Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(34)
Dax hesitated, and Nora’s lips went up again and the cucumber came out.
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Dax said and Nora lifted a painted-on brow, then cupped a hand to her ear. “Perfection?” When Nora gestured for him to say it louder, he did, and thankfully dropped the question mark at the end.
With a satisfied nod, Nora placed the cucumber in her cart and toddled off, but not before grabbing a few pounds of carrots.
“It’s the orange one,” Emerson said quietly.
“I know what color carrots are.”
She grinned. “I meant the pie dish. Nora always serves her pie on an orange plate. She says it matches the carrots.”
“You sure?” Dax asked, his forehead furrowed as though doing a mental search of his fridge to see if he remembered an orange platter.
“Yeah, when my mom passed she brought one to my dad every week for a month straight. My suggestion is scrape it down the sink and give her the plate back, then don’t answer the door when she knocks again.”
“Noted,” he said, then shook his head. “I still don’t get it. That’s like bringing a six-pack to game night and then expecting the guys to give me back the empty bottles.”
“It shows how little you know about women,” Emerson said and shifted her gaze slightly to the eggplants, which were conveniently located just left of his biceps, and reached around him to pick one. “Do you like these?”
“I know all the important stuff about women, and yes, I like. Very much,” he said, his eyes squarely on her hindquarters. She cleared her throat and he lifted his gaze to her hand, but not before perusing her other produce. “Oh, that. What the hell is that?”
“Eggplant. It doesn’t smell, isn’t green.” And it was the first thing outside of dessert she’d ever mastered in the kitchen.
“Is it mushy?” he asked, looking hesitant, then took it and weighed it, as though he was the resident expert on mush factor. “Because it looks like it would be mushy.”
“Not the way my mom taught me to make it.” And when he didn’t look as though he was about to object, she added, “I slice it really thin, cover it with feta cheese and a bunch of yummy Greek seasonings, roll it up, and bake it. We used to eat it at least a few times a week.” Just thinking about those meals, that time with her mom when she wasn’t even big enough to reach the counter without a kitchen chair, made her smile. “Even Violet likes it.”
She waited for him to answer, but he just stood there, balancing the eggplant in his palm while silently assessing her. And he had the weirdest look on his face that no matter how hard she tried to translate, she couldn’t. Then he gently nodded and said, “How can I say no to your mom’s recipe?”
“Nearly everything I cook is one variation or another of my mom’s recipes,” she admitted.
He placed the eggplant in the cart and led them to the other side of the produce section. “Did your mom own a restaurant?”
“It was always her dream, but her health wouldn’t allow for her to be on her feet that long. She did a lot of catering for family and friends, though. Had more offers to cater than time,” she said, determined not to make her mother come off as a victim. Because that would have been the furthest thing from the truth. Her mom was one of the strongest, most dignified and determined people Emerson had ever met. Around town she was known as the sweet, soft-spoken Greek lady with the mouthwatering dolmas and contagious smile.
What most people missed was that under her mom’s velvet exterior was a power and courage that were awe-inspiring. Traits that Emerson worked tirelessly to embody—without much luck. “It was her idea to open the food cart. The next step in the master plan is to upgrade to a food truck.”
“Food truck?” he asked and she could hear the confusion in his voice. The same outdated underlying question everyone had when they first heard her plan. “Like the burrito wagon that used to come through base?”
“No.” Definitely not. “A state-of-the-art, gourmet food experience on wheels. A mobile way to bring top-quality eats to everyday people.”
“I knew what you meant, I was just giving you a hard time,” he said with a smile. “And your idea is smart. How far you’ve come is impressive,” said the most impressive person in her life right then. “What do you think your mom would say?”
Over the years, Emerson had been bombarded with that same question. However, few took the time to listen to her answer. They were too busy telling Emerson their opinions of exactly what her mom would be feeling.
Proud, impressed, tickled pink. She’d heard it all from the time she was seven and her mom was diagnosed with ALS.
After her mom’s death it only got worse. Family, friends, sometimes even strangers would approach her to give their condolences, which usually led to a story about losing their own loved ones or how missed Lillianna would be. In those situations, Emerson found herself swallowing her own emotions to take on the role of nurturer.
With Dax it felt different. For a guy who seemed to have the emotional capacity of a rutting stallion, his compassion and understanding went much deeper than she’d expected. Maybe it was firsthand knowledge of the complexity of losing a parent, since he’d lost both, or maybe he was showing her his hidden layers.
Either way, Dax seemed to get her in a way that was refreshing, and she found it incredibly appealing.