Under the Table(20)
He went back to making dinner and she went back to sipping her wine.
“For what it’s worth, babies seem like a lot of hard work. They’re not toys, they’re people. And this world is a dangerous place. If you can’t commit, you shouldn’t.”
They were silent for a spell, lost in their own thoughts. But it wasn’t long before Tristan shifted his eyes up from what he was doing with a small knowing grin.
“You’re just dying to do something, aren’t you?”
She smiled back with a little roll of her eyes. “This is the sort of kitchen that inspires cheffery.”
“Cheffer-y? That’s a new one.”
“I made it up,” Zoey said brightly, getting up off her barstool to join him. He tossed her an onion and she pulled out a knife from the drawer where she knew he kept them. He handed her a small plastic cutting board. They were back to working in unison and the mood became lighter. It wasn’t long before Zoey was jammin’ to the music.
“This music is awesome,” she commented, stepping away from her task to fight back onion tears. He picked up a mallet with spikes on one side.
“I discovered the radio station that played it in St. Croix,” he said, banging on the chicken breasts to flatten them. “It was during my teenage rebel years. My grandparents knew eventually I would get sick of listening to all their Perry Como and Frank Sinatra records. Still, they checked my eyes for months to see if I was smoking ‘the funny stuff.’”
“Were you?”
Zoey was nearly floored when he gave a careless shrug and replied, “A couple of times.”
She stepped away from the onion again, this time to stare at him, aghast.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he protested. “The island is full of it. They did fire the landscaper once they found out he was the one I was smoking it with.”
“I used to love smoking pot,” Zoey said wistfully.
“Did you want me to try and get you some?” Tristan asked, clearly disappointed in her statement. “Those pharmaceutical people from last night told me they could get me almost anything. Come to think of it, so did one of the overnight doormen when I first moved in.”
“Oh no.” Zoey was quick with her reply, although she would’ve given her eyeteeth to see what he would be like after a bong hit or two. “I should clarify. I wanted to be a pot smoker but I was never able to make an exact connection. I would watch movies and TV shows where people made one call and it was delivered right to their door. I was always having to go through like two or three people to score any. It got to be a hassle. It felt like begging. I took it as a sign that it wasn’t supposed to be my vice, so I just got over it.”
“I like you much better virtuous,” he said with relief.
“Don’t get carried away.”
Together they playfully finished making dinner. Zoey minced cloves of fresh garlic and tossed some into the spinach Tristan was sautéing. She filled a large pot with water and went to search the pantry for some penne she remembered seeing. He was going back to the fridge for some fresh mozzarella and they banged into each other. For Zoey, it was like smacking into a wall. So much unexpected muscle to come up against, she nearly bounced off him.
“Whoa there,” he said after the contact, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. His grip was firm, his hands large. Nobody had touched her in almost a year, and her response was like a jolt of electricity coursing through her. She could smell his sweet wine-tinged breath and fought off a head rush.
“Sorry.” She ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her visceral reaction. After that, it was Zoey’s turn to make sure there was adequate space between them.
Tristan had created a most delicious dish. After lightly frying the chicken, he topped it with the spinach and cheese and put it in the oven with a mushroom and white wine sauce to finish up. They carried their plates and what remained of the wine into the dining room. Then they both ate like they were going to the electric chair, devouring every morsel.
“I’m glad we decided against a salad or bread,” Zoey said after the last bite was consumed and she was wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin, feeling not an ounce of regret for her part in polishing off her half of a box of pasta. “This dish was amazing.”
“Just my version of cheffery,” he quipped, reaching for his wineglass. Afterward, he offered to move the party to the library to have dessert.
“Forget dessert. I have no room left,” she said with a satisfied sigh, wishing she could unbutton her jeans. “And I’d much rather see some of the art.”
“Do you want to start with impressionist, mosaic, or modern?” he asked excitedly, rising to pull out her chair for her.
“Let’s go with impressionists,” she said.
“Do you know art?”
“Don’t have a clue.”
Tristan laughed and grabbed both their wineglasses before leading her down the hall. “Then I guess I don’t need to worry about you telling the reals from the fakes. Allow me to enlighten you a bit. Impressionism started in the nineteenth century. You can tell it mainly by all the small, thin brushstrokes, usually oil paints. Mosaics are pieces made up of small stones, pieces of glass, or tiles. Basically, materials that are flat, small, square, and colorful. The impressionist style is named after Claude Monet’s work Impression, soleil levant, the translation meaning Impression, Sunrise.”