The Lucky One(42)

“Come on in. I’m in the kitchen.”

Thibault stepped inside and made his way to the kitchen. Elizabeth had put on an apron and was standing at the stove, browning ground beef. On the counter beside her was an open bottle of Michelob Light.

“Where’s Ben?” Thibault asked.

“He’s in the shower. He should be down in a couple of minutes.” She added some packaged taco seasoning and water to the beef, then rinsed her hands. After drying them on the front of her apron, she reached for her beer. “Would you like one? I always have a beer on taco night.”

“I’d love one.”

She pulled a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to him. “It’s light. It’s all I have.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned against the counter and took in the kitchen. In some ways, it reminded him of the one in the house he’d rented. Cabinets original with the house, stainless-steel sink, older appliances, and a small dining room set pushed beneath a window, but all in slightly better condition, with women’s touches here and there. Flowers in a vase, a bowl of fruit, window treatments. Homey.

From the refrigerator, Elizabeth pulled out some lettuce and tomatoes, along with a block of cheddar cheese, and put them on the counter. She followed that with green peppers and onions, moved the whole lot to the butcher block, then pulled out a knife and cheese grater from a counter drawer. She started slicing and dicing the onion, her movements quick and fluid.

“Need a hand?”

She shot him a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me that in addition to training dogs, fixing cars, and being a musician, you’re an expert chef.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But I know my way around the kitchen. I make dinner every night.”

“Oh yeah? What did you have last night?”

“Turkey sandwich on wheat. With a pickle.”

“And the night before?”

“Turkey sandwich on wheat. No pickle.”

She giggled. “What was the last hot meal you cooked?”

He pretended to rack his brains. “Uh . . . beans and franks. On Monday.”

She feigned amazement. “I stand corrected. How are you at grating cheese?”

“In that, I would consider myself an expert.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s a bowl in the cupboard over there, beneath the blender. And you don’t need to do the whole block. Ben usually has two tacos, and I have only one. Anything more would be for you.”

Thibault set his beer on the counter and retrieved the bowl from the cupboard. Then he moved to the sink to wash his hands and unwrap the block of cheese. He snuck glances at Elizabeth as he worked. Finished with the onion, she’d already moved on to the green pepper. The tomato came next. The knife danced steadily, the movements precise.

“You do that so quickly.”

She answered without breaking the rhythm of her movements. “There was a while there when I dreamed of opening my own restaurant.”

“When was that?”

“When I was fifteen. For my birthday, I even asked for the Ginsu knife.”

“You mean the one that used to be advertised on late-night television? Where the guy on the commercial uses it to cut through a tin can?”

She nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Did you get it?”

“It’s the knife I’m using now.”

He smiled. “I’ve never known anyone who actually admitted to buying one.”

“Now you do,” she said. She stole a quick look at him. “I had this dream about opening this great place in Charleston or Savannah and having my own cookbooks and television show. Crazy, I know. But anyway, I spent the summer practicing my dicing. I’d dice everything I could, as fast as I could, until I was as fast as the guy on the commercial. There were Tupperware bowls filled with zucchini and carrots and squash that I’d picked from the garden. It drove Nana crazy, since it meant we had to have summer stew just about every single day.”

“What’s summer stew?”

“Anything mixed together that can be served over noodles or rice.”

He smiled as he shifted a pile of grated cheese to the side. “Then what happened?”

“Summer ended, and we ran out of vegetables.”

“Ah,” he said, wondering how someone could look so pretty in an apron.

“Okay,” she said, pulling another pot from under the stove, “let me whip up the salsa.”

She poured in a large can of tomato sauce, then added the onions and peppers and a dash of Tabasco, along with salt and pepper. She stirred them together and set the heat on medium.

“Your own recipe?”

“Nana’s. Ben doesn’t like things too spicy, so this is what she came up with.”

Finished with the cheese, Thibault rewrapped it. “What else?”

“Not much. I just have to shred some lettuce and that’s it. Oh, and heat up the shells in the oven. I’ll let the meat and the salsa simmer for a bit.”

“How about I do the shells?”

She handed him a cookie sheet and turned on the oven. “Just spread the shells out a little. Three for us, and however many you want for you. But don’t put them in yet. We still have a few minutes. Ben likes the shells fresh out of the oven.”