Page 30 of Still Yours
She goes back to the stove.
I stare at Ma.
I have full confidence she’s not finished. Crossing my arms, I wait.
“Because either way, you’re still attending these cooking classes.”
There it is.
“Mrs. Stalinski.” Noa presses her hands on either side of the stove and drops her head.
“What?” Ma widens her eyes innocently. “I dislike the airing of financial discussions, but I must insist that these classes are non-refundable and booked months in advance.”
Noa lights up. “Then we can sell them. I can get you the money back.”
“That just won’t do.” Ma clucks, shaking her head. “There are distinct rules, one being that the tickets are non-distributable or shareable.”
I squint one eye at her as she continues to bat her eyelashes.
But are they really?
Noa is so distraught that I decide to be helpful, even though I’m mostly insulted that her distress is largely because of my going with her to these supposed classes. “Ma, I’m sure we can inform them about your circumstances. They can make an exception.”
“Yes!” Noa points that damned spoon in my direction again. “That!”
“I swear to God, woman,” I mutter before swiping the spoon from her and making my way to the pot she’s filled with some sort of onion and garlic mixture.
Noa’s hand goes slack, startled, but, since her argument with Ma is more important, she allows me the space to take over the stirring.
“I’m afraid not,” Ma says. “I’ve tried, and Chef Toussaint insists the tickets must remain with us.”
I look up from the pan. “Then how can I take your place?”
Ma’s lips flatline and I re-center my attention on the mixture rather than face her laser-eyed glare in my direction. “I explained my situation, and he’s willing to allow a substitute for myself.”
“Any substitute?” Noa asks behind me with way too much hope.
“Like whom?” Ma counters. “We both know Carly sets fire to butter and scares wild animals away with her leftover cooking, and anyone else you’re attempting to think up doesn’t have the space in their schedule the way my son does.”
For a moment, the only sound is the spitting coming from the pan.
Ma prompts, “His schedule’s opened all the way up, hasn’t it, Stone?”
“No,” I say. “There’s the contract I have to get through, and my free manual labor that you’ve offered Rome, as well as all the rearranging I plan to do now that I’m staying here for a while. I have to get my affairs in order in LA, get someone to watch my fish…”
“Just as I said.” Ma flaps her hand. “He’s got time.”
“I can’t,” Noa bites out. “Wecan’t. If taking these classes means this much to you, I’ll go alone, but I don’t think Stone joining me would be to anyone’s benefit. You don’t cook, do you?” Noa asks me, although it sounds more like a threat.
“I don’t hate it.” I shrug.
A sliver of white shows through her lips, almost like her teeth blocked a venomous hiss, before she pastes on a sweet smile for my mother’s benefit. “I’d love to take cooking seriously again, but I doubt having the town’s executive pariah who burns frozen waffles next to me while we cook in Falcon Haven’s latest restaurant would do me any favors. He’d be a distraction.”
“Maybe not,” Ma says. “The class sold out immediately. We get so few trendy places moving into the area. It’s not like anyone will sneak in to see him, and one couple that signed up for the class is from my cribbage club, and they know my boy well enough.”
Too well, I think with a wince. I was a little shit growing up and Ma’s friends were often the victim of my frustration outlets.
“Doeshehave a say in this?” I cut in, pointing to myself.
