“What is in this?” he whispered, eyeing the rest of the ravioli in the container. “The filling—it’s smooth, rich, earthy and spiced.” He locked gazes with her. “And I wasn’t expecting the sweetness. It tastes like autumn.”
She grinned at him. “It’s supposed to.”
He grinned back and thrust the box of toothpicks at Candy. “Try one.”
As Candy taste-tested the “tender pasta pillows,” as Dr. Luke called them, he forced Bridget to detail every single succulent ingredient in the recipe and the exact amounts she used, from the chestnut puree to the amaretto liqueur to the hint of grated chocolate. She wasn’t left wondering if her efforts had been appreciated. Dr. Luke took notes on what she said. He listened to her. And when he bit into his second and then his third ravioli, he gazed at her with heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes.
No one would ever believe her if she said it, but their exchange was almost better than making love. Oh, God. She wanted her life to feel like this moment. The intoxicating sensuality overwhelmed her. She craved this kind of intimacy and appreciation…and she couldn’t stop the powerful tsunami of gratitude, leveled at Dr. Luke, for giving her both.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you both like it,” she murmured, feeling her face flush as Candy, too, expressed her raptures over the pasta. For a few seconds, she’d forgotten Candy was even there.
Of course, much as she enjoyed her friendship with the good-natured hygienist, Bridget hadn’t completely deluded herself. She knew very well that it was his praise, his pleasure she sought. She couldn’t have been more invested in Dr. Luke’s good opinion if they’d been in bed together or, possibly, if he’d been on the Culinary Institute of America’s board of admissions.
Her CIA man was smarter than a secret agent, though, at least when it came to flambé techniques. Faster than anyone with a spatula and grill scraper. Able to roll pastry dough singlehandedly—
“Uh, Bridget?” Dr. Luke said, waving his palm in front of her.
She blinked. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. I’m in your debt.” His eyes twinkled as he licked, then smacked his lips. “I’ll be thinking of a way to repay you. I promise.” And with a final wink, he swiveled back toward the exam rooms and told Candy to bring Mr. Ingersole to number three whenever she was done “savoring Bridget’s magnificent indulgence.” Bridget’s four-hour shift had never flown by so fast.
At home, she sat at the kitchen table and sifted through the three-hundred-plus cards in her recipe box. She flipped through her fourteen favorite cookbooks. She paged through the “Coordinated Culinary Feasts” she’d marked with Post-it Notes in her back issues of Midwest Cooking magazine. The possibilities were endless!
She considered what to make for Thursday: the rice-and-meat-stuffed grape leaves or the vegetarian penne in vodka sauce? Oooh, or maybe lamb stew—everyone always loved that. But what would Dr. Luke love? Of course there was the potent allure of spice. A biryani curry, perhaps? Or chili-chicken and bell-pepper fajitas?
The front door flew open, and Keaton flew through it.
“Hey, Mom,” he called. She could hear him panting at the foot of the stairs, so he’d obviously raced home. He stampeded up to her. “Can I play at Josh’s? He’s got this new game for his Xbox 360 and I—”
“May I,” she corrected automatically. “And what about your homework?”
“I just got a math worksheet and one chapter to read for stupid English—”
“Keaton,” she said in warning.
“It’s nothing, Mom. I’ll be done with both in twenty minutes. A half hour tops. And I’ll do them tonight, I promise.”
“Lots of promises today,” she murmured.
He stood behind her, still panting, and peered at the shrimp jambalaya recipe card she was holding. “Aw, gross. You’re not making that for us, are you?”
“No,” she said regretfully, “I’m not.”
“Oh, okay.” He studied her profile for a second—she could see him peripherally as he scanned her, making judgments. Then, to her surprise, he said, “Sorry. You know I hate shrimp.”
“Yes, Keaton. I know. You’ve made that perfectly clear since preschool.”
“Yeah, I know you know. But sometimes you want us to ‘be adventurous eaters’ anyway and try stuff we hate.” He wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “I’m never gonna like shrimp.”
“Never say never. People’s tastes can change. Even yours.” She half smiled at him, but he only sighed and bounced from one foot to the other, clearly having had enough Mom ’n’ Son Chat Time for one day. Who were those idiots who always prattled on about “quality family time” and such? They must not have had kids so anxious to be away from them that their offspring actually kept jogging in place so as to be better able to zip away once permission to leave was granted.
What Keaton had asked to do wasn’t something bad, it just happened to squeeze at her heart and bring to light the parental-child divide. It painfully underscored yet again how little she was needed anymore beyond the mandatory household chores. Mindless and impersonal duties, which, in performing them, made her time at home feel more like work than her time at the dental office. There, at least, she was seen as a person. Spoken to not at. Appreciated for her efforts.
The front door banged twice in quick succession. Cassandra. Evan. Her daughter bounded up the stairs issuing demands in the form of questions with every step. “Can I take the phone into my room? I need to call Emily to talk about our science project, okay? And can I just grab a granola bar for a snack? I wanna eat it while I talk to her. And I won’t get any crumbs on the carpet, all right?”
“May I,” Bridget corrected faintly as her daughter, a whirlwind of need, riffled through the pantry for her snack, snatched the phone and bolted toward her room.
Keaton, still bouncing nervously behind her, gave another impatient sigh.
“Fine. Go,” she told him. “But be back by five-thirty. And I want you to get your homework done immediately after dinner.”
He was out the door before she could finish the sentence, not even a hasty “thanks” thrown over his shoulder at her as he passed his kid brother on the staircase.
Evan heaved himself up the flight of stairs liked he’d just run the Chicago Marathon. He glanced at her and waved wearily. “I’m gonna take a nap,” he informed her, dropping his backpack in a heap at the foot of the kitchen table before trudging off toward his bedroom. She heard the door click behind him and the distant sound of giggling coming from Cassandra’s room farther down the hall.
She grimaced to no one but herself, then chose a simple chicken, rice and sautéed-veggie casserole to make for dinner that night (very safe), laying aside the more “adventurous” recipe cards for later.
As she reluctantly hid her stack of fun in a cabinet and gnawed on pretzel sticks to stave off her irritation, she couldn’t avoid a realization that’d been dogging her for the past several weeks: She looked forward to going to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But, more than that, she looked forward to it like most people looked forward to their weekends off. How sad and scary was that? And what did it say about her and the state of her life?
When Graham got home, she tried to draw him into a discussion. “How was your day? Anything new happen?”
He shrugged and pecked her with a top-of-the-head kiss. “Nah. Repaired some windows down at the bank on Main. Got a contract for a job at the professional building on State and Kennedy for next week. ’Bout it.” He sniffed. “Smells good in here. When’s dinner?”
She stifled a sigh and glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”
He grinned. “Good. I got time to check the score on the—”
“Graham. Wait. Please. Can we just talk for a few minutes?”
“Why?” He stopped and squinted at her. “Something wrong? Kids doin’ okay?”
“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong. Cassandra’s talking to half the school on the phone, Keaton’s playing with Josh outside a
nd Evan’s in his room, still napping, I think. I just thought that, maybe, with them occupied, we could have a real chat before dinner. Just the two of us.”
He stared longingly down the hall in the direction of the bedroom TV for a split second before plunking himself on the edge of a chair. Bridget felt a rush of guilt for keeping him in the living room, apparently against his will, but the sports scores wouldn’t be going anywhere and in just a few moments their window to talk privately would be gone.
“You good?” he asked. “You worked today, right?”
“Yes,” she said enthusiastically, and she told him about Dr. Nina taking a month-long leave of absence. Then she segued into how she’d made chestnut ravioli for her coworkers and that they’d loved it. But somewhere in the middle of her description of the dental staff’s reaction to the pasta, she caught him gazing down the hall again, and his inattention made her feel silly. She didn’t know how to engage him in conversation anymore. It was like she was wandering around in their marriage alone and had lost her sense of direction. “Um,” she began, floundering, “what games are on tonight? The Bears?”
Graham laughed lightly. At her. “No, hon. Today’s Tuesday. They played last night. I just wanna take a look at what’s been happening in the college leagues and get a recap of the NFL games I missed over the weekend. No big deal.” He batted the subject away with a sweep of his palm. “I know you’re not into it.”
She swallowed. No, she wasn’t—as he put it—into it, but she had tried to watch football games here and there for him. Not that he would ever think to talk with her about it. He had decided she wasn’t a football fan in their first two months of dating, and his opinion never wavered in the years since.
Bridget stood up. It was useless to keep him prisoner here. “Well, I’m going to check on dinner then. Why don’t you go watch your sports show? I—I’ll call you when it’s ready.” She forced a smile.
He sprung up and beamed a joyous smile at her. “Great! Thanks.” And before she could blink, he was down the hall.
Two days later, Bridget was reminded of her love for her work environment yet again as she caught herself all but bubbling over with excitement at the prospect of going to the office. It was crazy. She was like one of her kids on the morning of a big school field trip. Every time.
She dressed for work carefully, knowing she’d be looked at. Knowing she’d be the object of some admiration once they tried her latest creation. She’d found the perfect recipe, and the joy of getting to share it was almost too thrilling to handle. Despite the juggling act that was her home life, she’d managed to shop for and assemble all the necessary ingredients and then carve out the hour it took to make it from scratch. She slipped on her cooking apron and giggled like a schoolgirl.
Imperial Roman Risotto!
It was beyond beautiful. Way past eye-catching. More than flavorful. A far cry from even delicious. It surpassed all of these to produce a total taste sensation.
She cooked the short-grained round rice briefly in olive oil, so as to coat it with fat. She added white wine. Waited as it absorbed, then evaporated over the medium flame. Next came the hot stock, dribbled in, plus diced pats of cold butter and sprinkles of finely grated Parmesan cheese. Then the garlic, the mushrooms, the herbs, until it was blissfully al dente. She had to time it perfectly; she hadn’t a minute to spare. When finished, the risotto must be eaten at once or it threatened dryness. She wasn’t about to take chances like that.
She spooned the risotto into a lovely blue and white china bowl, covered it carefully, whipped off her apron and grabbed her car keys along with a bag with plastic cups and forks for immediate tasting. Then, with a gleefulness she couldn’t contain, she drove to work.
Smiley Dental had the relaxed atmosphere of a diner after closing. A couple of patients were in the back, and Candy was with one of them. Pamela, as usual, was about to bolt, but smelled the aroma coming from the bowl and paused.
“What is that?” she asked. “Your lunch?”
“Risotto.” Bridget set the china bowl on the front desk and removed the foil. “Wanna try?”
“Hell, yeah. I heard about the ravioli I missed.”
She handed Pamela the bag of plasticware, and the other receptionist dug out a fork and scooped a generous portion of the still-hot dish into a cup. She blew on her first forkful and lifted it to her mouth. Then tasted. Pamela’s timing couldn’t have been better. Just as she was saying, “Girl, this is fabulous,” Dr. Luke rounded the corner.
“What has our brilliant Bridget made for us today?” he asked, eyeing the bowl with a curiosity bordering on lustfulness.
Bridget told him.
“Is there some for me?” he asked, looking worried that there may not be any left soon. Pamela was on her second cupful already.
“Of course,” she said, handing him the appropriate plastic utensils and offering him a serving.
He, too, tried it. He, too, raved. And he, too, had seconds when he finished his first cup.
Pamela snatched up her belongings and added one final scoop of risotto to her cup before heading toward the door. “I hate to go. Thanks, Bridget. That was amazing.” And for the first time since Bridget had known her, Pamela paused to really look her in the eye. To let Bridget see how much she meant those words.
“You’re welcome,” Bridget replied, encouraged she wasn’t crazy to have this secret dream of a culinary life. Other people—people out in the real world, people who weren’t even her friends—loved her cooking! But it was more than that. She knew she’d been going beyond sharpening her skills with a few tricky recipes. As she crafted each new recipe, she’d been honing a whole new personality.
Dr. Luke cleared his throat. “You’ve kept me from wanting to eat my lunch twice this week,” he told her, feigning sternness. “And the thing is, Bridget, those were good lunches. But your dishes were just better.” He stared at her with those huge brown eyes for a long minute, and she rejoiced in having taken extra time with her hair and makeup this morning. Sighed in relief at having worn the forest green shirt that always made her feel kind of pretty, not like her usual dowdy-mom self.
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed them. It was nothing.”
“No, actually, it was something.” He fiddled with the plastic fork, bending one of the tines until it snapped off. “Look, I thought of you when I was at home yesterday. You seemed to like the cannoli and—”
“I loved the cannoli,” she said aloud, interrupting, but all the while her brain shouted silently, He thought of me when he was at home?!
He grinned. “Good. And you made that incredible chestnut ravioli on Tuesday. And now—risotto.” He paused to swallow or catch his breath, Bridget wasn’t sure which. “It’s pretty clear you’re an Italian food lover. So, I’ve got a restaurant for you, and I’d really like it if you’d let me treat you to lunch sometime soon so, you know, I can thank you for helping to make this tough time in the office a little easier.”
He didn’t give her a chance to answer before starting to flip through the calendar next to the reception desk. “Oh. This might work. You know the office is going to be closed on Thursday, October fourteenth. Hygienists have a conference. I know it’s not for a few weeks yet but, if you haven’t already made plans for that day, maybe I could take you out then?”
“I—um—” A lunch date with Dr. Luke?
“Do you need to check your calendar?” he asked, taking a step closer to her so their sleeves almost touched. “Or…ask your husband?” She couldn’t describe the expression on his face. It was hopeful and fearful and some other emotion she’d need more time to figure out. As for herself, she felt those same mixed emotions and more.
But he was waiting for her. Looking at her. Listening to her. And, God, how she appreciated that. So she shook her head. “I don’t have any plans.” She paused and met his gaze. “An Italian lunch sounds really fun.”
8
Tamara
Thursday, Septem
ber 16
It was just shy of ten A.M. when Tamara, glancing through the big glass windows of The Rake & the Hoe, spotted Bridget walking toward the dentist’s office across the street, kitty-corner and to the left.
The lively lady co-owner of Glendale Grove’s lawn and garden shop, who’d been telling Tamara about their latest deals on bug spray and cedar wood chips, paused midsentence to ask her husband a question about cherry saplings. Even though Tamara knew Bridget couldn’t see her, she took the opportunity to slide into the shadows of the hose and sprinkler aisle and watch as her friend, carrying a large bowl in her hands, wrestled with the front door of Smiley Dental.
A staff birthday, maybe? Bridget wore an attractive dark green blouse and an irrepressible grin. Why did she look so happy? So put together? Was she bringing chicken soup to someone with a cold…or something else to that dentist friend of hers? Tamara didn’t know why that unsettled her so much.
She backed farther into the aisle and grabbed an extra watering can. Then, in other regions of the store, she collected a new pair of gardening gloves, a bundle of brown bags for cut grass and, because the blades of her old rose clippers were getting dull, another pair of those, too.
She thanked the owners and drove home with her purchases in the passenger’s seat. As she passed by Aaron’s house, she spied him in his yard, hunched over a stack of chopped wood in front of his garage. He looked up and waved. She was too close to ignore him, and she’d been staring too intently at him to simply wave back and drive away, so she inhaled deeply and slowed down. As he sauntered over to her, she stopped the car completely, pasted a smile on her face and lowered the window.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said back. It’d been a week since she’d seen him. A week since their little tea party in her kitchen. Why couldn’t she get over feeling so awkward around him? “I’m going to be doing some yard work today, too. Nice morning for it.” An inane comment by any measure of intelligence, but at least she was taking command of the conversation and not just stupidly staring at him.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 10
