Fools Rush in(49)

Later that evening, my mom came over with some Chinese food. We sat companionably in the kitchen, eating out of the cartons and chatting about pie-crust techniques.

“I know it’s bad for you, but I use lard instead of Crisco. Lard really makes the best crust. And everything has to be as cold as you can keep it, hon,” Mom preached, her eyes taking on a religious shine. “You have to work fast if you want it to be flaky. Otherwise, the glutens…well, it isn’t pretty.”

“Cold and fast. Gotcha.” Actually, I was pretty much hoping that Mom would do everything and I could just watch and later take credit for her hard work.

“So…why the sudden interest in pies?” Mom asked slyly, delicately biting a little ear of corn.

“Oh, I’m making dinner for, um, a friend, and since it’s summer, I thought a pie would be nice. Seasonal.” Actually, blueberries were not yet in season, and I’d had to pay almost ten bucks for enough berries, but it would be a small price to pay for Joe’s delight.

“A friend? That’s nice,” Mom said, smiling. I blushed. She didn’t ask any more, and I grinned. Good old Mom. She still knew everything.

As I had hoped, my cute little mom took over, telling me just to watch the first time. Her capable hands whipped the crust out, and she deftly mixed the berries and sugar, instructing as I sat on the counter next to her and sipped my Corona.

“I love you, Mom,” I interrupted as she lectured about egg versus milk glazes. She looked up abruptly, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Millie, sweetie, I love you, too!” she said, giving me a floury hug. “And I’m so happy to have you around, honey.” She paused to put the pie in the oven. “With Trish gone…” Her voice tapered off.

With Trish gone, my mom was lonely, and I’d been too busy stalking Joe to notice. I had only called her because I needed something from her, and I suddenly felt ashamed. For all her flaws, Trish had been a great daughter, to our mom at least.

“Let’s do something next week,” I said. “Just us. Let’s go shopping in Providence.”

“Oh, honey, that would be so much fun! We could have lunch, too.”

“I’ll even let you pick out an outfit for me, now that I’m not so chubby,” I offered. It had long been a bitter pill for Mom to swallow, that she, the reigning queen of Talbots Petite, had spawned an overweight daughter who’d worn almost solely scrubs for eight years.

“I can’t wait,” Mom said. “Well, I have to go home and watch the Red Sox. Daddy and I watched them yesterday, and they won. Now he’s afraid they’ll lose if I’m not there to cheer them on.” She rolled her eyes and we laughed, knowing my dad was dead serious. “Keep the temperature at four hundred for fifteen more minutes, then turn the oven down to three-twenty-five and bake it for another forty. Call me if you have any questions.” Mom washed her hands and gave me another hug. “And Millie…I hope he appreciates you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, my throat tightening in a rush of gratitude.

After Mom left, I called those fabulous P-town boys for their wardrobe recommendations. I hadn’t seen them for a while, since they were busy with the Peacock, and we set up a night out.

“Bring the boy,” Curtis commanded. “We want to meet him.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” I answered, grinning. What fun that would be, introducing Joe to my friends, like a real girlfriend! Eventually, I’d even take him home for the official meeting of my parents. My dad would be pleased to have me with a laborer, and everyone was charmed by Joe. Soon, soon, he would be a real part of my life, not just the fantasy that had been playing in my mind for the past fifteen years.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FRIDAY MORNING WAS FOGGY and a little cool for the end of June. The forecast was for steady rain toward evening. Great, I thought. Cozy, romantic, good for cooking, good for cuddling. So he would smell pleasingly of rosemary and lavender, I washed my puppy, ignoring his mournful eyes as I lathered, rinsed and repeated. At ten o’clock, I began chopping, mincing, sautéing. I shelled and deveined the shrimp. You’d think that a person who has dissected a cadaver would not be dry-heaving over a little seafood preparation, but such was not the case. Still, I managed to keep down my meager bowl of Special K as I ran my thumb up each gray, cold crustacean.

I boiled, reduced and strained. I stirred, blended and drained. As the steamy, spicy smell of étouffée filled my kitchen, it began to dawn on me why people liked to cook. I washed the lettuce for the salad, chopped in some red and yellow peppers, threw in a few grape tomatoes, then cut up the green and yellow squash.

Mom’s pie looked fabulous, its golden-brown crust scattered with sprinkles of sugar. I vowed to learn to bake for real once Joe and I were together. I had plenty of Cape Cod coffee, my favorite brand, and light cream. My curtains went back up, clean and freshly ironed. After arranging the flowers I had bought at the farmer’s market yesterday in a mason jar, I set the table. The wine and beer were chilling.

After Joe had arrived, I planned to finish cooking the étouffée, for that nice, cozy domestic atmosphere. The rice would be put on just before he came. I’d stick it in a bowl and warm it in the oven in order to get the nasty cleanup of the rice pot done before Joe’s arrival. Planning, planning, it was all in the planning. It seemed I had just about every angle covered.