“I picked this place because it’s relaxed. I figured we could get to know each other easier. Art was Oprah’s chef. You’ll love his hush-puppies. They’re amazing.”
“Oh, I don’t do corn. Sorry.”
“Allergies?”
“No. Sugar.”
“Diabetic?”
“No. Carbs. I’m watching my weight.”
George looked at Trevor. His size seemed appropriate to his height. His eyes dropped to his own slightly protruding belly—his paunch, as May had so kindly alluded. “Well, if you’re tempted... they melt in your mouth.”
“I don’t think so. But thanks.”
Scott brought the appetizer and George dug in without hesitation, the aroma of fried cornmeal and onions intoxicating. He broke open a hush-puppy and spread the pimento cheese on it like butter, topping it with a dollop of the pepper jelly before shoving it into his mouth. “Man, you don’t know what you’re missing. So tell me, what’s your passion?”
He looked at George curiously. “Passion?”
“Yeah.” He took a sip of wine to wash everything down. “What floats your boat?”
“Oh. Well, I—”
His phone buzzed again, and his eyes lowered. He picked it up, reading and then texting again.
“Well, let me tell you a little aboutme,” George said. “I’m a widower. I lost my husband to a terrible traffic accident on the beltway a little over two years ago. We were together before that for roughly ten years. We used to go on cruises in southern Europe. That’s my favorite place, Greece—the land of my ancestors. It speaks to me. And Italy. My passion is cooking. I started at a young age, and when I was old enough, I went to school for it. I graduated from the CIA in California—specializing in Mediterranean cuisine specifically.”
Trevor put his phone down. “So you were in the CIA. I thought you were a cook.”
“Chef,” George corrected again, sipping his wine. “I’m sorry. You wouldn’t know, but CIA stands for the Culinary Institute of America.”
“Oh, OK. I get it.”
“So, what is it that interests you, Trevor? What makesyouhappy?”
Trevor thought about it for a minute. “I really loveShas of Sunseton Bravo. And the new spin-off—Sheiks of Tenleytownis to die for... and local.”
“So you watch TV. That’s cool. I do the occasional movie.”
“I love Bravo. I think Andy Cohen is so hot.”
Scott came back with the wine bottle. George gestured another glass, and he poured. He looked to Trevor, who had barely touched his margarita. He left, taking the appetizer plates with him.
Trevor’s phone buzzed again, and he picked it up. George concentrated on the garnet-colored liquid within his glass. He swirled it, creating a tiny burgundy whirlpool. He was wondering if this evening would ever end.
“I was very happy with David,” he said, curious to see how much Trevor was paying attention. “He was a Romanian gymnast. We met at a traveling show in the Carpathian Mountains. An old woman in a covered wagon warned me that he would become a wolf when the moon was full, but I was young and in love and didn’t take heed. Years later, I had to put him down with a silver bullet.”
“I thought you said he died in a car crash.”
“So, you are listening.”
“Of course, I’m listening, George. It would be rude of me not to.”
“And answering your texts constantly during our dinner isn’t?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a hectic week.”
“So, you’re multi-tasking—working while we get to know each other?”
