“Sounds like you’ll be in for a fun couple of weeks,” I teased, throwing a glance over my shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sure of it.” Joyce laughed. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I finished stirring the onions and set the pot aside, turning off the heat.
“Want to sit down for a bite?” I asked, motioning toward the table.
“Sure. Smells delicious. What did you make?”
“Just a simple sofrito rice with Cajun grilled chicken and a lime-cilantro crema,” I said, waving a hand. “No big deal.”
Joyce laughed. “If that’s no big deal, I can’t wait to see what happens when you really put your mind to it.”
The truth was, Ialwaysput my mind and my heart into cooking,even when it was just me in the kitchen. “It’s one of those meals that reminds me of…well, everywhere I’ve lived.”
Joyce raised an eyebrow as she took a seat at the table, waiting for me to serve up the plates. “Everywhere?”
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug as I plated the rice, making sure the grilled chicken breasts were nicely arranged on top. “I was kind of all over the place growing up. Mexico with my mom’s family, East Texas with my dad, and Robin Creek with my aunt… I even stayed with my great-aunt for a while outside of Victoria, Texas.” I slid the plate in front of Joyce, then served myself.
“Wow,” she said softly, her voice full of genuine curiosity. “Lots of schools, huh?”
“Lots of schools, lots of teachers. Not so many friends, though, with all the moving around.”
I sat down across from her, glancing at the meal I’d put together. The chicken had a nice char, and the seasoning smelled just right, but I wished I’d gotten a little more color on the onions. The rice had turned out fluffy, though, which was a relief.
I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork, but I didn’t take a bite just yet. Instead, I watched Joyce out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to take her first taste. Every time I cooked for someone, there was that quiet moment of holding my breath, waiting for their reaction, their approval, hoping they’d enjoy it as much as I wanted them to.
Joyce cut into the chicken, and I watched as she slowly chewed, her eyes widening just a little. “Oh, Gabriella,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “This is delicious. I mean it. I could get used to this cooking of yours. My waistline is in jeopardy.”
Her appreciation sank into me, and I allowed myself to savor her words before I took my own first bite. The flavors hit mytongue, and I gave a small nod of approval to myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was very good. The chicken was tender, the rice soaked up the sauce just right, and even the onions, despite not having the perfect color, added a nice sweetness.
Joyce smiled back, and for a moment, we just ate in silence. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that felt like we were both reflecting on our own lives without needing to fill the space with words.
As I chewed on another bite, my mind wandered back to those days in Robin Creek when I stayed with my cousin Lisa and Aunt Fran. Even though Lisa and I were close in age, there was a hint of friction between us. Like maybe she’d been promised a new bike, but Aunt Fran told Lisa they couldn’t get it because they had to take care of Cousin Gabriella now.
I didn’t share that part with Joyce, though. I wasn’t ready to talk about the time I spent in foster care after both my parents disappeared for months, either. That memory still stung too much.
“What’s Elijah’s favorite meal?” I asked.
Joyce chuckled. “That boy will eat anything. But he does like fruit, I’ll say.”
“Cool.” I tucked the information in my memory bank. Elijah was one lucky kid. I didn’t think I’d ever get to be a mom; Lorenzo said he didn’t want us to have kids. “They’re too expensive,” he’d fussed, even as he tapped his phone to send his ex-wife money for their child.
Looking at Lisa, I had to agree. She and her husband, Paulo, had three kids, and it wasn’t worth it for her to work and send them to day care; they’d lose money. Elijah might be my one shot to try out recipes on young palates.
Joyce finished her plate and leaned back in her chair, sighingwith satisfaction. “You know, Gabriella,” she started, wiping her mouth with a napkin, “you’ve got a real talent. This meal”—she gestured to the empty plate in front of her—“is the kind of thing people look forward to. Not just the food, but the thought you put into it.”
“Thank you,” I replied, feeling the warmth of her compliment. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that, especially from someone like Joyce, who seemed so…solid. Steady. The kind of person you could count on even when everything else felt like it was constantly shifting.
She stood up and began clearing the dishes, but I waved her off. “I’ve got it,” I said.
Joyce hesitated for a second, then gave a little nod. “All right, if you insist. But only because I need to get Elijah’s room squared away. Next time, we’re doing it together.”
“Deal,” I said, smiling as I carried our plates to the sink.
As I washed the dishes, my thoughts drifted again—this time to the idea of family. Joyce was preparing for her grandson like it was second nature to make a kid feel welcome, to make him feel at home. It made me wonder if I’d ever know that kind of certainty.
“You are one lucky kid, Elijah,” I whispered as I loaded the dishwasher. “Lucky, indeed.”
