Page 38 of True North

Louisa disappears through the living room and into the kitchen. And despite my head screaming at my heart, I follow her.

“Oh, hon! What have I done wrong? I swear, it doesn’t taste the same as yours...” Ma says, worry lining her voice when I walk in.

There’s a small silence as Louisa taste tests the sauce from a spoon. Then, “Oh, Rosie. This is wonderful!”

Ain’t how I would describe whatever this is.

But, hell, at least Ma’s happy.

ChapterTen

LOUISA

With Harry disappeared to the barn, Rosie and I whip up a storm of dinner items. Some Italian dishes I’m slowly learning from Mama Mancini, and some from my time in Cali. A far cry from her meat-and-potatoes repertoire the Rawlins have lived on for years. The end result is a feast fit for a household of people.

With only the two of them, I guess I should stay. The day has flown by with all the chatter, chopping, stirring...

Rosie seems happy. And I’m glad I could put a smile on her face. She deserves that and so much more. As the sun sets over the western mountains, the back door slams.

“Oh good, now, maybe we can set the dining room right.” Rosie drops her knife and wipes her hands on her apron, darting toward the footsteps coming down the hallway. I test the seasoning on the dish I’m almost finished making. Flavor bursts across my tongue.Hmmm. Yep, that’s great. The brown butter and sage chicken dish is ready.

I remove it from the heat, resting on a ceramic potholder, and move to the oven to check Rosie’s beef braciole. The heavy cast-iron pot bubbles away. The lid cracked a little. I lift the round top and let the fragrant steam wash over my face.

Oh my goodness, she did so great!

I make a small slice into the largest one. The meat is cooked.

Perfect.

I turn off the heat and toss some couscous into a bowl, adding boiling water. The greens we have been slicing are ready for steaming. I set them up and set the timer. Harry appears, leaning on the doorframe. He’s filthy. Dirt and hay litter his work shirt and jeans. His hat, still on his head, dips. “You got a minute?”

I freeze, timer still in my hands. He could get anything he wanted just lookin’ like that. Heavens above.

His socked foot brushes over the top of the other. His boots have come off. Some things never change. Rosie’s always been a stickler for the boots-off-inside rule.

“What do you need?” I finally say, and he looks up.

Deep blue eyes bore into mine. My heart flips. The timer clatters onto the counter.

“Table. Need to move it.”

“Oh, of course,” I whisper. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I duck my head, removing my apron and rounding the kitchen counter. I follow him into the space that hasn’t been used as a dining room for years. With the table pushed against the wall, and the chairs stored under it, Eddy had used the space for his single lounge and television set. A small side table and ashtray still sit by his old chair.

“You know, this old thing can go to the barn. But can we move the table. Set it up with the chairs?” Rosie says, scanning the room.

“The old chair’s gonna have to go first, Ma.” Harry grips the headrest and all but tosses it toward the hall. The small side table is thrown onto it before he turns back to me. “Table first. You grab the chairs.”

Oh, okay.

Harry grips the long edge of the table and picks it up like it weighs absolutely nothing and drops it in the middle of the room, under the low-hanging decorative light. Breaths shattering in and out of my lungs at the sight of him manhandling the enormous piece of furniture, I shake my head to catch myself and pluck up a chair and set it at the head of the table.

Rosie helps, and we have six places set in no time. She disappears and returns with a washcloth, giving it a once-over. The old hardwood gleams. It’s beautiful. The chairs are a bit worn, but the dining suite transforms the entire room. The timer sings, interrupting my thoughts.

“Shoot, that’s me!” I rush to the stovetop and turn the gas off. The greens smell almost as good as the rest of the meal. I drain them and toss them into a white ceramic bowl, seasoning with olive oil, salt, and pepper before scattering a layer of slivered almonds I toasted earlier over the elegant stems and bushy heads.

“Where do you want me, Louisa?” Rosie perks up, leaning on the counter.

“This is your kitchen, you tell me what you want.” When she hesitates, I add, “But we are ready to plate up.”

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