The Mazuelo had been an excellent choice. The depth of color was not a false promise, as its palate had notes of pepper and licorice. He was glad it was a vintage he could savor and take his time with. It gave him something else to do as he cooked and continued to push thoughts of Guatemalan bishops from his mind.
Malcolm docked his phone into the player and kicked off his Incubus Pandora station. He placed a saucepan on the stove, poured in a cup of sugar, set the heat on medium-low, and tried to induce his mind to go on cruise-control as he sipped, stirred, and hummed along as Brandon Boyd warned. When the sugar yielded to a golden syrup, he poured it into a glass pie dish, swirling it carefully along the bottom and sides. He beat the rest of the custard ingredients in a glass bowl before pouring the mixture into the pie dish. When the oven preheated, he placed both the dessert and the chicken inside and set the timer for an hour. Then he got to work chopping tomatoes, onion, and garlic for the rice.
He had gotten through his second tomato—while The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “She Looks to Me” played—when the knock at his kitchen door stilled him.
It wasn’t that it never happened. Of course, the mailman came to the door occasionally. Or the UPS carrier. Chinese takeout. But Malcolm was expecting none of these. A wave of chills spilled down his neck because it could only be one person.
Impossible. It’s a Jehovah’s Witness or a Girl Scout.
In the two seconds that it took to cross to the door, Malcolm was aware of a sickening hope that coursed through him.
He opened the door, and there she was.
Dressed for a run, Maren stood on his doorstep, biting her thumb, hesitant and unsure. Perspiration dotted her nose and upper lip, and her cheeks were flushed with exertion and, perhaps, bashfulness. Malcolm took in the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
She had come looking for him.
Before either of them said a word, Malcolm knew that he was a lost cause. He might be able to feign mere friendship, but he was a goner. Whatever she wanted from him was already hers. He didn’t stand a chance.
“Well,…this is a pleasant surprise.” He felt his own smile all the way down to his chest, and he tried to contain it to something sane.
“I hoped this was the right house.” Her blush deepened, and she glanced down, clearly unsure about her boldness.
“You found me.” He took a step back by way of inviting her in, but she just shifted her weight between her feet, looking like she’d take off again any minute.
No, don’t go.
“I just…wanted to make sure you were okay.” She shook her head. “It seemed like you were having a bad day.”
Malcolm wanted to reach out for her hand, not just to keep her from leaving—there was the fear that she would leave—but he wanted proof that she was really there, that she really had come because she wanted to make sure that he, Malcolm Vashal, department prick, was okay.
“I was having a bad day, but it just got a lot better.” He opened the door a little wider. “Please come in.”
“Oh,…I don’t know,…” Maren frowned and looked down at her sweaty clothes, taking a step back. “I should go. I’m a mess.”
As if it had a will of its own, Malcolm’s right hand shot out and grabbed hers. It was soft and small, but Malcolm felt it come alive in his.
“Please come in,” he repeated. He squeezed her hand gently, and to his eternal delight, she squeezed back.
“Alright.”
She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her, watching her take in his home. The primitive within him suddenly became very proud of his house. In the short time he’d lived here, he had updated and yet retained the 1940’s character. The gentleman within him was equally relieved that he had never been a slob and that the house was clean and orderly.
“I love your kitchen. It’s so bright. I’ve always liked glass cabinets.” She turned and took in the small island where he had been chopping vegetables. “Oh! You are making dinner. I can go. I don’t want to—”
“You are not interrupting,” he firmly declared. “You are joining me.”
She spun on her feet to face him, half-cocking an eyebrow in query.
“I’m joining you?”
“Without question. And it will be delicious.”
She smiled, teasingly.
“Is that so?” Then she seemed to remember herself and frowned. “But I’m disgusting. I’m probably stinking up your whole house.”
“Nonsense,” he made to dismiss her cares with a flick of his wrist. In truth, he caught the scent of jasmine and musk as she’d come in, and the combination had been intoxicating, alluring. But her concerned expression didn’t soften. “But if it will make you feel better, I’m sure we could find you something of mine to change into if you would like to clean up a little while I finish the Spanish rice.”
“Spanish rice?” she asked, appreciatively.
“Mmm hmm, and Pontevedra Chicken, and flan, and an excellent bottle of Mazuelo that would be a crime to turn down.”
Maren stared at him with no little awe.
“Do you always cook like this?”
“When I’m in the mood to, yes.”
“Just for yourself?”
“Yes.”
“But you have enough for two?” She eyed him with skepticism.
“Without a doubt. I usually have leftovers. I’m not averse to eating leftovers, especially when they are as good as this dinner will be.”
She studied him in silence for a moment, contemplating.
“It’ll be dark soon…” Her face bore a question that she would not ask. He searched her eyes for the problem a moment before it dawned on him.
“Of course, I will drive you home after dinner. You’re not going back on foot, silly.”
Maren surveyed him and bit her lip. Malcolm realized then that she wanted to stay; he just had to make it easy for her.
“Come. I’ll give you the tour, and we’ll find something for you.”
Again, he took her hand, as much to hold onto her as to guide her, and she didn’t resist as he led her from the kitchen.
“You’ve seen the kitchen and the dining area. Here, we have the living room, which, despite being the biggest room in the house is the one I use the least,” he explained, leading her from the pale blue space into the hallway with its original parquet floors and grooved pine paneling.
“Oh, wow.” He heard her murmur as they stepped into the darkened hallway that seemed to move them back in time.
“To the left is the laundry room and bathroom, and this is my study.” He pulled her into the room, feeling certain that bringing her there would somehow sanctify the place and lift him up later when—if—he could get back to La Fuente de Piedra.
“Those windows!” She gasped and dropped his hand, stepping into the middle of the room to admire the triad that seemed to draw his backyard inside. “This is a great room.”
He smiled at her appreciation, loving the fact that she was there. Malcolm stood behind her and gazed at her silhouette in the evening light. Even in her running top and shorts, she looked like something from fairy lore with that beautiful braid hanging down her back. Doubting that she would ever set foot in the room again, he wanted to etch this image into his memory so he could call on it later whenever he had occasion to write about beauty.
She turned to him, beaming.
“I love it.”
He nodded.
“It’s my favorite spot in the house.”
She crossed back to him.
“I can see why.”
As he turned to lead her out of the room, she lightly pressed her hand back into his, making his breath catch. This, too, he wanted to brand into his brain for later. For when it would be time to write about longing.
They stepped back into the hall.
“This is a spare bedroom,” he said pointing to the room on the left, and then he stopped outside his. “And this is my room.”
The walls were a wa
rm sand color that the decorator he’d hired had called “Mojave”. His bedding was bronze and brown striped and matched his few dark wood furnishings, a night stand and a dresser.
“Very masculine,” Maren, nodded, approvingly.
Malcolm let go of her hand, not wanting her to feel as though he was pulling her into his bedroom, but she followed on her own accord.
“I think I have some drawstring shorts that should fit well enough.” He went to his dresser and fished among the bottom drawers until he found the pair of gray shorts he wanted. Seeing his clothes, Maren became shy again.
“I hope you don’t mind…”
The fact that she stood in his bedroom was almost making him dizzy—he would never be able to get to sleep tonight with this vision in his head. There was no sane way to tell her how much it thrilled him to outfit her in his clothes.
“I don’t mind in the least,” he promised. He crossed the room to his closet. “Now, would you prefer a t-shirt or a sweatshirt.”
Maren looked down at her sport tank.
“I think a sweatshirt would be best.”
Malcolm realized that without the sport tank, she would be braless, and his knees almost melted beneath him. He abruptly stepped into his closet in search of his favorite, the red Campeonato Brasileiro 2010 sweatshirt that had come with a past subscription to Placar, his soccer magazine of choice. He grabbed it without hesitation. If she wore it home and never gave it back, the pullover would enjoy an enviable existence before being relegated to Goodwill or a landfill. If she returned it to him,…well…he would wear it with a secret pride.
As an afterthought, he grabbed a pair of thick socks, placed them on top of the bundle, and turned to her.
“This should do it. Would you…” He felt his throat thicken. “…like to take a shower?”
She took the clothes from him with a demure smile.
“Um…I think I can manage with a bar of soap and a washcloth,” she said, softly.
Malcolm could only swallow and nod. He led her across the hall to the bathroom and added a new bar of soap, a washcloth, and a face towel to the stack in her arms.
“Take your time. Dinner won’t be ready for at least a half an hour.”
“Thank you, Malcolm.” She blushed fiercely. It was only the second time she had used his name, and he felt the same rush inside his chest as he had two days before.
“You are quite welcome, Maren.” He stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. Willing himself to walk away, Malcolm turned for the kitchen to finish the rice. He could hear her turn on the water, and the thought of her pulling off her clothes in his bathroom set him groaning under his breath. He upped the volume on the music, “Unconditional” by The Bravery, adjusted himself in his pants, and drained his wine glass. He refilled his, poured one for Maren, and returned to his chopping.
He heard the bathroom door open just as he’d placed the rice pot on the stove. Malcolm turned to watch her enter the room, and he felt his face split into a reckless smile. The sweatshirt swallowed her; the drawstring shorts bunched up at her waist; even the socks seemed to swim around her feet. She was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. The urge to gather her in his arms was painful.
“You look adorable,” he allowed himself.
She laughed and hugged herself in the sweatshirt.
“It’s huge, but very comfortable.” Maren leaned her elbows onto the island and pointed to the oven. “That smells amazing, by the way…Though I should confess I have no idea what Pontevedra Chicken is.”
Malcolm slid the glass of wine across the island to her.
“It’s basically Spanish chicken paprika.” He raised his glass in her direction, and she followed suit. “To surprise visits and superb Spanish cuisine.”
She touched her glass to his, and he watched her sip before taking his own. He leaned against the island across from her. Maren had clearly washed her face, and a damp tendril of hair had pasted itself against her cheek. He sighed at the memory of drying her lovely hair. Eyeing this tiny piece of her, Malcolm slowly reached forward, grazed her face with his fingertips, and pushed the lock behind her left ear. With regret, he drew his hand back and only then locked eyes with her.
To his sheer astonishment, he saw the depth of his own desire mirrored in her eyes. It stunned him to the root of his sex, and it terrified him to the root of his soul. If she even remotely wanted to surrender to him, they were both doomed. Feigning a calm he did not feel, he straightened and took a long draught of wine.
“So….” He set his wine glass down and picked up the cutting board and chopping knife. “Do I owe the pleasure of your visit to your stalking skills?”
Her cheeks had grown scarlet, and he wondered if it was from his touch, their unguarded gazing, or his question.
“You are listed, Malcolm,” she laughed. “It required very little stalking.”
He shrugged in allowance.
“Fair enough.” He still could not quite believe what he’d seen in her eyes, and something about it didn’t square with what he knew of her. “Will your Swedish roommate worry that you’ve been abducted on your run?”
She shook her head, seeming pleased at something.
“Tuva’s working tonight. So, no. No one’s home to sound the alarm.”
Malcolm frowned, not liking the sound of that. He momentarily pictured a white, windowless van cruising behind her as she ran.
“I hope you are careful. Do you carry pepper spray or anything?”
She shook her head again and swallowed another sip of wine.
“Not unless I’m running at night. But there’s lots of people out before the sun goes down—as I’m sure you’ve noticed on your runs.”
“You run at night? Alone?” Malcolm heard the icy tone in his voice. Maren’s eyes widened slightly. He remembered the brown-haired boy in the Jeep he’d seen some time ago. “What does your boyfriend think of that?”
Maren laughed lightly.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She sounded almost incredulous, as if the thought of a boyfriend was so inconceivable.
Malcolm eyed her pointedly, confused.
“Are you no longer seeing the boy in the Jeep? The one I saw you with when I was running—the day after Deep South?” Malcolm realized too late how much he’d revealed with the question. How much detail he’d assigned to the chance encounter.
“What?!?” Maren dissolved into hysterics. She had to set her glass of wine down as laughter bounced through her. Her eyes positively gleamed as she fell apart. In spite of himself and his perplexed state, Malcolm smiled at the sight.
“That was Lane…” Maren gasped through her hilarity. “My brother!”
It was Malcolm’s turn to laugh. He laughed in embarrassment at his own error. He laughed in relief—absurd, though it was—that Maren did not have a boyfriend. He laughed because she was laughing. It felt good.
“Oh, God,” he managed, finally composing himself. “I feel like such an ass.”
“No.” Maren, still laughing, wiped her tearing eyes with one hand and reached across the counter with the other to pat the back of his. “Don’t. It’s just so funny.”
Maren did not break the contact as she sighed and caught her breath, and Malcolm lost himself in the sight of her hand on top of his. Every time she touched him, it was a revelation. Every cell in his body seemed to hum. He was about to turn her hand over in his and clasp it in return when the oven timer sounded, startling them both.
“Dinner’s ready.” Malcolm pulled away to silence the timer and turn the flame off under the rice. He checked the chicken and the flan and hid a smile of pride. Both looked perfect. The flan had caramelized into a light gold that promised to taste of heaven. The chicken had turned a deep reddish-brown and looked spicy and succulent. He donned oven mitts and took the simmering dishes out of the oven.
“Can I help?” Maren asked, coming up beside. “Wow. That looks awesome.”
“Oh, it is awesome, my dear,” Ma
lcolm teased. “And yes, you can set the table if you’d like. Silverware and napkins are in the drawers below the plates.” Malcolm fluffed the rice and took down and filled two water glasses. He also topped off their wine glasses and set the drinks on the square blond pine table in the kitchen. He noted with warmth that Maren had lain the place settings perpendicular to one another, not across. They would be right next to each other.
“Have a seat,” he told her.
He took the plates she had set down, loaded each with a heaping serving of Spanish rice and two chicken thighs, and returned to the table.
“Whoa! That’s a lot!” Maren exclaimed as he set the full plate in front of her.
“There’s more where that came from,” he said, sitting down next to her.
Maren placed the napkin in her lap and picked up her fork and knife, eyeing him.
“Do you realize that this is the third time you’ve fed me in four days?”
The pride he felt at the success of the meal multiplied tenfold, and he watched her take a bite of the chicken before responding. Her eyes widened in awe and flashed to his.
“Oh my God! This is delicious!” She speared another piece and ate it. “It’s more than delicious. It’s life-changing.”
Malcolm chuckled as he ate his first bite. It was delicious, but the best part by far was watching her enjoy it so much. He did not need to be reminded that he’d fed her three times that week. He loved feeding her; it had fast become his avocation.
“I like feeding you,” he mumbled around a mouthful of rice, making Maren giggle and cover her mouth.
“Why?” Her maple eyes were alight with mirth. Why? Because feeding her was a substitute for touching her. It was his symbol. And even if she couldn’t know that, feeding her was the most basic way of caring for her, and that he ached to do. How could he explain that? He didn’t dare.
“It’s fun,” he said, instead, giving her a half-smile.
She dissolved into laughter.
“See?”
Watching her laugh made his chest tingle. She lifted him so far above himself. Half of what he felt with her was the fear of falling.
Fall Semester Page 16
