Page 86 of Until August
I looked up at the crucifix hanging above the arched doorway.
Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned.
But not even my Catholic guilt would prevent me from doing it again.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
August
“Can I try it?”Sage asked, reaching for my knife.
I hesitated. I’d sharpened the blade the same way I always did. Sharp enough to slice clean through a sheet of paper without a snag. When I didn’t turn over the knife immediately, Sage held his hands together as if praying.
No way in hell I could say no to that face. “Okay. But I’m going to help you.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
I showed him how to hold a knife the right way, but his hand was too small to get a good grip on the handle, so I stood behind him, wrapped my hand around his to give it support, and held the pineapple with my other hand.
“You good?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the blade as we cut off the rind.
“Yep.”
It took fifteen minutes to clean and chop the pineapple, which would have taken me less than half that time, but I didn’t complain. I was just happy he was enjoying himself. It had been a good day. After a trip to the aquarium, where we spent most of our time at the interactive rockpool, we went to the market and stocked up on his favorite foods.
Now we were cooking dinner in my new apartment.
It didn’t get much better than that.
“When you were little, you used to come and visit me at work,” I told him as I set a pan on the burner—electric, not gas. I hated using electric stoves, but the appliances in this apartment hadn’t been updated since the eighties.
“At your chef job?” he asked, whisking the sauce for the stir-fry. Soy sauce splashed over the rim and splattered the counter, but I resisted the urge to clean it up or take over. It didn’t matter if he made a mess or if the red peppers weren’t cut into perfect strips.
I didn’t want to break his spirit like my father used to try to do with me. And I didn’t want to ruin his enthusiasm by demanding perfection.
“Yep. I used to own a restaurant. Every morning when I left for work, you’d beg to come with me. You hated to miss out on anything.” I smiled, remembering how he used to be such a daddy’s boy. It used to fill me with so much pride and joy when he lifted his little arms and asked for hugs.
“I still do,” Sage said. “Nobody likes to miss out on the good stuff.”
I chuckled. His brow was furrowed in concentration while he whisked the sauce that didn’t need any more whisking. “I think the sauce is good, buddy. You can take a break now.”
“Phew. My arm is getting sore.” He shook out his arms and surveyed the chopped vegetables on the board before looking up at me. “What’s next?”
“Now we just toss everything in the pan and fry it. But you have to be quick, or it will get overcooked. Vegetables first. They take the longest.”
He gave me a thumbs up and tossed the vegetables into the sizzling pan. “Just keep moving everything around.” I handed him the wooden spoon after I showed him how to do it and stepped aside to let him try it himself. “But try to keep everything in the pan,” I said as a slice of red pepper flew out and landed on the floor.
He laughed. “It’s a flying pepper. This is fun.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded vigorously, matching the enthusiasm of his stir-frying technique. By the time I added the shrimp and pineapple, half the vegetables were on the floor.
We ate our dinner on the balcony overlooking the parking lot and sat on webbed lawn chairs at a round metal table, all of which had been left here when I’d moved in. It wasn’t much of a view, but Sage didn’t seem to care or notice that his surroundings weren’t as luxurious as the house he lived in.
At his age, I guess those things didn’t matter as much.
“That was the best food I ever ate,” he declared after he finished his second helping. He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach with a contented smile. The early evening sun lit up his face, and I couldn’t keep the smile off mine. Sage might be small for his age, but he had a good appetite.
