The Promise (Thunder Point #5)(42)

There was already plenty of help in the kitchen. Her sister-in-law Lori, Adele and her mama were hard at work in a hot, sweaty kitchen. But Mama was in her element—she loved having a houseful. There would only be nine for dinner—a small group. So Peyton didn’t feel too guilty asking a favor.

“Mama, my new Thunder Point friends don’t have much experience with Basque cuisine. If you have extra from tonight that you can spare or any freezer dishes you can part with, I’d love to take some back with me. One of my friends is a deli chef, and she’s especially curious.”

“Is that so?” Mama asked, not looking at her.

“Only if it’s convenient. I could borrow a cooler or thermal carrier and take it home with me tomorrow. Fresh. Just if there’s enough.”

Her mother turned and looked at her. “There is always enough food, Peyton. Not enough of other things sometimes, but of food there is never a shortage. I can spare some for your friends to taste.”

“No oxtail or tongue, Mama,” she said. “They’re beginners.” Then she smiled somewhat timidly. Her mother’s home was the only place she was ever visited by timidity.

Her mother crouched to pull a roasting pan from the shelf beneath the work island in her big kitchen and handed it to Peyton. She pulled a knife from the rack and said, “Fine. Kill a chicken.”

“Oh, Mama, can’t George?”

“I think George is busy in the barn, and I understood you to say you wanted something Basque for you friends—not too ethnic or exotic.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I’ve always hated killing chickens! And I think you’re taking advantage of me.”

“Always, my little Babette,” Mama said. And then she smiled.

In the end Peyton packed up a couple of large take-home boxes that would do a restaurant proud. Mama pulled out all the stops—she was clearly showing off. Lamb-and-spinach-stuffed mushroom tapas, lomo and sautéed shrimp, tomato-and-garlic soup, creamy red potatoes, red beans and chorizo, mussels and rice, chicken basquaise, lamb shanks in stew, bread and two bottles of Rioja. “You are so brilliant, Mama,” Peyton said.

“And where did you think you got all your big brains? From that old farmer?” She threw back her head and laughed.

“You and Papa are in love every day,” Peyton said.

“And on the days we’re not, he behaves better.”

That comment almost sent Peyton back to the hayloft.

When Peyton stopped for gas on her way back to Thunder Point on Sunday she called Carrie and Scott and asked if she could drop off a little Basque treat on her way home, and of course, both of them were thrilled. She went to Carrie’s house first. Lou McCain let her in and led Peyton into some kind of gathering in the kitchen. Rawley Goode stood at the stove, Ray Anne sat at the table with Carrie, who had her leg elevated on a kitchen chair. Peyton put her offering on the table and asked, “What have I interrupted?”

“Just a hen party, Peyton. Do you know Rawley?” Carrie asked.

He turned from the stove and looked at her rather critically. “We seen each other around. And in case you’re wonderin’, I ain’t no hen.”

All of the women laughed, and Peyton noticed they were having wine, cheese and crackers.

“Hi, Rawley. What are you working on?” Peyton asked.

“Rawley’s been helping me with the cooking since I wrecked my knee,” Carrie answered for him. “The girls and I try to get together for a glass of wine every week if we can.”

“And your knee?” Peyton asked.

“Much better. It gets a little sore and swollen when I’m standing a lot, but I’m watching it and taking it real easy, thanks to Rawley.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lou said. “Didn’t you get a little help from your other friends? We’ve all been making wraps and sandwiches, grocery shopping, offered to take the August wedding job since we’re experienced servers. We’ve done it at some of the most notorious parties in Thunder Point. We need supervision, of course, but we’ve been helping!”

Rawley turned from the stove where he was casually stirring some kind of sauce and said, “I think the lady was talking about the natural talent.”

Again they all laughed.

“What’s in the box, Peyton?” Carrie asked.

“Oh, right... I was momentarily distracted. My mother packed up some samples of her best offerings for tasting. She left out the more exotic family meals, favorites at my house but I wasn’t sure how daring you would be—so, no tongue or oxtail soup or squid cooked in its own ink this time. But if you aren’t truly impressed with this menu, you’re crazy.” She unpacked the box, named each dish, presented the wine. “From my uncle Sal’s vineyard,” she said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t scare up any of the white. After a weekend of family, they were running low.”

Carrie was immediately on her feet, the chair she had raised her leg on pushed out of the way. “Oh, my gosh, Peyton! This is wonderful! There’s enough here for dinner! We can dip in right now!”

“My mother says to warm the mushrooms, chicken and shrimp in the microwave, but everything else must be warmed on the stove. Especially the soup and stew.”

“Did you eat like this every night, growing up?” Carrie asked.