Page 47 of Saint of the Shadows

Clean and dressed in only her best flannel, undershirt, boxers, and black-sock ensemble, she hobbled to the kitchen. Vincent’s back was to her. He watched over two pots of boiling water. His shoulders were massive under a fitted navy sweater that he paired with tailored gray trousers. Definitely a middleweight with a heavyweight’s punch.

“What do we have here?” Marisol nudged Vincent and propped herself up on her crutches to peer over the edges of the boiling pots.

“While you were changing, I found kielbasa in my freezer and the ingredients for dumplings in the pantry.” He pointed to the eggs, flour, and butter arranged on the counter. “Potatoes are nearly done. While we wait.” He walked over to a small drink cart in the corner. With arms opened wide, he presented a bottle of Perrier in a metal bucket on ice.

Marisol laughed. “You thought of everything.”

“I have one more trick up my sleeve.” He pulled out a kitchen knife and tapped the blade against the glass bottle. Pop! Marisol squeaked. He poured the bubbling water into two crystal glasses. “Cheers.”

As she sipped, the cold, crisp bubbles of sparkling water burst in her mouth. She put down her glass and licked her lips to stave off the sharp sensation. She shifted her gaze up. Vincent stared at her. Swiftly, he set his empty glass down and cleared his throat, his tell. She must be making him nervous. Good.

He returned to the stove and lifted the tall pot of potatoes. His biceps bulged as he carried it to the sink. After draining the potatoes in a colander, his skin glistened from the rising cloud of steam, and a short golden curl drooped over his forehead. Marisol’s arms twitched, wanting to reach up and push his hair back.

He asked, “Should I grab a bowl and the electric beater?”

The soul of Abuelita shook her out of her Vincent-induced stupor. She imagined the oft-repeated lecture of how machines took away a food’s flavor and loving intentions. “No! We take the potatoes and mash them on the counter with forks, then mix in the egg and flour with our hands as we go.”

“On the counter? With forks and hands?” He flared his nostrils, his tone incredulous.

Deep and breathy, she responded, “Afraid to get a little dirty?” She swallowed back the rising embarrassment of her unintentional double entendre.

His doubtful expression relaxed, and the slight turn of his mouth bordered on mischievous, as if he was in on the joke. “No.” Vincent conjured a pastry blender and dough scraper from a kitchen drawer and juggled them in the air. “But I balk at hitches in efficiency.” He handed them to Marisol.

They rolled up their sleeves. Marisol leaned her weight onto the counter, freeing her arms to work. With the cooked potatoes dumped on the counter, she mashed them using the pastry tools. She sprinkled flour on them and topped them with two cracked eggs. With the blender and scraper, she amassed the ingredients into a ball of dough.

“Boil some more water,” Marisol ordered, as she divided the dough and formed half into the shape of a cylinder. The scraper sliced the dough into even pieces. “Do you want to try?”

“Sure.” Vincent rolled the dough under his hands, making the shape of a cylinder.

“Don’t make it too thin.” Marisol guided Vincent’s hand to roll the dough under the right amount of pressure. Her floury hands lingered against his. He rubbed his pinky over hers.Don’t be a chump.

Hiss!Liquid met fire. The water on the stove boiled over. Marisol gathered a pile of sliced dough in one hand and hopped toward the stove. “Cut more dough. I’ll add these to the pot.” She didn’t wait for an objection, favoring the heat of the stove over Vincent’s intensity. But new body, new rules. She dropped the dumplings in the water, lost her balance, and stumbled into the stove top. Her fingers caught against the pot’s rim.

She sprung back right into Vincent, who lifted her to the sink and ran her fingers under cold water. “Stay here. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“No, I’m good. Just wounded my pride. I still can’t grasp how much my hands depend on two good legs.” The cold water washed the thin layer of dough off their hands.

He rubbed his thumb over her reddened fingertips. “When are you going to start to accept help?”

“At the rate I’m going? Over my dead body.”

He turned off the sink. “Better?”

The boiling pot singed her fingertips, so they felt covered in raw pinpricks. “Still hurts.”

“I have a Varian family secret for pain.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Vincent cupped one hand under her elbow and pushed against it to present her forearm. From the crease in her arm, he glided his fingers down to her wrist bone. There, he pushed against the spot of her pulse. “The trick is distracting the rest of the nerves.” Against her pulse, he placed a kiss.

Just like him.

The rooftop. The kiss. Marisol gasped. She knew.

Vincent broke away from her touch, bounding to the stove. He turned off the burners with loud clicks.

“Vincent.” But how could it be?

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