“Thanks,” I say, blushing under the scrutiny of Pearl’s keen gaze.
My fingers instinctively reach for the Flamenco Red shade of lipstick covering my lips—a gift from my mother. Pretty sure she didn’t intend for me to use it on a date with “the hairy one.” After the hasty end to our Buford Highway date, I endured an hour-long nagging session on why I was wasting my time with an actor when I could be gearing toward an engagement with a doctor. I told her maybe she should date Juan Pablo herself, but that didn’t go down well.
“I like your dress,” Pearl remarks, peering at my emerald-green skirt. “Eli said you were very sophisticated.”
My cheeks go hot, embarrassed at the compliment. “These are for you,” I say, showing off the gift bag in my hand, an attempt to deflect attention away from myself. “Chocolates and macaroons. Each one is like a little piece of art.”
“Thank you,” she says giddily. “We’re eating out back. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, following her down a long hallway, noting the boho decor—a tangerine couch set against white wood paneling, a magenta Persian rug covering the parquet floor, eye-catching throw pillows, art books, and plants dotted around the room. The house is cozy, tidy, and clean. There are gorgeous paintings hanging from almost every wall.
“Wow,” I exclaim, awed. “Who made these?” Bold, figurative scenes stretch out on large canvases, painted in striking Southern colors—barn red, haint blue, creole pink, verdigris green. They are interspersed with mixed-media compositions, embroidered textiles, and photographs. The images feel intimate, chaotic, honest, and also painful.
“They’re part of my art school portfolio,” she says, her expression abashed and self-conscious as we pause to admire the haunting figure of a teenage boy underwater, pushing toward the surface, just on the verge of breaking through. “That’s my brother,” she says quietly. “Before we came to live here.”
“Where were you living then?” I ask, appraising the fluid lines of the water, the fragile expression on the boy’s face.
“Biloxi, I think,” she says absently. Something murky and glum flashes across her eyes, but she doesn’t allow it to linger. I wonder what she remembers of her transient childhood, being ten years younger than Eli. It was probably a blessing having her older brother to rely on.
Her manner shifts abruptly, leaning into the cheerfulness from moments ago. “The water is turbid there. Nothing like Puerto Rico.” A smile returns to her lips as she leads me to the back deck.
Eli is standing by the grill wearing an apron that reads:This isa manly apron, for a manly man, doing manly things, while cooking manly food.I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“See?” Pearl exclaims in Eli’s direction. “I told you it was funny.” She sets her cake down on the table, then turns to me, adding proudly, “It was my Father’s Day gift.”
Eli turns to me, his face breaking open with the most arresting smile.
“You made it okay?” he asks. I move to him as if in a trance, lulled by the pleasant summer breeze coming off the back garden, the dim light of the stringed bulbs above us and the opening guitar melody of Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs’s “Fast Car” duet, playing in the background. When I reach him, his arm slides around my waist, and I fuse into his side, into the solid contours of his body.
“Hi,” he whispers, staring into my eyes.
“Hi,” I say, staring back at him, my heart beating furiously.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, brushing my lips with a chaste, lingering kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting.
Behind us, Pearl clears her throat, reminding us that we’re not alone. “Luisa, can I get you something to drink?” she asks politely. “Eli got some wine.” She picks up the bottle from the table, reading the label. “Sancerre?”
“That’s perfect,” I say, giving Eli a meaningful look. I’ll have to tell Holly her wine lessons have stuck, and that I’m personally reaping the benefits. I help Pearl with the corkscrew and pour a glass for myself. Eli sips from a beer bottle, and Pearl nurses a very festive Shirley Temple.
“These are almost done,” Eli says. He opens the grill, then bastes butter over two steaks.
“It smells incredible,” I say, moving aside the little flower vases on the table so that Pearl can fit a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes and a platter of roasted asparagus.
“He watched a million recipes online,” Pearl whispers. “And he changed like ten times before you got here. I think he really wants to impress you.”
“Don’t believe a word she says,” Eli exclaims, transferring the steaks onto a board. He cuts the flame, then joins us, carryingthe steaks in one hand and a plate with grilled portobello caps in the other. “For the vegetarian,” he says, placing the mushrooms in front of Pearl with a flourish.
“Vegetarians are the future,” she says to me. “Meat consumption is unsustainable.”
“Which is why,” Eli retorts, slicing the meat, “we’re enjoying this juicy steak while we still can.” He slides a few pieces onto my plate. Pearl passes me a serving spoon for the mashed potatoes.
We load up our plates and dig in. The steak is perfectly cooked, the potatoes have a bliss-inducing amount of butter, and the asparagus is tender and fresh.
“So this is what manly food tastes like,” I tease, dabbing at the sides of my mouth with a napkin. Pearl laughs.
“I told you: meat and potatoes, I can do,” Eli says, grinning.
“I’ve learned not to underestimate you,” I prod. “What other secret talents are you hiding?”
