Speaking of which… “You need hot food.” She started to pull back.
“Yeah.” He didn’t let go.
“Ford.”
“Just…”
Just this. Just them. Here, holding each other up, breathing together. Just breathing.
Alive.
One of them pulled away, eventually, probably him since the man was an expert at denial. Or waiting or hiding or whatever he’d been doing all these years.
She led him to the room’s single table, where they sat, still suited up, and ate.
The first swallow was too quick, barely making it to her stomach before she went for another. This one laid a warm path, waking up taste buds while it made way for the third—a long, slow slide into bliss. She groaned.
“Jesus.” Ford sounded angry.
“What?” She lifted surprised eyes to his. “Don’t like it?”
“No. It’s good. Perfect.”
“Then—”
“That noise. The sound you made.”
She watched him. “What?”
He blinked the fierceness away. “Never mind.”
“No. What was wrong with—”
“Forget it.”
“O-kay.” She went back to the stew…and groaned again. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Right.” Even with his face half-covered in ice, he looked skeptical.
“What?”
“You’re a gourmet chef andthisis the best?”
“It’s all relative, isn’t it?” She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to take it easy. “I mean, the best thing I’ve probably eaten, taste-wise…” Holding the next warm, fragrant bite in her mouth, she put her head back, let it thaw her to life, and remembered. “Tomatoes. Fresh from the garden.”
He didn’t respond, so she went on. “Big beefsteaks, sliced, with nothing but a drizzle of olive oil. Dash of salt. Or better yet, those tiny sun golds. The orange ones? Right off the vine. One in the basket, one in your mouth. Warm from the sun.” She paused, her brain hitching on something. An idea or memory or notion that seemed obvious, though she couldn’t quite grasp it.
“When did you know you wanted to become a chef?”
“A chef?” She paused, that elusive thing just out of reach, like a scent she couldn’t identify, the way tomato stems smelled like summer, but the fruit itself provided the taste. “I never wanted to be a chef. I wanted tocook.”
“Not the same thing?”
She shook her head. “No. One’s about status and accomplishments. Who people think you are.” Hugh. Hugh was a chef. “The other’s about…” Understanding shimmered through her, real and pure and brand-new, but old as that first taste of Mama’s pupusas. “Cooking’s like making music.” She threw him a smile. “It’s the perfect storm of smell and touch and taste and even sound, you know? That sizzle in the pan, the pop of spices. The moment you turn the heat off and there,right there, the ingredients let off a warm, enveloping steam.” He watched her with a puzzled look on his face, like she spoke a foreign language that he wanted to understand. “Cooking is knowing to let that tomato speak for itself, to leave it alone instead of piling a bunch of crap on top.”
“When’d you start cooking?”
Her eyes shifted to the side. “Everyone else ate junk out of boxes, but Mama and I had a garden. Had to or we’d starve. Late summer, we canned, pickled, preserved. Everything we grew got put up for the winter. Worked till our hands were raw.” She squinted at the memory. “Weird.” Overwhelmed by something that felt an awful lot like loss, she shoved another bite in her mouth. This one tasted bitter and bland, cloying and salty.
