My dog stares at me with wide eyes, full of innocent worry, which only hurts my heart more.
“Charlie!” My call stops him before he can disappear.
He waits, his back to me. But maybe that’s better. I don’t open up to people, and right now, I need to show a little vulnerability to explain my temporary freak-out.
“The recipe. It’s my grandmother’s. She wrote it down herself.” I have to clear tightness from my throat before I keep going. “I only have six.”
Charlie faces me, the hurt gone as easy as it arrived. “Six recipes?”
I nod. “I visited her six times since I’d found her. We made a new dish each time, and she wrote what we did as we did it. She said the recipes were in her hands, and she only remembered them when she cooked them.”
Charlie retraces his steps, approaching me as if I were a rattlesnake and my tail was buzzing in warning. He has a right to be wary. I sank my fangs into him only a second ago.
“I’m protective of them.”
The paper is plenty sturdy, not like she wrote the steps down on tissue paper, but I can’t help worrying that they’ll disintegrate under the wrong touch and I’ll lose this last bit of her. Of my history.
“I’m sorry. I promise not to touch them again.”
If I were someone who people-pleased, I’d apologize further and claim I overreacted.
Instead, I simply say, “I’d appreciate that.”
Charlie leans a shoulder against the wall, looking handsomer than should be allowed as he studies me. “Making the recipe yourself also means a lot to you?”
Perceptive man.
I hunch over my cutting board, focused on slicing the scallions as thin as Wai Po showed me. “I want the recipes to be in my hands too.”
He nods, quiet for a moment longer, then pushes off the wall and strolls down the hall, disappearing into his room.
For someone who’s been completely happy living on their own, I’m surprised at the clench of regret in my chest at his departure. Almost like I wish he’d stayed here with me to keep me company.
Well then, maybe you should’ve let him help instead of snapping, a snide voice whispers in the back of my brain.
But before I can lay into myself further, Charlie reappears.
This time with a guitar.
“Do you mind if I mess around with this?” he asks, warm eyes meeting mine.
“Go for it.”
Charlie settles at the kitchen table, and while I carefully work through Wai Po’s recipe for scallion pancake beef rolls, he tunes his instrument.
Then my husband fills our house with music.
He plays covers. Acoustic versions of some pop, some rock, some R & B. Later, Charlie drifts into a familiar country tune, and I grin when I recognize his choice.
“That’s Violet’s,” I point out, as if he didn’t already know.
Charlie raises his head, fingers still strumming as his cheerful smile entrances me. “Guess I’m not too rusty then, if you can tell what I’m playing.”
“You’re good.”
He shrugs. “I’m average.”
“Seriously?” I pretend to glare at him. “Do you think I would marry someone who was average?”
