Page 9 of Christmas with the Irish Devil
“In my kitchen,” she says, and the line goes quiet.
I sit back, the faint curl of a smile pulling at my mouth.
4
AOIFE
Declan is coming home for dinner tonight, although I still have no idea what prompted me to invite him.
Regardless, I start the duck first.
The oven door opens with a low sigh, warm air kissing my face as I slide the roasting pan onto the middle rack. Inside, the bird glows under its lacquer of orange and clove, the skin already taking on that deep, burnished sheen I’ve been chasing since morning. I had trimmed it carefully, rubbing the flesh with salt until it felt almost velvety, then worked the zest of two blood oranges into the fat with crushed cloves until the scent filled my hands. The smell now is richer, rounder, the sweetness of caramelized citrus balanced by the soft heat of spice.
I close the oven gently, wiping my palms on the apron tied snugly around my waist. The flat is quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft patter from outside where the rain has started again. It is the kind of rain Boston wears well, the kind that softens the light and makes the cobblestones outside shine as though they have been polished.
On the narrow counter, the arborio rice waits in a wide, shallow pan, the grains pearled and dry. I heat the stock on theback burner, infusing it with the liquid I saved from soaking the mushrooms earlier in the day. They were a gift to myself, if you can call wandering through a damp market stall in a drizzle a gift. Chanterelles, porcinis, and three small morels that looked like they had been hiding in moss before someone plucked them. They had smelled like rain before they were even rinsed.
The risotto begins with olive oil, shimmering, then the diced shallots I slice so fine they almost melt when they hit the heat. They soften, sweeten, and I stir in the rice, letting it toast until the edges are translucent and the kitchen smells like something on the edge of becoming. A pour of white wine hisses against the pan, steam rising in a fragrant cloud that carries its own invitation.
This is not food you rush. You stir, add a ladle of stock, stir again. You taste without swallowing, checking texture with your teeth. I imagine him watching, though I have no reason to.
The pears are done and cooling on a wire rack in the corner, their pale skins blushed from poaching in syrup spiked with whiskey. I brushed them once already so the syrup would cling, thickening into an amber glaze. They will be served warm, with the sponge cake I baked earlier this afternoon, a simple batter soaked with the same syrup so that it carries the warmth of the spirit without losing the sweetness of the fruit.
The table is set for two. It is a small table, pushed against the wall between the kitchen and the sitting area, and it looks strange dressed for company. White linen napkins I ironed this afternoon, silver forks I polished with baking soda until I could see my reflection in them, the mismatched plates from my Galway trip. Two slender candles wait to be lit, their wicks still pale.
I leave the fairy lights strung along the shelves and windows because they make the place feel less like a stopgap and more like a home. I’ve told myself they are still up because I never gotaround to taking them down after last Christmas, but the truth is I like their glow too much.
The clock reads 7:50 when I hear his knock. Two measured taps, not loud, not tentative.
I untie the apron and hang it over the back of the chair, smoothing my dress before I open the door.
Declan stands there in a charcoal coat, the collar turned up slightly against the rain. His hair is damp at the edges, not wet enough to drip, but softened, the faint wave more visible. He holds a bottle of wine in one hand, the other in his pocket. His gaze meets mine immediately, steady and assessing, and the space between us tightens without either of us moving.
“Evening,” he says, his voice low, almost warm.
“Evening,” I reply, stepping back so he can come inside.
He doesn’t cross the threshold right away. His eyes move through the flat in a slow, deliberate sweep, taking in everything without lingering on any one thing. It feels like a map being drawn in his mind. Only after that does he step in, closing the door with a quiet click.
“It smells… deliberate in here,” he says, handing me the bottle.
I take it, noting the weight, the dark green glass, the label with its understated lettering and absence of flourish. A bottle like this says more about the man than he would. “I’ll open it.”
He slides the coat from his shoulders and lays it neatly over the back of the chair, his shirt beneath black and fitted, the sleeves rolled once to his forearms. There’s a faint sheen to the buttons and the way the fabric moves with him, subtle in a way expensive things often are.
“You went to trouble,” he says.
“Cooking is never trouble. Especially when I’ve chosen the company.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile, but something close. He follows me toward the kitchen but doesn’t step too near, standing just outside the warm halo of the stove as though entering would change something he isn’t ready to change.
“What’s first?” he asks, nodding toward the stove.
“Risotto. Wild mushrooms, truffle at the end.”
He picks up the spoon I’ve set aside, stirring once before tasting the sauce clinging to the back. “You’ve done this before.”
“Some people collect stamps. I collect small perfections.”
