“That’s her armor,” said Nolan. “She gets off on wearing it, being able to keep everyone out.”
“You guys are going to adopt? I didn’t know that. I think that’s awesome.” I changed the subject, not because I didn’t like talking about Jaime, but I was starting to feel a little disloyal to her.
Only later when I was driving home did I realize that it was the first time I felt I owed Jaime my loyalty, rather than Alex.
On Sunday evening, I pulled my mom’s recipe for pierogi with meat filling from the box. “Sorry about the store-bought dough, Ma,” I said, glancing at the ceiling. “I’ll make yours next time.” To make it up to her, I played the Beatles on Spotify. Always her favorite.
Singing along, I peeled and sliced the vegetables, throwing them in with the meat to cook in the stock. Next, I peeled and cut up the onion, then fried it in butter until it was lightly browned. I never fried things in butter, and the smell reminded me so much of my mother, I felt myself choking up. Between the music and the aroma in my kitchen, it almost felt like she was there.
I took my time with the recipe, enjoying the feeling of closeness to my mother it brought me but lamenting again the fact that I hadn’t thought to ask her more about her childhood. A song came on that she used to sing to me called “I Will,” and I felt my chest get so tight I had to stop and take a few deep breaths.
I was composing myself over the bowl of meat filling when I heard a knock on the living room door. Wiping my hands on a towel, I turned down the music and went to answer it.
My pulse kicked up when I saw Jaime standing in the hall, dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, her hair in soft waves around her face. “Hi,” I said, surprised but happy to see her. “Is the music too loud?”
“No, not at all. I like it.” She grinned sheepishly. “And I smelled something delicious.”
I laughed. “I hope it will be delicious. I found my mom’s recipe box yesterday in the attic and decided to try her pierogies, but it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“Can I help?” She rose up on tiptoe, so cute and eager, I nearly kissed her on the nose.
“Sure. Come on in.”
She followed me into the kitchen. “What can I do?”
“Let’s see.” Looking over the directions, I shook my head. “There’s like eighteen steps in this recipe, even though the ingredients are simple. My mother made it look so easy.”
“Well, put me to work,” she said, pushing up her sleeves and washing her hands at the sink. “Can’t promise my kitchen skills are anything close to your mom’s, but if you have any easy jobs, I’m up for them.”
“How about chopping the parsley?”
She nodded. “That I can do.”
We finished the recipe together, laughing at our first batch of strangely shaped pierogies and cheering for our second batch, which more closely resembled my mother’s. We boiled and then pan-fried them, just like she used to, and sprinkled them with cracked pepper. After a high-five for our efforts, we threw together a salad and quickly set the table.
“Let me grab some wine upstairs,” she said once everything was ready. “Be right back.”
A couple minutes later she came down with a large brown paper bag in her hand. Setting it on the kitchen counter, she unpacked a bottle of white wine, a silver bucket, and three glass jars with candles in them that I recognized from her coffee table upstairs. “I thought these would be nice on the table,” she said, grouping them together like a centerpiece. “I think there’s a lighter in the top drawer there. Can you grab it?”
“Sure.” I found the lighter and lit the candles while she poured two glasses of wine, dumped ice in the bucket, stuck the wine bottle inside it, and set it on the table.
She placed a glass of wine by my plate and hers, then turned off the kitchen and dining room lights before sitting.
I returned the lighter to the drawer and sat down across from her. “Candlelight? A wine bucket? Who are you?” I teased. “This is way too romantic for the Jaime Owens I know.”
She smiled and shrugged. “I like candlelight, what can I say? And I’m serious about my wine. I can’t help it if it’s romantic.”
We filled our plates and dug in, praising our pierogies, even if somehow they didn’t look or taste quite like my mom’s.
I wondered about Jaime being here, if that meant she’d given any thought to my request for another date or my stating that I wanted more than just no-strings sex with her. After talking to Alex and Nolan last night, I wanted more than ever to gain her trust, assure her that I had no intention of hurting or disappointing her. But I didn’t want to pressure her.
We ate mostly without talking, the music filling the space between us.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she remarked when we’d finished.
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Thinking about your mom?”
I nodded slowly. “The Beatles were her favorite, and she used to sing me some of these songs. I heard one earlier she used to sing at bedtime, and it really took me back.”
“‘Rocky Raccoon?’”
“No, but that’s a great tune.”
“I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she confessed with a guilty smile.
“Such a creeper. Were you peeking in the bathroom window too?”
“No,” she said, as if I’d greatly offended her. “I’m not that bad. Sheesh. So what was the song she used to sing to you at bedtime?”