Page 4 of Blood Orange Christmas
“Lemons and oranges,” he says. “Are they your habit or your signature?”
“Neither,” I say. “They are my mood.”
“What are you in the mood for tonight?”
“Looking competent,” I say, and he laughs once, low, like he forgot he knows how.
He lingers in the kitchen longer when I hum. This is not something I set out to test, but by the end of the week, I have data and the data is clear. If I forget myself and sing under my breath, he will find a reason to ask about salt or oven temperature, and he will stand close enough to see the texture of the pasta dough. The humming is not a trick. It is the old habit of a girl who learned to keep time with her hands. Still, I catch myself doing it more often than I need to, and I pretend I don't know why.
We start talking in small pieces. He asks about the scar on my forearm, and I tell him a pan went rogue in a restaurant where the chef believed gravity was optional. He asks who taught me to make ragu this way, and I tell him about Nonna’s milk secret and how she swore me to silence, so technically, I have already betrayed the family. He asks if I have ever worked in a three-star kitchen, and I say no, because I like sleeping and I prefer cooks to gods.
I ask him things that are safe to ask. I ask what wine he would drink if he did not have to impress anyone, and he says a simple Barbera that reminds him of dinners that did not take three hours. I ask what his favorite food is when no one is watching, and he says fresh bread with oil and a slice of tomato that tastes like the sun. I don't ask what his scar on the back of his hand is from, and he doesn't offer, so instead I trace a finger near it while I slice fruit and say nothing. He doesn't move his hand away.
In time, I start leaving the kitchen door open at night. It is a practical choice because the room breathes better and the smells of lemon and stock don't pool in the corners. It is also an invitation, and I know it. Staff pass by, careful and quick, as if they know the doorway is a line and the line shouldn't be crossed without a purpose. The house grows quieter after ten. My hands stay busy because that is what they know how to do.
It becomes a habit on my part to prepare a small plate for him to taste in the kitchen before I send the dish. It is a selfish habit. I want to see his face when he decides something is right. One evening, I fry little disks of polenta until the edges turn crisp and the centers stay soft, then spoon mushroom ragout over the top with a shake of parsley. He takes a bite standing at the counter and says, “This tastes like a place I would like to go back to,” which is not food language, but I understand what he means.
“Good,” I say and pass a second piece to him because he looks like he could use it.
“Do you eat with me?” he asks, and he is not asking me to sit at the long table.
“In here,” I say. “I don't eat well when people watch.”
“They are not watching,” he says, and I know he means the house, the staff, whatever else he thinks the world is doing.
“I am,” I say, and that ends that.
Sometimes, he stands at the sink with his sleeves pushed to his forearms while I finish a sauce, and the picture is absurd because he looks like a man who has never been asked to wash anything he did not break on purpose, but it makes the room feel less like a stage. He rolls up the cuffs in one turn, neat and exact, and Iunderstand he is a person who cannot leave a line crooked. I file this away and don't decide whether it is good or bad.
About ten days after my arrival, he returns without the jacket and something in me unthreads. He rests his hands on the edge of the counter while I zest oranges for a marinade, and the light picks out the faint marks on his knuckles like ghosts of past choices. I want to ask the story and I also don't want to know. Instead, I hold his wrist without thinking, turning his hand over so the scar on the back catches the light. It runs along the bone like a narrow river.
“How?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
“Glass,” he replies, and his reply is magnanimous, as if he understands the curiosity and is fine with indulging it.
“On purpose?”
He looks at me, then at the knife in my hand, then back at me. “Not mine.”
“You should tell people you fight glass and win,” I say, and I lay his hand down gently.
“You should tell people you hold knives like instruments,” he says, and that is a compliment I feel in my ribs.
I make him a simple dish that night because the room needs it. Warm tomatoes collapsed in oil with garlic and basil, tossed with thick spaghetti, finished with a grind of pepper and a handful of grated cheese. He eats slowly, and I watch the second hand on the kitchen clock and pretend I am not counting.
When the plate comes back empty, I feel a chip of satisfaction break off for me to pocket. I stack it with the others to wash and scrape the last of the tomato into a small bowl for myself. I eatstanding up with the spoon that tastes like wood and salt and a little butter that somehow slid in when I was not watching. I think about the way his mouth moves when he speaks and wonder what is wrong with me, then decide I am nineteen and not a nun.
The kitchen has a small sitting room through a short hall, furnished by someone who thinks staff need a couch as much as they need a broom. It is better than it needs to be. After service, I go there to stretch my back and give my hands a rest. He has not been in this room. It feels like neutral ground.
I don't plan to fall asleep. I sit with my feet under me and a folded towel under my neck, and the sound of the dish machine in the next room becomes a soft drum. I think about what to prep for tomorrow and whether I can get away with a small citrus tart without looking like I am repeating myself, and at some point the thoughts loosen, and then the couch steals me.
I wake to the kind of quiet that means the house has shut its eyes. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The air smells like clean stone and lemon peel and something warm that is not mine. My shoulder is heavy. I look down and see a blanket covering me from collarbone to shin, tucked in with a care that is not the dishwasher’s style. It is soft and heavier than the kitchen towels. My fingers slide to the edge and find silk binding.
On the low chair beside the couch, someone has left a coat. It is black and tailored and holds the clean scent I have started to associate with the man who stands in doorways and asks precise questions. The coat holds its own shape, as if it is used to being worn by a body that doesn't bend easily. There is a single leather glove on the arm of the chair as if someone were interrupted mid-thought.
I sit up slowly, the blanket slipping to my lap. My heart climbs to my throat and settles there, tapping once, twice, to make sure I am paying attention. The door to the hall is half open. Beyond it, the kitchen sits in the soft glow of a night light, every surface in order, waiting for morning.
I listen for footsteps. I hear none. I touch the edge of the blanket like it might reveal a secret if I am polite enough. I look at the coat and think about how quickly a room can change, how a simple piece of clothing can carry the shape of a person into a space without their having to be there.
