Page 6 of Christmas with the Irish Devil
He smiles, shaking his head. “My father called it ‘asset management’. I call it making problems disappear.”
“Is that why you sent the mushrooms?” I ask. The question hangs between us, obvious but still a little dangerous.
He shrugs. “I thought you’d know what to do with them.”
“I did,” I say. “But next time, try cèpes. Or something that doesn’t taste like it was dredged from a fairy ring.”
He grins, for real this time, and his teeth are straight but not perfect. “You’re particular.”
“I’m not precious,” I correct him. “Just have standards.”
He leans in, elbows on the chipped Formica, and says, “What’s your standard for people, then?”
I consider. “Don’t waste my time. Don’t lie unless you’re prepared to get caught. And don’t ever assume I’m impressed.”
He tilts his head, mock-serious. “Not even by the bread in Galway?”
“Maybe the bread,” I concede, and we both laugh, which is not as awkward as I expect.
There’s a lull, the kind that would be filled by small talk if we were lesser people. Instead, he asks, “Why culinary? Why not something easier?”
I trace a circle in the sugar granules on the table, thinking. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Food is real. People need it. You can build a whole world out of a good loaf of bread, but you can also break one if you’re not careful.” I pause. “And there’s nothing easier about the things that matter.”
He nods, like he’s storing my answer for later.
“What about you?” I ask. “Why make problems disappear instead of, I don’t know, solving them?”
This time, he looks out the window, jaw set. “Some problems don’t want to be solved,” he says. “They just want to be… less of a problem for someone else.”
I let that hang. There’s a story in it, probably a dozen, but I’m too tired to fish them out tonight.
The coffee is better than expected—bitter, strong, honest. I drink it straight, feeling the caffeine stitch my thoughts together.
Declan shifts, the spell of confession broken. “What’s the real plan, Aoife?”
I know what he’s asking. I take my time answering. “I want a life where I get to build things, not just keep them from falling apart. I want a kitchen with my name on the door and people who trust me enough to let me be weird.” I pause, then add, “And I want peace. Not power, not control, not a throne. Just… peace. And maybe someone to share the leftovers with.”
He looks at me, and for the first time tonight, I see a flicker of something unguarded. “That’s a rare ambition,” he says.
“Is it?” I say, then, “What’s yours?”
He hesitates, then says, “I want to stop running from things. Or at least, start running toward something better.”
We sit in the quiet, the city humming outside, and I realize I could get used to this. Not him, necessarily—though that’s not off the table—but this. The night, the honesty, the absence of expectation.
When we finally leave, it’s colder, and the sidewalks shine with salt. We walk side by side, closer now. At the corner, he stops, as if he’s about to say something else, but then he just smiles.
“I’ve always liked a challenge,” he says.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, too. “Then you’re in the right city.”
He bows, mock-formal, and turns up the block. I watch him go, wondering how many more times we’ll circle each other before one of us breaks the pattern. Probably more than I’ll admit. But for tonight, that’s enough.
I get home past midnight, throw my keys into the sink, and shed my chef’s jacket on the nearest chair. The adrenaline of service is gone, replaced by a throb in my arches and a mind that refuses to stand still. I make tea, the real stuff, black as the river at night, and open my current notebook to where I left off—mushroom stock variations, annotated with angry arrows and a cluster of question marks labeled “try kombu?”
I tell myself I’ll just jot down a few more thoughts, but the next thing I know, it’s an hour later and I’m sketching plate layouts on the backs of old utility bills. The pen runs out of ink halfway through a sketch of a buckwheat galette, so I switch to pencil, which immediately snaps. I sharpen it with a paring knife, over the trash, and remember my grandmother teaching me the same trick, her hands shaking but her aim never off.
If ghosts exist, mine are made of flour and bone marrow.
