“The only problem is that I can’t get up to fix a bowl for you. You will have to …” Her voice trails off as her cheeks redden just a tiny bit, as if she’s embarrassed to not be the perfect host.
“Say no more,” I mumble before heading into her kitchen. After washing my hands, I search through the wooden, black-painted cupboards for the bowls and silverware, which are located in the drawer next to the sink.
A serving spoon and even a tray sit on the counter beside the crockpot that’s been left on simmer.
The smell of tomato with chili powder and a slight hint of jalapeño fills the air.
“There’s cornbread in the oven,” Ellyn yells from the living room.
Sure enough, I open the oven to the sight of a beautifully golden loaf of cornbread in a tin pan. I pull out the cornbread and slice a couple of pieces onto small plates before spreading a few slabs of butter that’s also been left out on the counter.
For a second, I wonder if these items were left intentionally. As if her daughter set this all out with intention.
That thought is forgotten as I finish set assemble the tray for lunch and carry it over to Ellyn.
She begins to push herself up so that she creates more room at the opposite end of the couch for me to sit.
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell her. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep?—”
She waves me off. “I’m fine. Please sit. It would be better to sit at the dining room table, but well …” She gestures to her hip and then holds up her sprained wrist.
“The couch is fine,” I tell her before sitting the tray across her lap, taking care not to touch her injury.
She waits until I’m seated and ready to take a spoonful of the chili. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her waiting for me.
“What?”
“Taste it,” she encourages.
I do. The tanginess of the tomato sauce with what must be salsa, the spiciness of the jalapeño, and the smokiness from the chili powder all combine to create a delicious rainbow of flavor across my tongue.
“Hell, this is good,” I grunt.
“Knew it,” she gushes. “Both of my girls outshine me in the kitchen, I have to say. Though, Meghan only cooks when she absolutely has to.”
“And your other daughter?”
“Shanice,” she answers, her eyelids lowering to her bowl. “She cooks every day.” Ellyn sighs heavily. “Probably multiple times a day. Hard not to with two young children at home.”
I resist the urge to ask her what the sadness in her voice is about when she speaks about her oldest daughter, but I bite my damn tongue.
I wouldn’t want a stranger meddling in my family’s personal business. Hell, I’d take someone’s damn head off for it.
“Then you’ve got grandkids,” I say instead.
Ellyn lights up.
“A grandson and granddaughter. Elliott’s four and a half and Teresa’s one.”
“The best ages,” I say without thinking.
“Isn’t it?” Ellyn asks. “They’re almost done or coming out of the diaper phase, they can communicate more or less …”
“And when they get cranky you can give them right back to their parents.”
Ellyn laughs out loud. “Unlike when your own children were that age.”
I shake my head and whistle. “Don’t I know it. My youngest, Gabe, used to scream at the top of his lungs. Wailing for hours when he was a baby. The only thing that stopped his crying was me or his mama walking him throughout the house all night long.”
