Page 39 of The Fantasy League
Couldn’t blame the guy.
Mae and I shared a concerned glance just as another round of knocks rapped against the door. The two of us slowly, slowly inched up from the love seat, careful not to make too much noise.
We couldn’t risk being heard on the off chance that the Jehovah’s Witnesses had snuck into the neighborhood again.
Ruthless. All of them.
Mae slid across the hardwood floors with her fuzzy socks and dipped into the library across the hall so she could peer out of the blinds at our guest, and I quickly trailed behind her. Both of our heads cocked to the side at what we saw—or should I saywhowe saw—standing on the front porch.
A middle-aged man dressed in culinary attire with a few large bags that sat on the ground next to him.
Who the hell was this guy?
“Should we answer it?” I whispered.
Mae looked at me and gave me a shrug as she waltzed over to the door and turned the knob.
“Good evening, ladies!” the strange man exclaimed as we opened the door. “My name’s Larry and I’ll be your private chef for the evening,” he said proudly, sticking his hand out between us.
“Hi, Larry, great to meet you!” I piped in over Mae’s shoulder, taking his hand in mine and giving it a shake. “I think you might have the wrong address though, we didn’t hire a chef.”
We spent the next few minutes playing that song and dance where we reassured him that neither of us had hired a personal chef for the evening, and heinsistedthat he was at the right place.
He pulled out his phone from his front pocket and read off Mae’s address and ours, including Lea’s, from the booking request. Scrolling some more, his eyes perked up. “Aha! Courtesy of Abel Abbott.”
“What?” Mae and I said in unison, shooting each other glances out of the corner of our eyes.
He reached down to grab one of the bags that rested at his feet. “Ahh, Miss Sawyer. I have a note for you that might help clear things up, my dear.” The crow’s-feet around the outer corners of his eyes turned upward as he handed me a note typed on a crisp green stationery card. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to show you sooner. Must be my age showing.”
I smiled at Larry before squinting down at the familiar handwriting on the card in front of me.
Thought you could use a break. Enjoy your girls night, Red.
- A
I blinked, reading the note again. And again. And again a third time just to be certain I read it right the first two times. My heart swelled andI let a small laugh pour out of me as I handed the note over to Mae whose eyes flashed widely after reading what Abel had written.
I’d told her earlier about the joke he made thinking girls actually got naked and slung pillows at each other in their free time.
After our doorstep mishap, we happily waved Larry into the kitchen and let girls’ night commence. Including Larry, of course; he told us that he wanted to be an honorary girl for the night, so we let him join our clan.
We laughed with him as he told us stories from his younger years and he gave us wise advice for our trivial life problems.
I watched as he chopped vegetables, the exact way all culinary students had been conditioned to do, and added them to the primavera. My stomach rumbled at the delicious smells as they blended together with the garlic and lemon juice.
The kitchen had been my favorite place since I was a kid. I used to spend hours watching my mom glide effortlessly around with hot pans while double-checking to make sure she was following recipes correctly. Although she’d almost always forfeit the recipe halfway through and added her own twist because it was “just better” the way she did it.
Her words, not mine.
It was days like this that I missed her most. I know she would’ve loved laughing with us while Larry cooked. Or how she would’ve shot silent glares across the room to let me know that whatever he was doing to the dish, she could do a thousand times better.
Life felt empty without her here, but it was moments like this that reminded me how much I loved and cherished the short time that I had had with her.
It’s the most beautiful curse to have someone you love so much pass on, leaving their impact deeply rooted in your being. In a way, all of us were simply mangled tessellations of the habits and mannerisms of the people we loved most. And something about that comforted me.
I threw my arm around Mae’s shoulders where she was sitting next to me at the table and gave her a squeeze. She must have sensed I’d been thinking about Mom because she reciprocated with a knowing hug. “Love you,” she whispered before pulling back with a sorrow-filled expression.
Two hours and one of the best meals I’d ever eaten later, Mae and I waved Larry off as he pulled his pickup truck out of the driveway.
