She eyes me, head tilting at whatever she finds in my expression this time. “You’re upset though? Like really upset about it?”
I don’t bother hiding it. “Yeah, I’m upset. They should have talked to you with more respect. I didn’t like it at all. And I think it’s okay to tolerate some good-natured roasting, but only to a certain point. They each crossed over that point today.”
She’s smiling timidly at me. Something soft and secret transpiring between us that I don’t think we’ll ever acknowledge out loud. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure that anyone’s ever thought I was deserving of respect to that extent before.”
Andthatkills me.
This is the last stop for the day, and it’s a house I keep on the route because it’s been in our family for generations. I bring them a box of produce, and they never pay—because we’ve never asked them to. I’m not even sure how it started. All I know is that my dad has always referred to them asMamawandPapaweven though they are not our blood relations. They’re just a sweet couple, Della and Victor, who have lived in this house for most of their long, happy marriage.
Like my dad always did, I set aside a box of the best produce for them and take it by during deliveries. In return, they have a cup of coffee and a slice of cake waiting for me. And today, Mrs. Della looks a little too happy to be pouring Madison a cup alongside mine.
“It’s good you finally found yourself a good lady, James. I worry about you being alone so much,” says Della, her tremor a little more prevalent today as she pours coffee into my mug.
“Oh, she’s not—”
Madison places her hand over mine and smiles. “Well, Mrs. Della, James is definitely not alone anymore. And since I’m a chef, you can rest assured he’ll always be well fed.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says with a happy wink.
When Della turns to slice off a piece of butter cake for us to have with our coffee, Madison leans in close. “A mamaw should never have to worry about anyone,” she whispers in my ear, her breath slipping over my skin in a way I’ve only dreamt of until now.
Guilt creeps over me for how good it feels to hold her hand while she tells Della all the happy parts of culinary school. To run my thumb across the back of her knuckles and pretend for these short twenty minutes that she’s mine. I wonder if I can milk this and lean across the table and kiss her? Take her to the bathroom and trace her neck with my tongue. Carry her to my truck and lay her down on the bench seat.
Instead, I finish my coffee and cake and try not to stare at Madison too much as she talks, and then when I lose that effort, I kick myself outside to bring in the crate of produce.
Per usual, Victor’s out cold in his recliner, hat perched on his head—even the screen door slamming didn’t wake him.
“All right, Mrs. Della. I’ve got some extra-special goods for you today,” I say, setting the crate on the countertop.
“Oh, you’re not kidding. These are some good-looking tomatoes.” Della turns each one over, inspecting their color. “I’ve been waiting on some like this for months now. What’d you do to them this time?”
“Sang them a song and tucked them in every night.”
She beams. “Told ya that would work.”
Madison is curious now and hovers closer until she can peek over my shoulder. She smells like coffee and sugar. “Wow. These do look good.” She picks one up, turning it over a few times in her hand. “The last chef I worked for used to make this really incredible roasted garlic and root veggie pasta sauce. If he saw these, he would have offered up his children in exchange for them.”
I want to ask her if this was the chef who hurt her, and then offer to end his life instead of giving him good produce.
Della polishes one of the tomatoes on the apron she always wears around her waist. “Leave it to a chef to try to think of the most difficult and time-consuming thing I could make with an ingredient. But I don’t waste my time with all that fuss when I have a piece of produce as good as this one.”
“What would you make with it instead?” Madison asks, and I can see the spark in her eyes. The intrigue and ideas running rampant behind her smile. She loves food. She loves talking about food.Thisis Madison’s Disney World.
“Better yet, I’ll show you. Excuse me,” Della says, moving into Madison’s space so she’s forced to back up against me. Instinct has me wrapping my hand around her abdomen and hugging her to me before I can even process what I’m doing. Madison’s sharp inhale, however, alerts me to the fact that my hand is splayed across her stomach.
I start to slide it away, but her hand jumps to mine, intertwining our fingers and holding me there.To keep up the act,I tell myself.She just wants us to seem natural.
So we stay like this, Madison’s breath coming faster and faster and my heart pounding against her shoulder blades as Della turns back to the cutting board, pulls down two slices of fresh white bread. She slices the tomato into delicate little slices and lays them on one side of the bread before slathering mayo on the other. Salt and pepper get sprinkled over top, after which the sandwich is cutinto two and wrapped in a paper towel. She hands one to both of us, forcing me to let go of Madison. For this reason only, I hate these sandwiches.
“This is my favorite thing to make with a nice juicy tomato,” says Della. “Take this with you for when you get hungry later. Tell me how you liked it next time you come to visit.” She levels Madison with a look. “And I do expect you to come back and visit.”
Madison wraps Della in a big hug like she’s known her her entire life. “Don’t worry. I’m like a stray cat. If you feed me, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
A few minutes later, we both climb into the truck, and Madison is acting so normal that I wonder if the reaction I sensed back there was all in my head. Maybe it was only wishful thinking that she was breathing so heavy. I’ve got to stop doing that.
“I mean this in the best possible way, but how do you have more room in your stomach for any of that?” I ask Madison, who has left with not only her sandwich but also a slice of Della’s cornbread and a piece of butter cake for later.
“Room has nothing to do with it. With enough determination, though, you too can fit an army’s worth of food in your stomach.” She bites into her sandwich, and the moan she lets out is almost enough to make me crash.
