“It was nice.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
Reaching for a large aluminum bowl with cooked elbow macaroni, she added chopped celery, fresh dill, red bell pepper, red onion, and frozen green peas. “Probably.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“I like him because he’s a nice guy.”
“Nicer than James?”
She halted, picking up a small dish with Dijon mustard. “What’s up with the interrogation, Derrick?”
“I just want to know if my sister has finally gotten over her divorce and will start dating again.”
“Graeme and I are not dating in the traditional sense. We love to read, and when he told me the theater in Shelby was featuring films this summer based on books, I agreed to go with him. Last night we saw The Count of Monte Cristo, and the next one we plan to see together three weeks from now is Les Misérables.”
“So, it’s just about books and movies?”
She smiled. “Yes. Did you want me to admit that it’s more?”
“Yes.”
Her smile vanished. “Why?”
“Because I don’t believe you’ll get over James until you become involved with another man.”
“I’m over James.”
“If you say so,” Derrick drawled.
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, Kay, I don’t believe you. Men come in here every day, and some of them flirt with you, yet to you they may as well be invisible.”
“I’ve been single for two years, compared to the nineteen I gave James, so don’t begrudge me if I’d like to remain unencumbered. What do you plan for tonight’s special?” she asked, smoothly veering the topic of conversation away from her.
“I’m going to use the rest of the tomato sauce that’s in the freezer for lasagna.”
Kayana loved her brother’s lasagna, because of his homemade pasta and the tomato sauce and sweet Italian sausage and lean ground beef he used. Whenever it was featured as the dinner special, it sold out completely. “Remember to put aside a portion for me.”
Derrick opened the walk-in refrigerator/freezer and took out several quart containers of tomato sauce. “What you need to do is learn how to make it.”
“I could say the same about you learning to make the sides.”
“Nah, Kay. That’s not happening, because we don’t want to lose customers when they complain about the potato salad and mac and cheese tasting funny. I don’t mind taking care of the meat and main dishes, but I want nothing to do with the sides.”
“Miss Johnson, this came for you.”
Corey handed her a jade succulent plant wrapped in clear cellophane. Asian calligraphy covered the porcelain, hand-painted pot. The attached card indicated it had come from a florist on the mainland. “Is the delivery person still here?”
“No, ma’am. He said his tip was taken care of.”
“Thank you, Corey.” Kayana set the plant on a table, removed her disposable gloves, and dropped them in a trash bin. She’d celebrated her forty-sixth birthday in early May, and maybe someone was sending her a belated gift. Plucking the envelope off the cellophane, she removed the card: Thank you for a wonderful evening—GNO.
Derrick met her eyes. “Graeme?”
She nodded. “Yes. He’s thanking me for last night.”
Her brother’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Nice. He’s a keeper, Kay.”
Kayana had to agree with Derrick. Graeme was the only man who’d sent her a token of his appreciation to celebrate their first date. “I suppose I’ll keep him for the summer.” She told herself that she had nothing to lose dating Graeme.
* * *
Kayana waited until late afternoon to call Graeme to thank him for the plant. She’d set it on a table with potted echeveria ‘blue prince,’ hens and chicks, and donkey tails. She favored succulents. Once she watered them, she allowed the soil to dry slightly before watering again. And the table was positioned under a window for them to take advantage of a full day of sunlight.
“How did you know I like succulents?” she asked when he answered the call after the second ring.
“I didn’t. I would’ve sent you flowers, but they only last for a few days. I’m partial to succulents; that’s what I had the landscaper plant in my garden.”
“We have something in common because your jade plant will make my fourth succulent.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad.”
A slight frown furrowed Kayana’s forehead. “Two out of three what?”
“We both like books and the same types of plants. What’s next, Kay?”
She noticed that he’d begun to shorten her name. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
He laughed softly. “Give me time, and I’ll come up with something. I went to the butcher and bought a roaster. What do I need to season it with?”
Kayana settled back in the chaise and crossed her bare feet at the ankles. “Don’t worry about it. If you’re not busy on Friday afternoon, I’ll come over after I’m finished here and walk you through everything.”
“What about rice?”
“I’ll bring the rice. What else would you like to eat with the chicken?”
“A Caesar salad. Your salad is the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“That’s because we make our own dressing. All gravies, stock, salad dressings, and mayonnaise are made in-house,” she explained. “It’s a tradition established by my Grandma Cassie, and it has continued to the present day.”
“I suppose that’s what makes the dishes at the Café so exceptional.”
“I always believed my grandmama would come back and haunt me if I attempted to change or reveal the ingredients used to make her mac and cheese and honeyed fried chicken. And there’s also my mother’s creole chicken with buttermilk waffles.”
“Are you saying they’re family secrets?”
“Yes. What’s the expression? If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you.”
Graeme laughed again. “I don’t need to know.”
Kayana heard a beep indicating she had another call. “I have someone on the other line. I’ll call you Friday to set a time when I’ll be over. And thank you again for the plant.”
“You’re welcome.”
She tapped a button, connecting her to the caller. “Hi, Leah.”
“Hey, honey. I’m calling to ask if I can host this Sunday’s meeting at my place? It’s not fair that you do all the cooking while Cherie and I sit around and eat.”
Kayana wanted to tell Leah that she didn’t mind cooking because it was what she did seven days a week during the summer season. “I don’t mind at all. Just let me know what you want me to bring.”
“Nothing. Cherie has offered to make the libation and bring dessert.”
“You’re on. Don’t forget to text me your address.”
She ended the call, and seconds later, Leah’s address appeared as a text message. She’d rented a bungalow within walking distance of the beach. Kayana picked up the book containing the complete works of Jane Austen and opened to the bookmarked page in Pride and Prejudice. It was her second time reading the novel, though she’d watched the films and PBS miniseries several times, which helped her to better understand the characters’ personalities. Cherie had chosen Pride and Prejudice when Kayana’s choice would’ve been Mansfield Park, because in that book Austen’s characters were not only more complex, but she had also explored the issues of slavery and adultery. However, she never tired reading or watching movies about the five Bennet sisters’ searches for wealthy husbands not based on love but for economic and social prestige.
Afternoon shadows lengthened, forcing her to flick on the table lamp, and she continued to turn pages until she got a text from Derrick telling her he had set aside a serving of lasagna for her dinner. Closing the book, Kayana went down the staircase to the kitchen to get a bowl of mixed greens tossed with vinaigrette and a plate with lasagna. The minifridge in the apartment was stocked with b
ottled water, juice, and wine. Once she’d transformed the second-story space from storage to living quarters, she’d thought about installing a kitchen, but changed her mind when she realized she always had access to the restaurant’s kitchen. The tub was removed from the bathroom to make space for a washer and dryer.
Flicking on the television, she settled down to eat dinner and watch an all-news cable channel. Derrick hadn’t lost his touch. The lasagna was delicious.
* * *
Kayana alighted from her car, carrying an oversized shopping bag filled with the items Graeme needed for his cooking lesson. She smiled when she saw him standing in the doorway awaiting her arrival. His hair had grown out of the military cut; the gray-flecked ends were beginning to curl over the tops of his ears, while he appeared totally relaxed in a pair of jeans, a gray faded Harvard T-shirt, and running shoes.
He lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Please come in.”
Kayana smiled up at him. “Thank you.” She handed him the shopping bag. “Everything you’ll need for your lesson is in that bag.” She’d called him before leaving the restaurant to tell him to take the chicken out of the fridge to bring it to room temperature.
Graeme closed and locked the door. “Do you plan to grade me?”
“Of course.” She glanced around her. “Where’s Barley?”
“He’s upstairs napping. The minute he realizes there’s someone else in the house he’ll be down. But he won’t approach you if you’re the in kitchen.”
“Is he allowed in the kitchen?”
“No, because I don’t want him to get into the habit of begging for table food. The kitchen and my bedroom are off-limits. Otherwise, he has the run of the house.”
Kayana followed Graeme across the open floor plan to the kitchen. The carefully chosen furnishings reminded her of layouts in decorating magazines with monochromatic colors of gray and blue. Off-white and navy-blue area rugs in the living and family rooms complemented the dark-gray plank flooring.
“Your home is beautiful.”
Graeme glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you, but I can’t take credit for anything you see. I hired a decorator and told her I didn’t want the space to appear overcrowded with a lot of furniture.”
The woman had done an incredible job creating a minimalist ambience that allowed the space to appear larger than it actually was. A large flat-screen TV above a working fireplace was the focal point in the family room. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and Kayana wondered if Graeme had someone clean his house; if not, he was a neat freak.
* * *
Graeme set the bag on a stool at the cooking island, and then picked up his cellphone and tapped a button. The melodious sound of a classical guitar filled the space. “If you don’t like the music choice, I can always change it to something more upbeat.”
“Please don’t,” she said quickly. “It’s very soothing.”
“I don’t believe you brought this for me,” he said when he removed an apron with COOK IN TRAINING stamped on the bib. “Where did you find this?” He smiled and a network of fine lines fanned out around his gray eyes.
“I ordered it online and indicated next-day shipping.”
“Thank you. I really like it.” Reaching into the bag, he took out a roasting pan with a rack, a box of disposable gloves, jars of herbs and spices, a plastic bag of cubed white bread, a yellow onion, several cloves of garlic, a ball of butcher twine, and a jar of chicken stock. “I feel like Santa with a magic bag that never gets empty,” he teased as he removed a bag of romaine, bottles of olive oil, red wine vinegar, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, a jar of anchovy paste, a container of sour cream, grated Parmesan cheese, and a bag of rice. “This is a lot of stuff for one chicken.”
“Chicken dinner,” Kayana countered, correcting him. “Your first attempt will be a chicken with herb stuffing. Once you master this, you should be able to roast a turkey.”
“Do you really think I’ll be able to roast a turkey?”
“Of course, Graeme. The bird may be larger, but the preparation is the same. By the way, do you like stuffing or dressing?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Stuffing is cooked inside the bird, and dressing is outside.”
“I prefer stuffing.”
Kayana pointed to the roaster in a platter on the granite countertop. “I’m going to wash the chicken and remove the giblets. Then I’ll show you how to stuff, truss, and season the bird. Meanwhile, I’d like you to preheat the oven to three-fifty.”
“Should I also program the timer?”
“The roaster looks to be between four and five pounds, so set it for seventy-five minutes.”
Graeme gave her an incredulous stare. “You can tell how large the chicken is just by looking at it?”
She removed a pair of gloves from the box and slipped them on. “When you’ve seen as many chickens as I have over the years, you’ll be able to estimate their weight just by eyeballing them.”
* * *
Kayana sat across the table from Graeme in the dining area, enjoying the meal they’d prepared together. She’d found him a quick study and complimented him when he was able to follow and duplicate her instructions. Her gaze lingered on Barley, who lay on the area rug in the family room.
“You’re a natural when it comes to cooking rice,” she said. “The first time I attempted it, the grains were so sticky they could’ve been used for sushi.”
Graeme chewed and swallowed a mouthful of salad. “How long did it take for you to perfect cooking it?”
The skin around her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Too long. My mother warned me if I ruined one more pot of rice, she was going to ban me from the kitchen. The next time was the charm once I was able to gauge the tenderness of the grains before draining the water, lowering the flame, covering the pot, and just letting it steam until fluffy. Different cultures prepare rice differently, but I’ve never been able to cook a pot of rice where I don’t drain the water.”
Graeme touched the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I wasn’t much of a rice eater until I traveled to countries where rice was a staple. I’m even surprised that Southerners prefer it to potatoes.”
“That’s because African slaves had the knowledge to drain swamps and cultivate the crop that has come to be known as Carolina gold. Rice planters were able to become as wealthy as cotton planters.”
“It’s unconscionable that people felt it was their right to own another human being.”
Kayana was slightly taken aback when she registered derision in Graeme’s voice. “You say that because you’re a Northerner. There are still some Southerners who believe there was nothing wrong with slavery because the Bible says the darker race will be their slaves.”
“That’s bullshit, Kayana! They swear to love God, whom they’ve never seen, yet hate their fellowman whom they see every day. I’m just not buying it.”
Her expression did not change with his explosive outburst. “You sound as if you’re a descendant from a family of Yankee abolitionists.”
Graeme lowered his eyes as lines of tension tightened his mouth. “I can’t say who my ancestors were,” he said so softly she had to strain to hear.
“You were adopted.” The query came out as a statement.
He nodded. “Yes. My birth mother was a college student who’d had an affair with a married man and decided to give me up for adoption.”
Kayana listened, transfixed, as Graeme told her about how his fortysomething, college-professor parents, who were unable to have children of their own, adopted him with the proviso they would never reveal the name of the birth mother. His adopted mother took a break from teaching until he was of school age and then returned as an adjunct. His childhood was remarkable, with his parents taking him with them when they went abroad every summer. By the time he was twelve, he’d traveled to six of the seven continents. His father, who had come from working-class Bostonians, met and married a fellow student, u
naware that she was an heiress. Her family had made its fortune shipping goods from the States to Europe, before they diversified and invested in railroad travel.
“Her Brahman family would not have approved of her marrying someone who was not only not of their social class but also a Catholic, so they eloped. Patrick Ogden had no idea how much his bride was worth until she took him to Newburyport to meet his in-laws. While in college, she’d shared a cramped apartment with two other girls.”
“How did Patrick react to discovering he’d married a wealthy woman?”
“He was very angry and wanted to annul the marriage, but Lauren lied and told him she was pregnant.”
Resting her elbow on the table, she cradled her chin on the palm of her hand. “I thought you said they couldn’t have children.”
A hint of a smile lifted the corners of Graeme’s mouth for the first time since talking about his parents. “Mother was the one who couldn’t have a child. After she passed away, I found her diaries and read that she’d had an affair with the family chauffeur and gotten pregnant. The man took her to someone who performed illegal abortions, and she wound up with an infection that left her with scarring on her fallopian tubes. Her parents never suspected that their very precocious daughter had undergone an abortion or had a penchant for blue-collar men. Her parents finally came around when they believed they were going to become grandparents and welcomed Patrick into the family.”
“It’s not that easy to fake a pregnancy, Graeme.”
“Lauren was aware of that. She waited until she was supposedly two months along to announce it was a false alarm, and that she and Patrick would put off having a family until after they completed their graduate studies.”
Kayana’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “To say your mother was a shrewd woman is an understatement.”
“She was more devious, if you ask me, because she went after whatever she wanted and damn the consequences. She wanted Patrick Ogden, and she got him. She wanted a child, and she adopted me. As her parents’ sole heir, she inherited the house in Newburyport, its contents, and their assets. And as my parents’ only child, I am the recipient of everything they owned.”
The Seaside Café Page 13
