Page 52 of Goose

Ally

Goose’s home in La Mesa stood out from all the other homes in the area. While his neighbor’s yards were decorated with cactus and rocks, his was landscaped with beautiful shrubs, flowers, the occasional ornamental tree. The result was one that would rival any local botanical garden.

The interior of the small home was meticulously cared for, fitted with the essentials needed to entertain a few guests. Seated across from him at the kitchen table, I gazed at the selection of food he’d placed in front of me.

A hint of garlic and fresh tomatoes lingered. My mouth salivated. I drew a slow breath and couldn’t help but smile. “It smells so good.”

“Hopefully it tastes good.” He gestured across the table. “There’s an eggplant cutlet and artichoke salad, chicken parmesan, and fettuccine carbonara. Dig in. Before it gets cold.”

“I can’t believe you make your own sauce.” I reached for my fork. “From scratch.”

He chuckled. “I can’t believe anyone would buy pre-made sauce.”

Having Goose invite me into his home to share a meal—one that he prepared especially for us—changed my view on our relationship. There were a lot of things a man could to do to garner my interest but cooking for me caused my heart to swell.

After a momentary struggle on what to start with, I chose the fettuccine. “Holy crap,” I exclaimed upon taking the first bite. “This is good.”

He looked up. “You like it?”

“It tastes so fresh. Even the peas.”

“Everything is fresh.”

It was obvious by the attention to detail he took in preparing the food that he enjoyed cooking. There was a big difference between enjoying it and being good at it. He was good at it. I took a bite of the salad. The breaded eggplant and red onions were warm, which wasn’t at all what I expected. I was astonished at the flavors that came from what seemed to be a rather simple salad.

“What’s on the onions?” I asked. “Holy crap. I could eat a bowl of those things.”

“I roast them after drizzling them in a balsamic vinaigrette. It’s on the artichokes, too. A little on the salad afterward sets it off.”

“It sure does.”

A sample of the chicken parmesan followed. The chicken was tender and juicy, while the breading was crisp and flavorful. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like this?”

“A lot of practice. I’ve been cooking for the club since we were kids.”

“You guys moved here right out of high school, right?”

He nodded. “I keep forgetting you spent two months talking to Ghost. You two must have become pretty close.”

“We talked every day until the day of the accident.”

“Did you see him the day he died?”

“I did,” I admitted.

His gaze dropped to his food. “He uhhm. He didn’t come around as much as normal after Abby died. We all figured he just needed some time and a little space. When we did see him, he was in good spirits. At least he seemed to be. I guess he was just hanging out in the diner, huh?”

I sipped my wine. “He spent a lot of time there.”

He nodded. “I’m glad he had someone to talk to during that trying time. Losing her had to be tough on him.”

When my father died, I hated being asked about it. Although people gave condolences out of kindness and with sincerity, the constant reminder that he was gone did more damage than good.

I hated to ask, but I also hated more not to.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”