“Force of habit,” he says. “You don’t need to—”
But I’m already leaning down to remove my heels, relishing the feel of cool tile under my bare feet.
“No sofa?” I ask, glancing up to see him set the grocery bags on the small counter.
“No room,” he replies, then walks toward a worn leather armchair in the corner, between two full-to-bursting bookcases. The chair, which is the only one in the apartment, besides two small metal dining chairs, sits on an antique Persian rug. When he reaches over to turn on the reading lamp, the area fills with warm light. “Please, have a seat,” he tells me, gesturing toward the plush cushion. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
I sink in, savoring the commingled scents of leather, old books, and freshly washed sheets. It seems that Hugh wasn’t exaggerating when he said his life is far from glamorous, but there’ssomething so inviting about this small apartment that I can’t help feeling at home.
Hugh walks across the room and pulls a wine bottle from the kitchen shelf. He opens it and fills two glasses, brings one to me. We silently clink our glasses together, and I take a sip—a rich, complex Bordeaux in a delicate crystal goblet.
Unable to resist tucking my legs under me, I curl deeper in and let myself watch him, his back turned to me while he unloads groceries, sets a speaker on the counter, and pulls a cutting board and knife from under the sink. John Coltrane’s “Naima” quietly fills the small space.
“Music okay?” he asks.
I nod, remembering the first time I heard Coltrane, played barely adequately by a middle-school jazz band, and the many times and places I’ve heard him since. I never imagined I’d hear “Naima” in a garage apartment in Druid Hills, while watching a sexy British man cook for me.
Hugh fills an electric rice cooker and sets the timer. “Your meal will be served in approximately twenty-four minutes,” he announces, taking a glass bowl from the shelf and pouring something from a jar. He walks toward me and sets the bowl beside me, handing me a cloth napkin. “Spicy pickled okra to hold you over,” he says.
“Ohmygod, I love pickled okra so much,” I exclaim, because it’s true, and because I’m genuinely shocked that the esteemed professor is serving it.
“Well, then,” he replies, heading back into the kitchen to run a bunch of cilantro under water, “that’s something else we share in common.”
I wonder what in the world else Hugh could believe we share in common. Maybe our ill-spent youth? I decide not to ask.
He pulls items from the fridge and arranges them on the small counter: onions, cucumber, tomatoes, carrot, radish, and a lemon. He places them beside a hunk of ginger, a head of garlic, and several spice jars, then removes a Tupperware container, sets a pot on the stove, and pours in the contents.
I’m feeling more relaxed, sipping fine wine in this cozy studio apartment, than I’ve felt in weeks, maybe months. I have thestrange sensation, here, of having been transported to another time and place, where douchey men, shady business transactions, and blackmail simply don’t belong.
Last night, we met up with Eli and prepared him to bait the hook for Griggs. Over “pregame” drinks at Griggs and Anna-Byrd’s before the gala, Tripp will ask Griggs for advice on how to invest his trust fund. We’re betting on the fact that Griggs won’t be able to resist luring Tripp into the Lake Chiaha scheme. A pretty safe bet.
But the last person I want to think about right now is Griggs Johnson.
“Can I help?” I ask Hugh, pushing all thoughts of our scheme out of my mind for just one night.
“No need,” Hugh says. “Just never tell my mother that you saw me do this.” Then he takes an Instant Pot from the cabinet and sets it beside the rice cooker. “I love her recipes, but it seems I rarely have three days to set aside for preparing the meals I enjoyed as a child.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I tell him.
He pours oil into the Instant Pot, then sprinkles in cumin seeds. While they sizzle and fill the air with their bright aroma, Hugh expertly dices an onion, then tosses it in. He continues to add ingredients, while I crunch my way through hot okra and wash it down with bold red wine.
I’m mesmerized, watching him chop and stir with a confidence that reveals he’s done this many times before. On a whim, I snap a photo of him at work and send it to Luisa. After Eli left last night, I filled Luisa in on how Hugh arrived at the club to explain his long silence, and the sweet and supportive things he told me in the park.
She responds immediately:
Sexy British Professor cooks???? too good to be true?
I read her text and smile as a picture of Eli, standing beside a Weber grill in an apron, downloads.
Eli says “hi” and his meat is tastier than pridmore’s
I laugh out loud at that one, causing Hugh to turn toward me, questioning.
“Luisa,” I say, gesturing toward the phone, which seems to appease him. I shoot back a quick reply:
Eli wins. Pretty sure Hugh is vegetarian
Then I slide my phone into my purse and turn my full attention to the moment.
