“Luca did these?” I ask, nodding over to them.
“Yes,”
“They’re really good,” I tell her.
“He’s very talented.”
“I’ve noticed. He’s a really special kid, Ellie,” I say.
Something flashes across her face—something I can’t read, which is kind of abnormal. Usually, she wears all her emotions on her sleeve. Right now I’m a little stumped.
“He is,” she says after clearing her throat and taking a sip of her wine. “He has always been different from most kids. Exceptional really.” She takes another sip.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I say as I set everything up.
Ellie’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, and I swear I see tears in them.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask.
After a moment, she blinks and shakes her head, her expression going back to normal. “No. Not at all. You’re sweet.”
Another sip.
Whatever she’s hiding, she’s hiding well.
She watches as I boil the water for the pasta and unpackaged several different kinds of cheeses to grate. She’s almost done with her glass of wine, which tells me one thing–she’s nervous about something. I hate to think it’s about my being here.
“I like your house,” I tell her, and she nearly chokes on her last sip. “What? I do. It’s cozy.”
“It’s small. And messy. And outdated. And–”
“And a home. It feels the way a home should feel for a kid to grow up in.”
Not cold. Not pristine. Not absent of every memory that brought me comfort. As if Ellie can read my thoughts, she tips her chin up with a questioning look.
“Do you still have anything of hers? Your mom, I mean?” she asks.
I sniff and shake my head, grating the white cheddar. “No. My father got rid of everything.”
“Everything?” she asks with a hollow voice.
“Everything. Before the funeral even started.”
“My God,” she whispers. “That must have been devastating.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I offer nothing more than a small, one-shouldered shrug. I’m doing it again, cracking open my heart for her in ways I’ve never done for anyone. This woman will be the end of me, I swear to God.
“Everything in your home shows your presence, Ellie. Your hairbrush on the bookshelf by the door. The shoes lined up outside the closet.”
“There’s a shoe rackinthe closet. We just tend to be a little chaotic,” she snorts. Then she gets up to stir the pasta. I’m not surprised she can’t just sit there. She’s not used to being taken care of by anyone.
“The puzzle on the coffee table. The blankets on the couch. The pillows on the floor.”
“He’s a big pillow for a kid,” she adds.
“It even smells like you. If I had to guess, there isn’t a single corner of this place that doesn’t reassure Luca that you are here. Always. That’s priceless. Imperative really.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” she says softly. She helps me strain the pasta and finish grating the three cheeses before making the roux. I stand behind her as she stirs the cream, butter and cheeses together on a low simmer until it becomes creamy.
