On the walk back from the thrift store, Felix gallantly offers to treat me to lunch before remembering we blew all our cash buying his grandfather’s painting.
“I could cook for you,” he says, like it’s a consolation prize.
“Yes,” I reply, with zero hesitation. My tastebuds are already doing a happy dance at the memory of those black beans.
Each of the units at Castle Claude has a small private kitchen, but the big industrial space on the main floor belongs to everyone. All the post–Killing Me Softly buffets get prepped down here, where Mr. Namura has spices and sauces to fit every theme.
“You like grits?” Felix asks, pulling a saucepan out of the cabinet next to the stove.
It’s clearly a test. He’s really asking if I’m about to have my temporary Southerner card revoked. “Um, yeah.”
“All the way?” He must see the blank look on my face. “Can you handle some heat?”
“I’m not a wimp or anything.” That I know of.
“We’ll see about that.” Felix sets a package of bacon on the counter, next to a small white onion and a can of jalapeños.
The painting has been carefully placed outside the splatter zone, at the far end of the long communal table. Felix said he needed to figure out the least upsetting way to present the discovery to his grandfather.
“Do you want some help?” It’s partly politeness, but I also need something to do with my hands or I’m going to fidget myself to distraction.
“I assumed you were planning to sit and criticize my technique.”
“I can multitask,” I assure him.
Felix must suspect that I’m overselling my abilities, because he assigns me all the entry-level jobs. Finding the can opener. Measuring the water. Getting two bowls out of the cupboard. A four-year-old in Montessori could handle any of this, but I don’t complain because I’m not that great in the kitchen. Especially compared to Felix, who is clearly in his element. Maybe cooking is close enough to art that the skills transfer: a splash of this, a smattering of that. Not like that guy who threw paint at a canvas in big drippy splotches, though. Felix is a neat freak, wiping the stove and the counters as he goes.
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, trying to sound only moderately impressed.
“Only when my stepdad isn’t home.” He’s busy turning down the heat under the pan, so I can’t see his expression.
“Because… he likes to cook?”
That makes him snort. “No way. He’s not big on blurring traditional gender roles.”
“Isn’t the restaurant industry male-dominated? All the top chefs used to be men.”
“Yeah, but cooking isn’t white-collar enough. It’s almost as bad as wanting to be an artist. Either way, you’re getting your hands dirty. Plus it was my dad’s thing, so obviously it’s all wrong.” He finishes shredding the cheese (also too high-level for me) and carefully rewraps the block of cheddar before returning it to the refrigerator.
“Is that why you haven’t been around?” I ask, while Felix sautés the chopped onion. “Your stepdad doesn’t approve?”
“Depends on the day. Don has his moods. At first he was like, ‘Is his grandfather even here legally?’”
I suck in a shocked breath, like I just kicked something hard with my bare toes.
“I know.” He shoots me a grim smile. “Of course, he changed his tune when he found out Grandpa G owned part of this place. ‘Make sure you stay on the old man’s good side.’” The last bit is relayed in a cheesy car salesman voice, in case I didn’t already have a read on his stepfather’s personality.
“Touching.”
“Real family values.” Felix stirs the onion, adding a dash of some earthy-smelling spice. “It’s a long-term investment strategy for guys like that. Buttering up the old folks enough to make sure you’re in the will.”
“He’s your grandfather. He comes pre-buttered, by definition.” That sounds a little messy, but Felix shrugs like he knows what I mean.
“I guess that’s not how it works in Don’s family. He’s big on ‘locking down the money.’ Lawyer,” he adds, as if that explains it.
“Maybe that’s why Bradley was hanging around Claude’s sister.”
Felix shakes his head as he crumbles a strip of perfectly cooked bacon. “Didn’t sound like he was planning to wait for his inheritance. I’d honestly be worried if he was still—you know.”
