, it was more than that. His cheeks could probably start a campfire without tinder or matches. Noah was infatuated with her. He had a crush on her.
Well, well, well. How long had this been going on?
She started to smile. He looked so acutely uncomfortable that she dropped the subject, but she turned her face away and grinned.
Why on earth that revelation mattered to her, why on earth it made her feel good, she couldn’t say. She could only acknowledge that it sure did. It sure as heck did.
Safe in Noah's Arms Page 10
