by Syndi Powell
“I teach all skill levels. And if you’re a beginner, all the better. You won’t come into my class with awful habits. I can mold you.” Nonna brought out a calendar. “And your names?”
“April Sprader and Page Kosinski.”
Zach looked at her. She looked like an April. A woman with a spring attitude. Shaking off the dull grays of winter and embracing a rebirth. He gave himself a mental slap in the head. Where was he coming up with this stuff? “April.” She faced him, and he realized he’d said her name out loud. “First dancing, now cooking. What are you trying to do? Mark off items on your bucket list?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I am.” She got out her wallet and handed Nonna a few twenties. “I look forward to our first class.” She ignored him as she passed by him.
Nonna slid the money in an envelope and wrote the names on the front of it before securing it in one of the desk drawers. “You sure you don’t want to come to one of my classes?”
“I don’t have time to cook, Nonna.”
“I figured you might want to join so it would give you an excuse to be around that woman.”
He pointed in the direction April had left. “Dr. Sprader? I don’t think so.”
Nonna eyed him, but he didn’t fidget or look away. “Something wrong with her?”
“Where do you want me to start?” He chuckled. “First off, she doesn’t like me. Not that I’m all that fond of her.”
“She seemed perfectly sweet to me.”
He gave a shrug and clutched the book firmly. “Maybe, but I’ve got more important things to pursue. Thanks again for your contacts, Nonna.”
“Class is Tuesday night at eight in case you change your mind.”
But he wouldn’t. He had a wedding to plan, a mother to care for, and clients who depended on him for their careers. The last thing he needed was a distraction of the female variety.
CHAPTER THREE
ZACH STARED OUT the window of his office, not paying attention to his cell phone. It buzzed with multiple text messages. He’d spent most of his weekend nailing down details for the Ramos wedding. He’d already downloaded the application for a marriage license and found a priest who would perform the ceremony at the banquet hall where Nonna knew the chef and had given him a discount since the happy couple would be married on a Sunday night. There were other details to take care of, but he’d made a sizable dent.
He pushed his wandering thoughts aside and picked up the phone. The first message was from Johnson, asking if he had heard anything yet about the offer from the Lions. Ramos wanted to know if they could fly out his parents from Puerto Rico in time for the wedding. And Coach Petrullo needed an update on Johnson’s health. He answered them all. He’d make it work. Because that’s what he did: took on the impossible and it happened.
His phone buzzed with a new text message. Bad day. Can you come home early?
He checked the time. Not even noon, and the day nurse wanted him to leave already? He replied that he’d stop by at lunchtime. He could kill two birds with that stone: get something to eat and check up on his mom. Then he’d drive out to the practice fields and talk to both Johnson and the coach. Life was all about multitasking.
He glanced out the window again, the gray February skies muddying his mood, turning it cold and dark. Images of Dr. Sprader crossed his mind, bringing a ray of sunshine to dissipate his gloomy state. Sure, she had appeared as if she were angry at him, but when he watched her with her patients, she had radiated something akin to kindness and compassion. A sort of contentment or...peace.
He straightened his tie and stood up. He didn’t have time to think about what he didn’t have. Better to focus on what he did.
He grabbed his wool trench coat from the hook behind his office door and stopped by his assistant’s desk. “I’ll be taking an early lunch today and stopping by practice to check on Antonio. Any messages before I leave?”
Dalvin huffed. “I keep this place a well-oiled machine. Nothing happens without you knowing.”
Zach clapped Dalvin on the shoulder. “You’ve got my number in case anything does come up.”
Dalvin pointed at his computer screen. “What do you think of these as wedding favors?”
Zach bent forward, scrunched his face. “We have to have favors, too?”
Dalvin shrugged. “I read about them on Pinterest.” His assistant pulled several sheets and fanned through them. “These are all the wedding details that still need planning.”
“That’s why I have you.” He sighed at the papers. “We’ll review them when I return.” He glanced at his watch. “Hopefully before four.”
“You got it, boss.”
Zach took the elevator to the parking garage below the building and walked to his sleek, black luxury SUV. Being an agent meant keeping up appearances, so he spent more than he should to project a successful image. He hit the key fob and unlocked the door before sliding into the leather seat and starting the powerful engine.
The drive from his office to his mother’s house took about a half hour on a good day, but the recent snow had left the roads slushy, slowing drivers. He arrived at the house he’d grown up in and parked behind the day nurse’s car. He took a deep breath before trudging up the snow-covered driveway to the back door. He unlocked it and jogged up a few steps into the kitchen. He turned right and found Dolores sitting at the dining room table, her head in her hands. She looked up at him when he called her name.
“Thank goodness you’re here. She’s been asking for you.”
He raised an eyebrow at this and took his coat off, hanging it on the back of one of the four chairs. “She remembers me today? That’s new.”
“Well, she’s been calling for your father, but she means you.” Dolores stood and pulled the edges of her pink cardigan closer together. “When I tried to explain that you’re at work, she threw her cereal bowl at me.”
He noted the dried milk spots on the cardigan. “You’re a saint for putting up with all of this.”
“And here I was thinking the same thing about you.”
A shriek from the back bedroom caught his attention. He walked down the short hallway to his mother’s room and opened the door. “Mother, I’m here.”
Her blank eyes lacked focus as he stood in the doorway watching her. “I knew you’d come home,” she said.
He stepped over clothes she’d probably thrown in a fit of temper and took a seat in the recliner next to her bed. “I always come home.”
“Because you’re a good man, Robert.” She reached out and touched his cheek.
“I’m Zach. Your son.” The doctor had said it was good to remind her of the reality despite her stubborn hold on the past. “Dad died when I was ten.”
She blinked. “Zach.” Her eyes searched his. “Zach should be home from school soon. Such a well-behaved boy. Smart. Just like his father.”
She put a hand on his, and he patted it before rising from the chair. “I’m just going to grab some lunch and then I have to go back to work, okay? But you be good for Dolores. She takes excellent care of you.”
“I want you to stay.” His mother pouted like a three-year-old who couldn’t get her own way. “You promised you’d take me for a picnic.”
“It’s the end of February, Mom. We have to wait for the warmer weather.” He noted the time and got a bottle of pills from the top of the dresser. Shaking out two pills into his hand, he said, “It’s time for your medicine. This will help you feel better.”
She took the pills like an obedient child, then fixed her gaze on the window. When she faced him again, he could tell he’d lost her once more. Her eyes looked at him, blank and confused. “I’m so tired.”
He helped her lie back on the bed and covered her with the quilt Nonna had made. “I know.” He kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you take a nap? You always feel better after.”
She snuggled into the covers and closed her eyes. “Wake me when Robert gets home.”
“I will, Mother.” He watched her for a moment, then left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He paused before continuing down the hallway. “She’s taken her meds, Dolores, so she’ll sleep for you.” He shrugged into his coat. “Text me if you need anything.”
“You can always calm her down. That’s a gift.”
He gave a nod, wishing he had the gift of restoring his mother’s memory. That would have much more worth. From his car, he stared up at the house. He’d had to move in last year when his mother’s condition had worsened. No longer able to care for her from a distance, he’d given up his apartment and most of his personal life to be the dutiful son.
And most days, he didn’t regret it.
* * *
IN THE LARGE commercial kitchen, Page and April took their places at a stainless steel table where cooking utensils and fresh ingredients waited to be transformed into something edible. April wrinkled her nose as she picked up the recipe card. “Homemade pasta? Maybe we’re not ready for this class.”
“I got the night off to come here, so we’re not chickening out.” Page glanced around the kitchen as more students started to filter in. “Besides, I want to make this pasta so we can eat it. I’m starving.”
“I told you to eat something before we came.”
Page brushed off the suggestion. “I was feeling nauseous at the time, but I’m fine now.”
April frowned at her friend. She’d been complaining more often about feeling sick lately. Considering it was Page, this wasn’t unusual. The fact that she tried to downplay it was a concern, however. “Have you seen your oncologist lately?”
“Stop worrying about me. We’re here to mark another item off your list.”
Mrs. Rossi entered the kitchen, and the din of conversations among the students died down. She smiled at each of them. “I’m glad to see so many new faces mixed among my seasoned students. If you saw the recipe cards, you’ll know we’re making pasta tonight. It’s an ambitious task for the first class, but you’ll find that fresh pasta will make a big difference to your cooking.” She picked up an apron and held it up in front of the students. “You’ll find aprons below the table for your use, unless you’d rather go home sprinkled in flour.”
April squatted down and found a stack of white aprons on the shelf. She grabbed two and handed one to Page. “You might want to get one more.”
When April straightened, she found Mr. Harrison standing next to her. “You’re taking the class?”
“My nonna thinks it will help me.” He leaned down, got an apron and put it on over his head, covering the shirt and tie he wore. He wrapped the apron strings around him once and tied them together in the front. He looked natural with it on, and she found herself staring at him, her own apron still in her hand. He took it from her and slipped it on her, looking into her eyes as he secured the ties in front. “There. Now you look like a cook.”
“Mr. Harrison—”
“It’s Zach. And you’re April.”
Page waved her hand between them. “And I’m Page. You’re the sports agent April has been talking about?”
April instantly glared at her. She hadn’t been talking about him. Okay, so she’d mentioned him once or twice. And maybe she’d thought about him more than she should, but it wasn’t like she was obsessed with him. “I told her how you subdued Harley in the ER.”
“And how she saw you when she went dancing. And again when she signed up for this class.” Page shrugged as April stared at her openmouthed. “What? Like it’s any big secret?”
April gestured to Zach. “She makes it sound worse than it is. You’ll find she’s very good at that.”
Mrs. Rossi came around and dropped a sifter on their table before tapping Zach’s cheek. “I’d hoped you would come.” She glanced at April. “But then I see you found a purpose to be here.”
He glanced at April, then at his grandmother. “Thanks for that, Nonna.”
Conversation stopped as they sifted together the all-purpose flour, semolina flour and salt into a large pile in front of the three of them. Zach used a fork to create a deep well in the center of the combined flours, and Page cracked open and added the eggs. Zach handed April the fork, and she started to mix the eggs together while Page put the olive oil into the mixture. When it came time to knead the dough, Zach rolled up his shirtsleeves and did it like an expert. “My nonna had me knead a lot of dough as a kid. I’ve got this part down pat.”
April watched the muscles of his arms as he pushed the dough away, then pulled it toward him, mixing it and forming it into a ball. She admired how his fingers deftly massaged the dough. Why was she thinking about his hands and arms? She didn’t need Mr. Harrison...Zach to become a distraction for her. She was making her life better, and learning to cook was only the beginning.
Zach wrapped the dough in clear plastic wrap so that it could rest for a half hour. Attention returned to Mrs. Rossi as she explained how to prepare a basic pesto sauce. When she called for volunteers, April glanced around the kitchen rather than making eye contact. There was no way she was going to go up to the front of the class and show how inept she was at this. “Why don’t we have April and Zach demonstrate what I’m talking about?”
Rats. Page sniggered behind one hand, and she gave her friend a look. Page shrugged and nudged her toward the front of the kitchen. April followed Zach to where two mortars and pestles sat on the kitchen counter alongside some ingredients: a leafy herb, bulbs of garlic and some kind of seed or nut. Mrs. Rossi had Zach peel and press the garlic while she roughly chopped the herb that turned out to be basil. “You don’t want to shred it. Just chop it into smaller bunches to fit into the mortar and discard the stems.”
Once they were done with that, Mrs. Rossi added some garlic and basil into each mortar, then had Zach and April pound the ingredients with the pestle. Mrs. Rossi tossed pine nuts into their mixture and had them keep pounding. Mrs. Rossi took the pestle from April and showed her a better technique to mix the ingredients into a paste. She wasn’t surprised the older woman had such developed arms with the workout she was getting.
After the pounding, they spooned the paste into a bowl and included shredded Parmesan and olive oil to make a sauce. April leaned closer to the bowl and took an appreciative sniff. It smelled green and clean. Her tummy growled at the thought.
Mrs. Rossi dismissed April and Zach and demonstrated how to roll out the pasta dough and cut it into shapes. Page nudged April. “You looked good up there.”
“Like I knew what I was doing?”
“Well, no. But you didn’t completely embarrass yourself.”
Page dusted the table with semolina flour and unwrapped the ball of dough. She placed it on the table, and April picked up the rolling pin. She moved the pin back and forth, frowning as the dough stuck to the pin. “What am I doing wrong?”
Zach put a hand on hers to stop her from tearing the dough. She almost dropped the rolling pin from the heat of his touch. “You want to move in several directions, not just back and forth. Let me show you.” He put his hands on hers and directed them forward right, then backward left. Forward. Backward right. Diagonals and straight lines. The dough thinned and became smooth, stretching out in front of them in an oval. He sprinkled some semolina on the rolling pin, and together they stretched the dough out even farther.
Nonna stopped at their table and smiled. “This looks great. What pasta shape do you want to make?”
“Ravioli,” Zach said. She patted his cheek and moved on to the next group. When Page and April looked at him, he shrugged. “I used to make them with her. It’s one of my favorite memories.” He handed April a knife. “You’ll want to cut the pasta in squares of equal size.”
She looked at the beautiful yellow dough in front of them. It
was almost too pretty to cut into anything, but she carefully placed the knife on one edge and drew it down to the other. Once they had the dough cut into neat squares, Zach retrieved ricotta and Romano cheeses, eggs and parsley. He gave the parsley to Page to chop while April shredded the Romano cheese. He measured the ingredients into a silver mixing bowl, then showed them how to put a tablespoon of the cheese mixture in the middle of one square then place a second over it, pinching the edges to seal it up tight.
April stared at him. “I thought you couldn’t cook?”
He leaned over one ravioli, pinching the edges. “Despite what my nonna believes, I do know how. I just don’t have the time to do it.” He placed the ravioli on the overflowing plate, then looked up at her. “Can you cook?”
She shook her head. “I can microwave frozen meals and chop vegetables for a salad. I also pour a mean bowl of cereal.”
He grinned and brushed the tip of her nose. “You had a little flour there.”
She reached up to where he’d touched her. “Is it gone?”
Page cleared her throat. “You’re fine. So, Chef Boyardee, what do we do next?”
* * *
ZACH REALIZED HE’D been gazing into April’s baby blue eyes for far too long. He glanced at her friend and gave a nod. “Right. Next step. We’ll boil the ravioli for about six or seven minutes. Then we drain them and toss in the pesto.”
“Sounds easy enough.” Page took the plate up to the stoves where students had gathered to place their homemade pastas into the pots of boiling water.
With her friend gone, Zach looked over at April. She wore a soft sweater in a shade of blue that complemented her fair skin and eyes. It looked as if she’d be soft to the touch. Soft, vulnerable. What was he doing? He shouldn’t be thinking about touching her. Yet, she seemed so approachable here in class. And that made her all the more appealing.
April started to gather the dirty dishes and utensils. He followed her to the sink, where he helped rinse them and place them in the dishwasher. They didn’t say a word, but worked well as a team, then returned to their table. Nonna had left them clean plates and forks as well as a small mortar of pesto to try with their ravioli. “Your grandmother is amazing. I didn’t know people could cook like this.”
