Читать книгу The Black Butterfly - Shirley Reva Vernick - Страница 8

Chapter 3

December 20

Getting out of bed in the morning is an act of false confidence.

–Jules Feiffer

Having stretched my stomach out at supper, I was naturally starving the next morning. The dining room door was ajar, and I could see that the room was empty. Then I noticed an envelope with my name on it taped to the maître d’s podium. It was a woman’s handwriting, and for an instant I thought it was my mother’s. She’d come to her senses, she’d realized what she’d done to me, and she was on her way here to beg my forgiveness.

No, that couldn’t be it. Mom wasn’t diverting a single neuron to thoughts of her own flesh and blood. I slid a finger under the flap and pulled out the paper, Black Butterfly letterhead covered with flowery fountain pen handwriting:

Penny dear,

So sorry about dinner last night. Will explain later. I’m off to an appointment on the mainland. Breakfast is buffet-style, and I trust that by the time you find this note, the food will be out. Enjoy.

I hope to be back by late afternoon or suppertime at the outside. If you need anything in the meantime, Vincent will be happy to help.

So glad you’re with us –

Bubbles

For someone who was so glad I was here, she was doing a darn good job of making herself scarce. Just like Mom. And while we’re at it, where had George managed to hide himself since yesterday afternoon? Whatever was making the Henions disappear all the time, I didn’t like it. Not that I’m normally averse to being by myself—I’ve gotten used to that over the years—but this was getting ridiculous. Well, if I had to be alone, I might as well be alone in a room full of good food.

Towering with fresh fruit, grains, plus all things decadent, the buffet table was a page out of some slick gourmet magazine, and a good distraction. The food, the tablecloth, the china, the silk flowers—all this, just for me? At least someone seemed to care. I put some pineapple chunks, a strip of bacon, and a cranberry muffin on a plate.

I went to the same table I’d had last night, between the picture window and the fireplace. In the light of day I could see out the window, and I stared at the cloud covered world before sitting down. Ice-plated armor encased the evergreen bushes hugging the backside of the inn. Beyond, a flat expanse of snow stretched until, a few hundred yards out, it gave way to a steel grey sea. Not a single bird or squirrel skittered around the grounds. Maybe they didn’t live this far north. “Oh, God,” I groaned. I had to endure thirteen more days in a wasteland that even critters with acorn-sized brains knew enough to avoid. I fell into my seat.

I’d just put the bacon to my lips when I heard a “good morning” from behind. I turned around to see Rita. Thank God, a friendly face. “Morning,” I said.

“May I?” Rita asked, pointing to the empty chair across from me.

“Of course.”

Today Rita was wearing a coral sweater that brought out the bit of pink I hadn’t noticed in her cheeks last night. Her grey corduroys made a trim line down to her suede flats. I hope I’m half that chic when I’m her age.

“I am wondering, would you like to help me today?” she asked.

“Help you?”

“Yes, help me to bake.”

I was so delighted to have an invitation to spend time with Rita—with anyone, really, but especially with her—I almost forgot to be confused. “But wait, Vincent told me you don’t let anyone in your kitchen when you cook, except for the family.”

“That is right, usually. But you and I, we are—how do you say—kind spirits, yes?”

“Kindred spirits, I think you mean.”

She inched back her chair. “Shall we then?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Today we make pain d’amandes,” she said, standing up. “Take your plate, if you like.”

“Pen what?” I asked as I followed her across the dining room.

“Pain d’amandes. It means almond bread, but it is really a cookie made of everything sweet—honey, brandy, brown sugar, almonds.”

Rita pushed the swinging door, and suddenly we were in her kitchen. Now, don’t picture one of those oversized, steel industrial kitchens that reek like a school cafeteria. This room was snug, all white and blue tiles, with a wooden floor, a large skylight, and the aroma of Tollhouse cookies. Rita went straight to the pantry—a room in itself off to the left—and emerged a minute later loaded with baking supplies. I watched her stack the center island with spices, sugars, a jar of nuts, and all kinds of utensils. The island, part butcher-block, part tile, housed a deep sink and a gas stove that already had a pot bubbling on it.

“You like this space?” she asked.

“I love it.”

“A little small for a working kitchen, but I make do with what I have.” She tied on an apron, a yellow one with the words Etoile Rouge stitched at the top. Then we both washed our hands.

“We blanch the almonds first,” she explained. “That means we take the brown skin off.”

I picked a nut out of the jar. “Do we use a knife?”

“No,” she laughed, “we boil them.” She took the jar from me and poured the nuts into the boiling pot. The water hissed and jumped up at her and then calmed into a rippling simmer. “These are ready now,” she said after a few seconds, taking the pot from the stove and draining the water into the sink. She picked up a single steaming almond and slipped her thumbnail under the puckering skin, which slid away to reveal the creamy meat within. “You try,” she said, tossing the nut into a bowl and taking another.

This had to be one of those things that looked a lot easier than it was, like on those cable cooking shows. I picked up a warm nut and examined it, hoping to find some hidden zipper to part the skin. Failing that, I tried Rita’s technique and—eureka!—I was holding a blanched almond. “Hey, this really works,” I said. But Rita was already sifting flour and cinnamon into a bowl and stirring in clumps of brown sugar, so I kept working.

When I finished peeling the nuts, Rita used a rounded blade to chop them. Then she added the nuts to the flour mixture, along with butter, brandy, honey and milk—all in no particular measure, just feeling her way. “Now we work the dough,” she said, stepping back to let me in.

I had no idea what it meant to work dough, so I stood there feeling and probably looking dumb.

“With your fingers,” Rita explained. “Until it is like clay.” She took my hands and pushed them into the dough. Her fingers felt strong and sure of themselves. “Relax. This is the fun part. Pretend you are a child in mud. Play with it.”

I plunged my fingers deeper into the dough, feeling the grit of the almonds and the silk of the butter against my skin. Just like mud, only without the earthworms. The more I mixed and scrunched, the stronger the fragrance, until I could almost taste the brandy.

“This is good, yes?” Rita said.

“This is good, yes.”

“Now we shape it into a ball. You let me do this. Very sticky.” She rubbed her hands with flour before dumping the dough onto the butcher block and forming the blob into a sphere. “There.”

“So now we bake?” I asked, eager for our creation to take its final form.

“No.” She carried the ball to the fridge, a coppery Sub-Zero number. “Now we chill. Tomorrow we bake. But if you like, we could start on something else. Hold on, let me get some things. I have an idea.” She gave me a quick smile and disappeared into the pantry.

No sooner was Rita out of sight than George ambled into the kitchen. He was wearing faded blue jeans with a small hole that offered a peek at his muscular thigh. His navy sweatshirt said C.I.A. in large white letters. He still needed a shave, but his hair was freshly washed and drying wavy. Stopping short when he spotted me, George’s mouth opened, but no words came out. I knew what he was thinking though: there was a non-Henion in the kitchen. I felt the blood color my cheeks.

Suddenly Rita was standing next to me. “I could not find what I needed, I am afraid,” she said. “Oh, hello, George. Penny and I had important work here this morning.” She winked at me.

George folded his arms and took me in. With daylight on his face, I was getting my first good glimpse of his eyes, only I couldn’t tell what color they were. Either bluish green or greenish blue. No, that wasn’t it. He turned his head slightly, and then I got it. His eyes were two different colors—one green, one blue, like a peridot and a sapphire, or maybe jade and lapis. He uncrossed his arms long enough to rub his neck—did my stare make him uneasy?—and a necklace spilled out from under his shirt. It was a crescent moon-shaped pendant with a stone the same shade of blue as his right eye. Dangling from a slender gold chain, it looked like an expensive piece of jewelry, and I had to wonder if it was from a girl.

“George, can I get something for you?” Rita asked. “Maybe a—”

“No, nothing,” he said, still looking my way. “I was just going to…but never mind. I didn’t realize the kitchen was in use.”

“Actually, I was just leaving,” I said. And it was true. As soon as he showed up, I decided I was just leaving.

“No, no,” he insisted. “You finish up your—whatever it is. I’m not really hungry anyway. I’m…yeah.” He about-faced and walked out the door without another word.

“What’s the matter with him anyway?” I asked after the door swung closed behind him. “I mean, what’ve I ever done to him?”

Rita wiped her wrists on her apron, leaving two floury splotches. “Do not take it personally, my dear. He gets big headaches—migraines—that is all.”

But I didn’t believe that was all. Something wasn’t right. Bubbles treating me like her long lost godchild. George treating me like a leper. Not to mention the fact that Mom never so much as uttered the Henion name before last week.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” I said.

“Something else?” Rita made a point of not looking up.

“Something I did. Or something I said. Maybe just being here, cutting into George’s space.”

“I think…” she started. “No, I do not know.”

“Don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Perhaps I have said too much already.”

“Rita—”

“I know you have a curious mind, but some of the things you wish to know are not for me to tell.”

“But we’re kindred spirits, you and me, right?”

She pinched her lips shut.

“It’s just—I’m all alone here, and I don’t know what’s going on. If you could just throw me a lifeline…”

Still no response.

“You know what?” I said. “I’m sorry. This is obviously a sensitive subject. I’m sorry if I intruded.” Confession time: this is a ploy Mom taught me. When someone resists answering your question, you apologize for having asked. That usually guilts the person into answering. They feel sorry for having put you in an awkward position, even though you’re the one who actually put them in a difficult spot.

“Okay, all right, you have me,” Rita said. “Come, sit.”

Bingo. I dropped onto a stool while Rita stood leaning against the island, looking uneasy. “Penny,” she said, fumbling with her apron strings, “do you have any idea why Bubbles and your mother are no longer best friends?”

“They were best friends?”

“They were very close. But when your mother called to ask if you could stay here, they had not spoken for a long time—years.”

“Oh, God, what did Mom do?”

Rita sat on the edge of the stool next to mine. “Your mother came to visit one summer when I was still fairly new here. And what happened was…” She drew a warning breath. “What happened was, your mother got the idea that the inn was haunted. She said the TV kept turning on all by itself, that the phone in her room would ring, but no one would be there when she answered it. Things like that.”

I stifled a moan.

“Your mother thought it was wonderful. She wanted to—how you say—promote the ‘haunted inn.’ She called the newspaper. She called a TV station on the mainland.”

“Poor Bubbles.”

“Now, for some reason, your mother thought the crawlspace had something to do with the ghost—there is a crawlspace right over here, behind that potted plant. So one afternoon when the kitchen was empty, she went into the space to have a look, which would not have been so terrible except that she left the door open. Little George—he was just a toddler—wandered into the crawlspace. Climbed the stairs inside. Fell. And ended up at Jonesport Hospital with a concussion and a gash on his forehead.” She pointed to her eyebrow.

I winced. How could Mom have been so careless, so thoughtless?

Rita stood up and began filling the sink with dish soap. “Your mother left the very next day. As far as I know, the two of them did not talk again, until last week.”

I spun around to face her. “So George has spent his life hearing the story of the nut who got him hurt then.”

“Not so,” Rita said. “Bubbles never talked of it. And George does not remember the accident. No, I do not think George knew anything, not until last week when your mother called and Bubbles got a little crazy. Who knows what she finally told him? But, well, I imagine it makes him…”

“…suspicious? Like I’m picking up the ghost trail where she left off? Rita, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know about any of this. If I did, I’d’ve run away from home rather than show my face here…did he go ballistic when he found out I was coming?”

“You wish to know all the details. I understand. But later. Tonight, in the study.” She tipped her head toward the door.

I was dismissed.

The universe is made of stories, not atoms.

—Muriel Rukeyser

With nowhere else to go, I went back to my room, where I attempted to distract myself by reading, working on my short story assignment, checking out the furniture. Whenever I peeked out the window, I saw Vincent shoveling the back walk or carrying in firewood from the shed. Later, dinner smells started wafting through the floorboards, and I knew Rita was directly below me. Nice, but not nice enough to ward off my boredom and loneliness, much less my outrage at Mom.

For the first time ever, I found myself wishing I knew more about Mom’s past. As it was, I’d only heard a couple of her stories, none of them firsthand. From Grandpa Quinn, I knew she collected imaginary friends worryingly late into childhood. From Uncle Cosmo, I learned about her stash of books on the occult. And from Great Aunt Aggie, I found out about Mom’s infamous high school career. It didn’t start out so bad, actually. In fact, when she was a sophomore, she got an academic scholarship to some chichi private school on the North Shore of Boston. Things were okay there until her Spanish class took a trip to Mexico junior year. P.S., Mom got sent home early with the “suggestion” that she seek “other educational opportunities.” So what went down in those Mexican ruins—boys, drugs? Whatever it was, Mom was sufficiently unnerved that to this day she won’t talk about it.

Apparently, she wasn’t so unhappy about the expulsion though. She gladly traded her pleated skirt uniform for a pair of grungy jeans, hopped the city bus for the crowded public school, and joined the photography club that met at the local library. Wait, was it the photography club or the paranormal club? I couldn’t remember. I knew my mother better than I knew The Donor, but I didn’t really know her, not by a long shot.

Just as the afternoon sun was taking its last gasp, the phone on my nightstand rang—loudly—and I jumped up. “Hello?”

“Hi honey, it’s Mom.”

Mom, oh God! Should I confront her about what I now knew? Should I make her admit that she dropped me in the middle of the minefield she planted all those years ago? I was dying to tackle her on this. I was furious with her, and I needed her to know it.

“Honey?” she repeated.

“Right here, Mom.”

“How are you settling in? You’ll never guess where I am.”

“Aren’t you still in Idaho?”

“Yes, of course, but wait till you hear this. I’m in Boise, the capital, and I’m at the big radio station here. I’m going to interview the owner of the Shotgun Murder Mansion and the President!”

“The President?”

“Of the Paranormal Society, silly. Right after he does a call-in show about the sighting at the mansion, he’s going to talk to me. Can you believe it?”

“No kidding.”

“Anyway, what about you? And Bubbles? How is she?”

“To tell the truth, I haven’t seen much of her yet. We’re having supper together tonight, so I guess I’ll—”

“Get her to tell you about our old bra designing contests,” Mom giggled. “She’ll have you peeing in your pants…oh my golly” (I swear, she actually said ‘oh my golly’), “I think I just saw the President walk by. It must be almost show time. I should probably—”

“No, Mom, don’t go yet. We need to talk.” A zap of static came over the line. “Mom?”

“Right here, honey. What’s up? Is everything all right?”

I collapsed onto the bed. “No, everything is not all right. Everything is awful. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you at least warn me about you and Bubbles, about what happened, how you haven’t talked in years?”

“Well, I—”

“Jesus, why did you send me to a place where we’re persona non grata?”

“Persona non grata—what are you talking about, Penny? Someone has you thinking I’m on the outs?”

“Spare me the act, Mom. I know all about the crawlspace accident.”

There was a short silence on the line followed by more static.

“Mom, are you still there?”

“It’s my battery, I think—it’s starting to go. Look, I want to tell you something before this phone dies completely. It’s true that when I phoned Bubbles last week, we hadn’t talked in, what, sixteen, seventeen years. But it’s not my fault. It’s not anything I did.”

I didn’t respond.

“Penny, did you hear me?”

“I heard you. I just, I don’t think I believe you.”

She made an almost laugh. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to believe someone you just met over your own mother?”

“I guess you’re going to have to convince me. Convince me that there’s some other explanation.”

“I will not,” she barked. “It’s nothing I want to talk about, nothing I’ve ever told anyone, and I’m certainly not going to start by telling you. If it’s details you want, I’m sorry. I’m not going there.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I guess there’s nothing else to talk about then. Goodbye, Mom.”

“Penny, wait. Let’s not end like this. I hate to hear you so upset.”

“Then help me.”

“Not the way you’re asking me to help you. Let’s try—”

“Goodbye.” I hung up, feeling more miserable than ever. It was bad enough that Mom omitted vital information before sending me here. But now, to lie about it when I asked, that was unforgiveable. She really must not give a damn about me.

I was thinking very seriously about having myself a good cry—I was already looking around for some tissues—when there was a knock at my door. Wiping my eyes on the back of my hand, I pulled myself up off the bed and answered it.

I found a nice-looking guy leaning against the doorframe. Thick black hair hung over his chestnut eyes, and a few freckles punctuated his caramel face. He wore work boots, jeans and a maroon flannel shirt. He wasn’t much taller than me, but his athletic build made him look bigger.

“I’m here to double-check the windows,” he said. “The temperature in some of the rooms is a little low, and we’re trying to figure out why. Is this a good time?”

So Vincent had some help around the place—good. “Sure,” I said, waving him in.

“I’m Blue,” he said.

“Join the club.”

“No, I mean, my name is Blue.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Penny,” I said and stuck out my hand.

Instead of shaking it, he went straight to the windows and ran his fingers along the frame. “Good to meet you.” He pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and began fiddling with the latches. “I don’t see any problems here, but I’ll tighten things up just to be sure.”

“Great, thanks.”

“All set,” he said after a minute. He turned around, twiddling the screwdriver between his fingers. “See you around then, I guess.” He smiled then and when he did, his eyes shimmered, as if backlit from behind. It threw me off guard, and I didn’t speak. “Right,” he said and let himself out.

Conversation is the enemy of good wine and food.

–Alfred Hitchcock

Bubbles showed up at the dining room by herself, claiming that George was sleeping off a “nasty something.” She assured me she’d given him a hefty dose of Echinacea and ordered the poor boy to bed.

A different table was set tonight, this one closer to the kitchen and farther from the fireplace. “I hope you don’t mind, dear,” Bubbles said as we sat down. “That fire makes me sweat.” She was wearing a hot pink sweater over black stretch pants that hugged her a little too tightly. In place of her faux fur slippers she wore mules, and every time she turned her head, her feather earrings swayed. I see this outfit a lot on the Revere boardwalk—the New England trash look.

It was nice to have a dinner companion, though I didn’t know how to begin a conversation with Bubbles. There was no menu to discuss. There’d been no change in the weather, good or bad. I wanted to know why she’d missed last night’s dinner but didn’t want to ask outright. And of course I was dying to know what George’s deal was, but no, I couldn’t ask that either. So I decided to wait for her to speak. And did she ever! That woman could talk. During the first course—these amazing spicy meatballs that Vincent called vitoulets—Bubbles described her short-lived stint as a professional party planner. Over the palate cleanser—ice water for me, a whiskey sour for her—she rhapsodized over some band called The Big Stuck. This segued into a monologue about the entertainment industry, which took us straight through the salad course—braised endive with black currants and Cajun crabmeat.

While Bubbles nursed her second mixed drink, I decided to take the plunge. “So Bubbles, how long have you known my mom?”

“Gosh, must be about, what, almost thirty years now.”

“Did you meet in school?”

“No,” she said, playing with her paper umbrella. “We never lived in the same state. We worked summers together at a kids’ camp. She…didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

She shifted in her seat. “I see.”

“That’s just not her style, Bubbles, that’s all.”

“I guess.”

“I bet she didn’t tell you much about me either, right?”

She smiled a small smile. “Then it’s up to us to fill each other in. Good thing we’ve got a couple of weeks.”

“I won’t need nearly that long to tell you about me. I’m not that interesting.”

“Nonsense,” she said emphatically. “I have all sorts of questions for you.”

Before she got any questions out though, Vincent appeared with the main course, which he needed both arms to deliver. I’d never seen anything like it. Picture a tray with concentric circles of increasingly intense color and texture, starting with mussels and including caramelized shallots, fat shrimp, tangy mushrooms, scallops, cherries, fennel sausages, pomegranate pulp and tons of grilled root vegetables. It was bliss on a plate. Bubbles and I hardly talked while we demolished it, which I was thankful for since I really didn’t want to be interrogated.

During our after-dinner tea—well, I had tea, Bubbles had cognac—her sleeve fell back just enough to reveal a bracelet. It was thick and wide and colorful and intricate. “What a great bracelet,” I said, glad to find some part of her outfit that I could compliment honestly. “Did you get it around here?”

“This? I made it.” She held her wrist up to give me a closer look, then beamed, “I’m so tickled you noticed it.”

“It’s a knockout. Hey, what’s this?” I asked, reaching over the table to touch a sparkly red charm.

“Glass, from an old earring I had. I have a little business making jewelry out of recycled glass and old machine parts. See this?” She pointed to a bumpy metal square. “That’s a chip from George’s first computer.”

“Charm-ing,” I said, feeling a little dumb at the bad pun, but happy to make her laugh after the awkward business about Mom. I considered asking if she’d made the crescent moon necklace George was wearing this morning, but something told me not to. That necklace had girlfriend written all over it. Instead I asked, “Do you sell your things in stores?”

“Well, I have a few things at the counter at the Grindle Point Shop down the road. I’m trying to get my favorite jewelry store in Bangor to take some things on consignment. But mostly I go to church bazaars or give them as gifts. You really like it?” she said, holding the bracelet up so the candlelight caught the glass.

“Really. So, what do you call yourself? I mean, your business?”

Bubbles leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge some highly confidential corporate secret. “I’m toying with calling myself One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure.”

I nodded and tried to look impressed, although I thought this name was completely off target. What was she thinking, calling her artwork trash and referring to it as a man’s treasure? And how did she ever expect to fit all those words onto a jewelry-sized gift box or a business card? Still, she seemed attached to it, and I didn’t want to burst Bubbles’ bubble.

She scooted her chair closer to mine. “I’m so happy you’re here, Penny. Thank heavens your mother thought to call on me. Finally, to talk again after all that old…business.”

“Y-yes.”

“So, that much you do know about me—the unpleasant parts.”

This was going nowhere good fast. “It’s not like that, Bubbles. It’s just—”

“No, no need to explain, dear.” She took another gulp of her cognac. “I’m just so glad to be back in touch. You know, I tried to salvage the friendship—after things calmed down a bit, of course—I really did. But your mother was off in other directions, and I finally gave up. What else could I do? And then, lo and behold, I pick up the phone last week and it’s her. It’s Vivian, sounding just like she did all those years ago.”

“That’s Mom for you.”

She smiled, and then the smile morphed into a large yawn. “And now I really must trundle myself off to bed. Thank you, dear, for a delightful evening.” She pushed back her chair and took the last swig of her drink. Standing up, she had to brace herself against the table for balance. “My, I didn’t realize quite how…sleepy…I am. Pleasant dreams, now.” Before I could say another word, she was staggering toward the door.

“I could walk you to your room,” I called, but Vincent arrived all at once, taking her arm and ushering her out of the room. Actually, I was glad to avoid escort duty. I had an important rendezvous with Rita to get to. I was going to get her to tell me all about Mom and Bubbles.

I can have oodles of charm when I want to.

—Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

I got to the study before Rita, so I took Breakfast in Brazil off the bookshelf and parked on the sofa to wait. And wait. And wait some more. I went through Snacking in Tuscany and Vegan Riviera too, but still no sign of Rita. I leafed through an atlas that was so old it showed Alaska belonging to Russia. I tried out every chair. Where could she be? Did she forget? It was ten o’clock already. Had I gotten here too late or too early? Was I in the wrong room? Then, just as I got up to put the books away, I heard footsteps, and George walked in.

I dropped one of the books. On my foot. George looked as dazed to see me as I was to see him.

“Hello,” I mumbled, picking up the book and thinking I’d just slip past him and be on my way.

“Hello,” he said stiffly, not making eye contact. He’d shaved since I saw him last, and now I saw the dimples. “Feeling better?” I asked.

“Lousy headache. I get them. Then all I can do is hole up in a dark room and pray for sleep.”

“Too bad you had to miss dinner. Again.”

“I’m not very good company when I’m in pain. You probably noticed that.”

“Yeah, well…” Maybe it was his headache, maybe it was whatever Bubbles told him about Mom. Either way, he had plenty of reason to keep to himself.

He didn’t say anything else, and there was nothing left for me to say, so I walked out of the room. I figured my best hope with George was for peaceful coexistence, and that translated into keeping my distance. But before I’d taken more than a few steps in the direction of the parlor, he poked his head out. “Hey,” he said. “I’m gonna scrounge around for some leftovers. You…uh…wanna come?”

Wait a minute, did I hear right? It sounded like George just invited me along. Bubbles must have pressured him into making nice, or maybe she struck a bargain with him. He probably didn’t want my company any more than I wanted to take part in a forced conversation. Yet he was standing there looking, I don’t know, sincere. And it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. So I said sure, and we headed down the hall together.

The kitchen felt different at night without Rita and with only a few ceiling bulbs instead of a flood of natural light. It was cavernous and aloof, if a room can feel that way. I took a stool by the butcher block, hoping I hadn’t made a mistake in coming.

“Let’s see, what’s good in here?” George said with his head in the fridge. “Cheese, oranges, more cheese, pickles. What’s this?” He turned around to show me the chilling dough ball in his hands.

“It’s pain d’amandes. Rita and I made it.”

“Let’s cook it up,” he said.

“B-but—” This was my project. My first project with Rita. Not his midnight snack. “It’s Rita’s dough. She said we were going to bake it in the morning.”

“Believe me, she’ll be thrilled to know I used it, especially when she finds out you taught me how.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“So we’ll fudge.”

I was about to protest but thought better of it. “Fine,” I said. “But if we burn the kitchen down, it’s on your head.”

“I’m not worried.” He breezily set the dough on the island and began banging cupboards open and shut in search of a baking sheet. When he found a tin he liked, he smeared it with butter, then dug into the precious dough with his fingers. He plopped a hunk onto the sheet, and then another and another, not pausing until the tin was plastered with lopsided blobs of my former pain d’amandes dough. Rita’s dough. Our dough.

“So what do you think?” he said when the demolition was finished. “350, 375?”

“350 what?” I asked weakly.

“Degrees,” he laughed. “Never mind, I’ll try 450. They’ll cook faster.” He shoved the pan into the oven and took the stool next to mine. “So,” he said, running his fingers along the butcher block, “did Rita tell you the legend of the almonds?”

“No. I mean, not yet. She didn’t tell me yet.”