The living room was completely empty. All the couches, tables, and chairs out front probably needed to be in here. In the middle of the floor sat a child on a blanket.
“That’s Emily Ann, my future grandchild,” Irene said. The little girl didn’t even look up from the iPad she was busy with. “Shedoesn’t hear anything when she’s watching those shows.” Irene kept leading me through the hallway until we got to the kitchen.
“Sit.” She gestured at the small table and chairs. “Do you eat biryani? It’s not very spicy. My white colleagues can handle it.”
I had never had it in my life, but I nodded anyway.
“Good.” She walked over to the stove, where she dished spoonfuls of rice, meat, potatoes, and lentils into a plate. The oven light clicked, and she leaned left to grab a cake dish filled with batter. She slipped it into the oven and turned the timer on before reaching for the food-filled plate and putting it into the microwave. The kettle on the stovetop called for her attention, and while I’d expected water, she poured a caramel-colored, cinnamon-scented tea from the spout and offered it to me.
Watching her in the kitchen was mesmerizing. She could write a book about multitasking. I’d never seen anything like it. Even the professional cooks we had back home didn’t move like this.
Lincoln walked into the kitchen at the same second the now-heated plate of food was placed in front of me. The steam pressed against my face, followed by a most delicious smell.
“Mom, give her a second to breathe before you feed her.” He smiled at his mother and turned to me. “Feeding people is her love language.”
“It’s yours too,” his mother said.
I sipped on the hot tea in an attempt to disguise the flurry of heat traveling through me at that single comment.
Beside me, Lincoln threw his hands up. “Okay, well, I don’t have all day, so I’m gonna help Daniel move the couches and shelves into the living room, then I’m off. Deal?”
She nodded, and he looked at me. I gave him a thumbs-up. He took that as permission to leave me alone with his mother.
I expected an awkward silence or, at the very least, an awkwardpause once left alone together, but Irene launched into conversation. “Lincoln and my soon-to-be husband, Daniel, surprised me with this house.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I don’t mean to brag about my son, but I can’t help it.”
After dishing up a plate of her own, she sat across from me and used her hands to eat, scooping up the rice between her thumb, forefinger, and middle finger on her right hand.
“Lincoln is really thoughtful and kind,” I said without any hesitation. “He deserves to be bragged about.”
I tried mimicking her, but the rice kept slipping out. Enough of it went into my mouth, and the spicy food packed a heat I wasn’t prepared for. My cheeks must have burned bright red, because Irene scooted the tea closer to me.
“He’s always been thoughtful,” she said. “Since he was a child. Soft, and thoughtful. My guess is that all that thinking had him realizing the world needed someone who listens, rather than speaks. Someone who gives, rather than takes.”
“That is the perfect description.” The warmth in my heart reserved for Lincoln spread. It grew every time I found out something new and wonderful about him.
Lincoln’s mother tilted her head and observed me. I scooped another handful into my mouth to stop myself from confessing all my thoughts about my boss to his mother. I’d need a few bottles of water after this meal, but it was delectable.
Irene polished off her plate and put it into the sink. As she washed her hands, the little girl ran up to her.
“Look what I found.” She handed a thick photo album over to Irene.
After drying her hands, Irene sat down at the table and tapped the chair for the young girl to join.
“Hi, I’m Emily Ann.” The kid waved and climbed onto her seat. “Are you Uncle Lincoln’s girlfriend? You’re very pretty.”
I choked on the rice.
But Irene came to my rescue. “She works with Uncle Lincoln.” She pulled the attention away from me by opening the album. The first photo was of a brand-new baby in the arms of a much younger Irene and a man who looked nothing like Lincoln, aside from the soft brown eyes I could see despite the aging photograph.
She turned the page, and Lincoln was starting to look like himself. “How old was he here?” I asked, starting at the top left.
“He must have been around five.”
“I’m older than that.” Emily Ann huffed. “And this is kinda boring. I’m gonna go play outside.” She walked over to the fridge, grabbed a juice box, and then skipped out of the kitchen.
I turned my focus down to the grinning boy. There were so many photos of him having fun. And being happy. Dancing. Dressed up. Baking. Running. Playing.
On the next set of photos, his smile wasn’t quite as wide. But the half smile was something I was used to. Something I adored.
