Educating Simon by Robin Reardon

laughter, coming from the kitchen. It appeared Ned was having her help him prepare dinner, apparently salmon, and they were getting along like old chums. They hadn’t seen me yet, so I watched from the door, and it came to me that Mum used to cook a lot before Dad died. She was very good, too; taught me a lot of what I know about cuisine, as a matter of fact. I’d kind of forgotten that.
    Finally Ned looked up. “Simon! How goes it? I’m sure you wowed them. But did you wow yourself?”
    I shrugged and tried to subdue a temptation to grin.
    â€œYour mom made you a treat. A reward for your hard day.” He held out a small, pristine, white plate with several tiny balls arranged on it. Tea butter balls. They’re made from butter (of course), flour, butter, confectioners’ sugar, butter, vanilla (we always used Tahitian, but I don’t know what’s in this kitchen), finely chopped walnuts, and—did I mention butter? While they’re still barely warm from the oven, you shake them up with more confectioners’ sugar to coat the outsides. I think they’re my favourite biscuit. I looked up at Mum as I took the plate and the napkin Ned handed me.
    Mum smiled but didn’t take any active credit. She said, “We’re having barbied salmon with scallion horseradish mayonnaise. I’m making that, and the raspberry fool for the pudding. Um, dessert. Ned’s making a surprise soup. He says it’s one of Persie’s favourites, but he won’t tell me what it is.”
    â€œNow, Emma, we say ‘grilled’ here, not ‘barbied.’ Miss Persie will have you hog-tied if she hears you. Hey, Simon, Brian tells me you’re quite the wine aficionado. Wanna help me pick something out from the cellar for tonight?”
    Now, that I would love to do. And I felt an unwilling rush of something like pleasure at the thought of BM’s noticing this about me and even sharing it in a good way with Ned. I tried to curb my enthusiasm. “Sure. When?”
    He turned to Mum. “You’ve got this covered, right?”
    She laughed, something I haven’t heard her do lately. Hands waving dramatically in the air, she put on a pseudo French accent and said, “But of course!”
    I set down the biscuits and followed Ned towards the back of the kitchen, where the door to the wine cellar is. The stairs lead back under the kitchen and into an area that far exceeded my expectations: several tall, glass-fronted, temperature- and moisture-controlled storage units, each partially full of bottles.
    â€œMiranda—Brian’s ex—was responsible for keeping these full of wine. When I got here there wasn’t a lot left, so I’ve been working to restock. Brian seemed to have lost interest.” Ned turned to watch my face. “He’d lost interest in a lot of things. And then he met your mother.”
    That was a place I’d rather not go. “You call him Brian?”
    â€œOh, sure. We’re all friends here.”
    â€œUm, where does he get his money? In England, at least, an architect would have to be quite the success to have a place like this.”
    He grinned. “Well, his clients do like him. He gets lots of referrals. But this house was in his family, and I expect he got money from them, too. There’s no mortgage, I don’t think, though the property taxes are probably hefty. Now, on to the wine.”
    He moved from case to case: lighter whites, meaty whites, light reds, heavy reds, rosés, each case divided into countries and regions of origin. There was also a case for sparkling wines, and one for brandies, cognacs, ports, after-dinner wines. Very impressive.
    Returning to stand near the lighter whites case, Ned crossed his arms casually and leaned against a post that supported the floor above. “So, what would you like for tonight?”
    You . It almost slipped out. “You’ve led me to this case.