She’s quiet, probably trying to digest everything she’s just heard, and no wonder. It’s such a huge shift of perspective, of her whole world view. I don’t want her to ruminate on it, so I keep talking about inconsequential stuff, mainly about what I plan to cook for dinner and the different vegetables I have in the fridge. And she even laughs with me at some of the names. Piggily, for example.
“What’s piggily?” she asks, brightening.
“It’s a green vegetable, shaped in a spiral, like a pig’s tail.”
“What’s the human equivalent?”
“Brussels sprouts, I guess.”
She pulls a face. “Urgh. Never been a fan.”
“I can recommend piggily. It’s not bitter like brussels sprouts. And according to Tippy, it’s a super food.”
She smirks at that. “I wonder if she’s got Jax to eat it.”
“She might sneak it into a smoothie.”
“Jax used to hate brussels sprouts,” Clem muses. “No wonder he refuses to drink her smoothies.”
After this, I get the sense Clem has relaxed a smidge. We don’t talk about the stuff Silas told her; her brain needs time to process it all.
When we get home, I throw my hat on the chair inside the door and stride down the corridor.
“Why don’t you take a rest while I prep dinner?” I suggest.
But instead, Clem follows me, her heels tapping on the flagstone floor behind me.
“I don’t need a rest. I want to help.”
“You’ve had a huge day.”
“Stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” she retorts. “I may be small, but I’m tough. I won’t shatter.”
“I believe you.” I grin, then can’t help a little tease. “Unless it’s a creepy crawly with a zillion legs.”
“Ah, nowthatis different.” She wags a finger and laughs too. Our eyes meet and an electric current arcs between us, and I’m sure, like me, she’s remembering the outcome of that episode.
I stride over to the fridge and get out the piggily, and she laughs at how it really is shaped like green corkscrews, just like pig’s tails. “Yeah, I see how it got its name.” She picks it up and sniffs it. “Not as bad as brussels sprouts, you reckon?”
“I promise it tastes good.”
Next, I get out the potatoes.
“They look the same as ours,” Clem observes.
“Spuds are spuds, below ground and above.”
“I guess that’s reassuring.”
“I’ll prep the piggily, you peel the spuds,” I say.
“Deal.”
So here we are, prepping together at the bench, Clem standing on a stool to bring her to my level. Our elbows occasionally nudge and I get little shivers down my spine at the contact. It feels so easy and effortless, like there was never a time when Clem wasn’t here by my side.
She certainly brightens up this old house, makes it feel like home again. I could get used to having her here—waytoo used to it.
“Let’s make potato fries to go with our steaks.”
