A Full Plate

by Kim Fielding

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Huh. I get Mondays off.”

  “Well, I won’t be in your way. I stay pretty late at the office most workdays.”

  Sage picked up a small box that had contained a set of knives, and he broke it down so it was flat. Then he tucked the cardboard into the big box they were using to collect everything. “I usually drive home as soon as I get off work Sunday nights. I come back Tuesday afternoons. But don’t worry. I’ll make you up some meals before I go.”

  “I don’t think I’ll starve to death. Hey, that food you left me this morning was fantastic. What was it?”

  Sage twitched his shoulder. “Eggs and stuff.”

  “Is that the official name? Because I’m no marketing specialist, but I bet you could do better.”

  That smile. Damn—Tully shouldn’t encourage it. “What would you call it?” Sage asked.

  “Heaven in a bowl.”

  “That sounds nice, but it was just some leftovers from work. Wait till you see what I can really do.”

  Tully had the impression he would enjoy that very much.

  SAGE hummed and sang as he worked in the kitchen. It was somewhat distracting, especially because he got most of the words wrong and couldn’t carry a tune, but he sounded so happy that Tully didn’t ask him to stop. After a while the sound faded into the background, along with the clatter of pots and pans, and Tully could focus on his work.

  But then delicious smells began to waft from the kitchen. Onions and garlic. Chiles. Roasting meat. Cinnamon. Tully wasn’t hungry, yet his stomach growled. It took considerable self-control to continue his work instead of following his nose into the next room.

  When Sage came into the living room, he was wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner’s going to take a little assembly and some heating. Can you handle that much? I left instructions.”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. There’s enough for tonight and tomorrow, and since I won’t be back until Tuesday night, I also got you the makings for an awesome sandwich. Made a couple salads too.”

  “Jesus. You did all that in, what? An hour and a half?” Sage had spent a long time grocery shopping that afternoon, returning to the condo with bags from several stores.

  “I’ve been cooking since I was so short I had to drag a step stool to the counter. I can toss together a couple of meals pretty fast.”

  “I’m looking forward to eating them.”

  Sage threw him a quick grin before heading back into the kitchen.

  A short while later, Sage stopped to say goodbye. His duffel hung from his shoulder. When he said he was going to Hair Shaker right after he clocked out, he must have meant right after. “Let me know what you think of the food,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to make stuff you don’t like.”

  “I’ll give a full report next time I see you.”

  Sage nodded and left.

  As usual, Tully ate his Sunday dinner alone, his plate in front of him and the laptop to one side. He was almost finished with the memorandum. But tonight he got two or three bites in and forgot about work entirely. The food was amazing. Sage had concocted a mole sauce to pour over strips of roasted chicken and grilled pork. The salad contained fresh corn, strips of crunchy jicama, red cabbage, and a tangy citrus dressing. Tully gobbled everything, moaning so happily an eavesdropper would have thought he was having sex.

  By the time he’d polished off the meal, Tully had reached two conclusions. First, the promise he’d made to Carrie looked as though it was going to work out better than he’d expected. And second, if he kept eating like this, he was going to have to spend a lot more time in the gym. But the exertion would be totally worth it.

  Chapter Four

  OVER the next two weeks, Tully’s glimpses of Sage were rare. Both men worked long hours with little overlap in downtime. In fact they communicated mostly by Post-it, Sage leaving reheating instructions for a parade of mouthwatering dishes, and Tully leaving short but enthusiastic reviews. Sage always left the kitchen as immaculate as a surgical theater, and he kept the rest of the condo tidy. The whole roommate thing was working far better than Tully had hoped.

  Working so well, in fact, that when he passed Carrie in the office hallway on a Monday afternoon, he greeted her enthusiastically.

  “That’s the biggest smile I’ve seen from you in forever,” she said. “Did you get a good settlement in that VibroMate case?”

  “Nope. I think that one’s going to end up in court. You’ll probably be seeing it on your desk soon.”

  “Ugh. Then why the ear-to-ear?”

  “Sage.”

  She lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head. “Really?”

  “Every day I open my fridge and there’s another incredible meal. He hasn’t repeated himself yet. I’m not sure he’s even repeated the same type of cuisine yet. Last night it was Thai, I think—lemongrass and basil and I don’t know what else—and Indian the night before that, and Friday he did this pasta thing with—”

  “Got it.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited about anything.”

  “It’s like magic. It’s like you’ve given me this… elf, right? And as long as I give him a comfy place to live and I pay for half the groceries, he makes food appear and vanquishes the dust bunnies.” The words sounded silly even to him, but he was enthusiastic, dammit. He’d allowed his life to fall into a boring routine, and this was something new and interesting.

  “Well, I’m glad you two are getting along. Sage is a nice guy, and he’s had a rough run of things lately.”

  As Carrie said those words, Tully realized how little he knew about the man who’d been sharing his home. Sage Filling came from the boonies, worked at a restaurant, was hard up for cash, and was a damned good cook. That was pretty much it. Well, he was also good-looking and a terrible singer. Hell, Tully didn’t even know exactly where Sage worked, only that it was downtown.

  And come to think of it, what did Sage know about Tully? That he was a lawyer with a lot of money and an eager appetite. And gay—Sage knew that too.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Carrie asked.

  “No, you’re fine. I was just thinking.”

  “Well, I hear thinking is encouraged around here.” She clapped his arm and continued down the hall.

  Tully returned to his office with its view of the West Hills, but although he opened the documents he was supposed to be working on, he didn’t read them. Instead he thought about Sage.

  ON Saturday morning Sage was up earlier than usual. Tully intercepted him in the kitchen just as Sage was placing an enormous pot on the stove.

  “Wow, you could feed half the city from that thing,” said Tully, who vaguely remembered ordering it.

  Sage turned around and smiled. “It takes a big pot to make cheese.”

  Tully gaped. “You’re making cheese?”

  “Sure. Mozzarella. I’ve been wanting to play around with a few herb combinations.” He gestured at small bowls containing various mixtures. “You don’t mind being my guinea pig, do you?”

  “Um, no.” It had never occurred to Tully that it was possible to make cheese at home. In fact, he’d never given cheesemaking any thought at all. Cheese was just something he bought in chunks or rounds at the store or enjoyed melted over his bacon burger. “Can I watch?”

  “I doubt it’s all that entertaining, but suit yourself.”

  In fact Tully had intended to invite Sage out for coffee or lunch today. But maybe that would have been awkward—staring at each other over a café table—so this was a better idea. Tully pulled out one of the rarely used stools from under the peninsula and took a seat. Sage popped a tablet out of a blister pack, cut it into fourths with a wicked-looking knife, and plopped one piece into a small bowl of water.

  “Do you make cheese often?” Tully asked and then winced. It sounded like the lamest pickup line ever.

  Sage must have though
t so too, because he chuckled. “Not really.” He measured more water into a cup before spooning in some powder and stirring. “Back home it’s hard to get fresh cheese. Hard to get any cheese that doesn’t taste like the plastic it’s wrapped in. Or the can,” he added, grinning. He dumped the water with the dissolved powder into the pot.

  “So you learned to make it yourself.”

  “It wasn’t so hard. Toughest part’s finding the right kind of milk. It needs to be fresh, and it can’t be ultra-pasteurized or the curds won’t form. I used to buy raw goat milk from my neighbor. Here I just went to your fancy-schmancy natural food store.” He pulled a gallon jug of milk from the fridge, opened it, and poured it into the pot. He gave the whole thing a vigorous stir before turning on the burner and settling into a slower motion with the spoon. Beneath his tight T-shirt, his arm muscles flexed nicely.

  “You could have just bought cheese at the fancy-schmancy food store,” Tully pointed out.

  Sage twisted his neck to look at Tully. “Not much satisfaction in that, man.”

  Satisfaction. Huh. Tully had never been the DIY type, so he hadn’t realized that making your own cheese could conjure that emotion. But Sage looked content as he hummed quietly over his pot. Tully tried to think about what activities brought him satisfaction. Writing a good contract? Filing a well-researched brief? Those things carried a sense of completion, of being able to cross something off his list. But they didn’t make him sing.

  “Will you serve the cheese at your restaurant?”

  Sage barked a laugh. “No. This stuff is for us.”

  “Why not? I mean, it’s not that I’m not grateful, but why keep it here?”

  After a moment, Sage shot a quick glance over his shoulder. “Have you ever eaten at Dolly’s?”

  “Sure, I catch lunch there now and then.” It was only a couple of blocks from his office and offered diner fare that had been, in Carrie’s words, hipsterfied. It was one of the suppliers of her occasional illicit hamburgers.

  “What do you think Dolly’s would do with homemade mozzarella?” Sage asked.

  There was a slight delay before Tully grasped Sage’s point. “I figured you were a chef someplace more upscale.”

  “I’m a line cook at Dolly’s,” Sage said quietly. “I flip burgers and pancakes. I chop vegetables. If we’re real busy and my boss is in a good mood, I get to fry the fish and chips or mix up the chili.” He checked a thermometer, nodded briefly, and turned off the burner. Then he moved the pot to the side and fitted a lid on it. He turned around and leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed. He was the same age as Tully, but at the moment he looked much older and tired to the point of exhaustion.

  “I have nothing against Dolly’s,” Tully said. “But why aren’t you running the kitchen at a fancy place? Your cooking’s certainly good enough for it.”

  Sage smiled wearily. “Fancy places want fancy training. I don’t have a degree from a culinary school. Don’t even have experience under a chef at a high-class place. What I got is a high school diploma and a couple decades working at a greasy spoon in Podunk. That qualifies me for line cook at Dolly’s.”

  He glanced at his watch and then looked down at his feet.

  “You’re definitely talented enough for more than that,” Tully said.

  Sage regarded him for a long moment before his shoulders drooped. “Thanks.”

  Tully silently watched Sage continue to make the cheese. It was an interesting process that involved more stirring, some pouring, and finally pulling and stretching as if the curds were taffy. When Sage seemed satisfied with the consistency, he cut off a healthy little chunk, plopped it onto a plate, and set it in front of Tully. “Haven’t added the herbs yet, but you can guinea-pig this first.”

  “Oh my God,” Tully said with his mouth full. “That’s good!”

  “Amazing what you can do with a couple simple ingredients, isn’t it?”

  Tully chewed happily, and Sage returned to the remaining cheese, which he hacked into a few large chunks. He flattened the pieces, sprinkled each with a different mixture from the nearby bowls, and rolled them into logs. He plunged each of the logs into a bowl of ice water. “Ready for more?” he asked, back still turned.

  “Absolutely.”

  The slices were beautiful on the plates, each one a colorful spiral of milky cheese and bright herbs. Sage took the stool next to Tully and watched closely as Tully bit into the one with the olive-green swirl.

  “Mmm,” Tully said. “Oregano? And… flowers?”

  “Herbs de provence.”

  “I like it.”

  Sage bit into his own piece and chewed slowly. “Not bad. Not exactly original, though. Try this one.” He pointed at the piece with the brownish spiral.

  That one made Tully exclaim in surprise. “Sweet! Um, and smoky? But with a bite.”

  “I was going for an Indian palate with that one,” Sage said, nodding. “Cardamom, black pepper, some cumin, a bit of this and that.”

  “It’s amazing,” Tully said with absolute honesty. “I could eat enough of this to make myself sick.”

  “Before you do that, try the last one.”

  The pinwheel was red—and the cheese had a kick that would have been too much for Tully’s tongue if the creaminess hadn’t smoothed things out. “Wow. Is that chili pepper?”

  “Portuguese piri piri sauce, yeah. I added some garlic and sea salt too. Is it okay?”

  “Definitely,” said Tully before taking another bite.

  Sage looked pleased. “Your favorite?”

  That required consideration—and more tastings. Finally Tully pointed to the piri piri variation. “I like this one the best, I think. The heat is good, and I like its kind of citrusy flavor.”

  “You’d tell me if these sucked, right?”

  “I am a member of the Oregon State Bar. I wouldn’t lie. And they don’t suck.”

  “You make a good guinea pig.”

  Tully laughed. “I’ll add it to my résumé.”

  Sage fetched them more cheese, some thick slices of bread, and a bottle of olive oil to drizzle on top. He even brought them each a glass of water. Then he sat down again.

  “So you wait tables too,” Tully teased.

  “And wash dishes. I do it all.”

  “You learned all that at the greasy spoon?”

  Tully had asked the question lightly and was chagrined to see Sage’s expression turn sad. “The Filling Station,” Sage said.

  “Huh?”

  “That was the name of it. Not originally. When my great-great-grandfather opened it, he just called it Hair Shaker Café. I don’t think there were any real filling stations back then—folks got around on horseback, mostly.” He smiled briefly. “I’ve seen photos of the place when there was still a hitching post out front.”

  Sage fell silent, and Tully didn’t want to push. He thought instead about his own great-great-grandparents. Tully didn’t know much about them aside from the fact that at least one had spent his days ruthlessly suppressing attempts to unionize his factories.

  Sage smoothed a palm across the granite countertop. “People started driving after my great-grandfather took over. He took out the hitching post and installed some gas pumps instead. Then he changed the restaurant’s name. I guess the old guy never could resist a pun on our name.”

  “Was your first name his idea?”

  “No.” Sage glared briefly. “You have no idea how much teasing I took over it, though.”

  Remembering the way he’d laughed when Carrie told him her cousin’s name, Tully ducked his head. “I, uh, can guess.” He looked up again. “So the Filling Station’s been in your family a long time.”

  “It was,” Sage said, tight-jawed. “My earliest memories are in that kitchen, first with Grandpa and Dad, then just Dad. I bet if you blindfolded me and set me down there, I could still fix dinner for everyone.”

  “That’s a lot of history,” Tully said carefully.

  Sag
e sniffed and took a sip of water. “Yeah. A pizza place opened up maybe a decade ago, but for most of Hair Shaker’s history, the Filling Station was the only restaurant in town. It’s where the farmers would come for breakfast and arguments after their morning chores, you know? Where kids would hang out after school. Where everybody celebrated when the high school football team beat the Bottle Jaw Hornets. And where families went for dinner if it was someone’s birthday or nobody was in the mood to cook.”

  He looked close to tears, and something twisted in Tully’s heart, even though he barely knew the guy. Tully set his hand on the counter beside Sage’s broader one, not quite touching. “The Bottle Jaw Hornets? Were they your big rivals?”

  “Yeah,” Sage replied with a wobbly smile. “Everybody comes out when the Titans face the Hornets. I never got to play, because I had to help out at the Station. Pissed me off a little. It was hard to get a girl interested in you if you didn’t play.”

  Tully hadn’t been interested in attracting girls when he was in high school, but he’d wanted to run track. His father had vetoed the idea and insisted Tully join the Model United Nations and the debate team instead.

  “Girls must have been interested in you anyway,” said Tully. He’d already admitted he thought Sage was handsome, so why not?

  To Tully’s relief, Sage relaxed a bit. “One or two, I guess.”

  “Does the Filling Station serve… gourmet food?” Tully nodded toward the remaining cheese.

  “Nah. Fancy food was just my hobby. We did steaks, burgers, sausage and eggs. Basic stuff. It was always good, though.” He stood and collected their empty plates, then carried them to the sink. “I used to daydream about changing the menu someday, doing something more creative. Like the French Laundry down in California. Some of the locals would like it. The rest might learn to like it. And we’re not that far from civilization, not really.”

  Tully nodded. “Foodies would be willing to drive from Portland for something special.”

  “Nah. It was a stupid idea.” Sage rinsed the plates before tucking them into the dishwasher. Then he remained at the sink, gaze fixed out the window.