smooth, and round like a Buddha’s face, but his body isn’t fat at all. His eyes are black and friendly.
“Luis,” Miss Jack says to him, “this is Klint and Kyle Hayes.”
He nods at each of us, smiling.
“Mucho gusto,” he says.
He sets down the bread, pours water for all of us, then disappears and comes back right away with four bowls of soup and another bowl of olives on a tray.
“Sopa crema de tomate,” he announces.
He puts a steaming bowl in front of each of us. It looks like tomato soup, but it has a white swirl of something in it and a bunch of green leaves on top.
Shelby sticks her face near the bowl, closes her eyes, and takes a big sniff of the soup. She looks up at me smiling dreamily.
“I love Luis’s homemade tomato soup. It’s so good.”
She picks up her spoon and stirs it slowly until the white stuff disappears.
“I never thought about anyone making tomato soup from tomatoes before,” I say. “I guess I always thought it originated in nature as a red blob of paste in a soup can.”
Shelby laughs at my joke.
I look over at Klint, who’s staring at the leaves in his soup like they’re turds.
“What’s this on top?” I ask for him.
“Some sour cream and fresh basil. Try it. You’ll love it.”
I stir it the way she did and take a bite.
“She’s right,” I tell him. “It’s great. It doesn’t taste anything like Campbell’s.”
“I like Campbell’s,” he grumbles.
“This is a nice house,” I say to Miss Jack, in an attempt to change the subject from food.
“Thank you,” she replies. “It was built by my brother, who was also Shelby’s grandfather.”
“But Aunt Candace did all the decorating,” Shelby chimes in.
“You have good taste,” I tell her.
Klint kicks me under the table.
“So tell me about yourself, Klint? What do you do for fun?” Miss Jack asks.
He takes a break from glaring at his soup and looks up at her.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“How interesting.”
“Aunt Candace can relate to what the two of you are going through right now.” It’s Shelby’s turn to try and change the subject. “She lost both her parents when she was thirteen.”
Miss Jack glances disapprovingly at Shelby. I get the feeling she didn’t want her niece to tell us this or she didn’t want Shelby assuming any of us can relate to each other.
“A fire in our home,” Miss Jack explains. “My father was able to save my brother and me. He went back in to save our mother and never came out again.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“Yes, it was terrible. It’s very hard to lose someone you love and depend on.”
“Was it a house like this?”
She laughs, a happy, genuine laugh that sounds a lot like Shelby’s. Hearing it come out of her is like hearing merry-go-round music coming from inside a prison.
“Certainly not,” she tells me, suddenly turning serious again. “My father was a coal miner.”
“What? I don’t get it. I thought you owned the coal mines?”
“My brother was very ambitious,” she replies, abruptly ending the conversation with the tone of her voice.
We all start eating. I check on Klint, who finally dips his spoon in the soup, being careful to avoid the leaves.
“I don’t enjoy small talk,” Miss Jack announces after a few minutes of silence.
“Neither do we,” I tell her even though I do kind of enjoy small talk. Talking about big things usually depresses me.
“Especially Klint,” I add.
“I see. So Klint’s reticence comes from a disdain for discussing trivialities, not from rudeness or ignorance.”
Klint and I look at each other trying to figure out exactly what she said. I think Klint may have been insulted, but I’m not sure.
“Right,” I answer.
“What is your situation now?”
We don’t say anything.
“Now that you no longer have your father,” she further explains.
We still don’t say anything.
“Your father didn’t leave you well provided for?” she assumes.
“No,” I
“Luis,” Miss Jack says to him, “this is Klint and Kyle Hayes.”
He nods at each of us, smiling.
“Mucho gusto,” he says.
He sets down the bread, pours water for all of us, then disappears and comes back right away with four bowls of soup and another bowl of olives on a tray.
“Sopa crema de tomate,” he announces.
He puts a steaming bowl in front of each of us. It looks like tomato soup, but it has a white swirl of something in it and a bunch of green leaves on top.
Shelby sticks her face near the bowl, closes her eyes, and takes a big sniff of the soup. She looks up at me smiling dreamily.
“I love Luis’s homemade tomato soup. It’s so good.”
She picks up her spoon and stirs it slowly until the white stuff disappears.
“I never thought about anyone making tomato soup from tomatoes before,” I say. “I guess I always thought it originated in nature as a red blob of paste in a soup can.”
Shelby laughs at my joke.
I look over at Klint, who’s staring at the leaves in his soup like they’re turds.
“What’s this on top?” I ask for him.
“Some sour cream and fresh basil. Try it. You’ll love it.”
I stir it the way she did and take a bite.
“She’s right,” I tell him. “It’s great. It doesn’t taste anything like Campbell’s.”
“I like Campbell’s,” he grumbles.
“This is a nice house,” I say to Miss Jack, in an attempt to change the subject from food.
“Thank you,” she replies. “It was built by my brother, who was also Shelby’s grandfather.”
“But Aunt Candace did all the decorating,” Shelby chimes in.
“You have good taste,” I tell her.
Klint kicks me under the table.
“So tell me about yourself, Klint? What do you do for fun?” Miss Jack asks.
He takes a break from glaring at his soup and looks up at her.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“How interesting.”
“Aunt Candace can relate to what the two of you are going through right now.” It’s Shelby’s turn to try and change the subject. “She lost both her parents when she was thirteen.”
Miss Jack glances disapprovingly at Shelby. I get the feeling she didn’t want her niece to tell us this or she didn’t want Shelby assuming any of us can relate to each other.
“A fire in our home,” Miss Jack explains. “My father was able to save my brother and me. He went back in to save our mother and never came out again.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“Yes, it was terrible. It’s very hard to lose someone you love and depend on.”
“Was it a house like this?”
She laughs, a happy, genuine laugh that sounds a lot like Shelby’s. Hearing it come out of her is like hearing merry-go-round music coming from inside a prison.
“Certainly not,” she tells me, suddenly turning serious again. “My father was a coal miner.”
“What? I don’t get it. I thought you owned the coal mines?”
“My brother was very ambitious,” she replies, abruptly ending the conversation with the tone of her voice.
We all start eating. I check on Klint, who finally dips his spoon in the soup, being careful to avoid the leaves.
“I don’t enjoy small talk,” Miss Jack announces after a few minutes of silence.
“Neither do we,” I tell her even though I do kind of enjoy small talk. Talking about big things usually depresses me.
“Especially Klint,” I add.
“I see. So Klint’s reticence comes from a disdain for discussing trivialities, not from rudeness or ignorance.”
Klint and I look at each other trying to figure out exactly what she said. I think Klint may have been insulted, but I’m not sure.
“Right,” I answer.
“What is your situation now?”
We don’t say anything.
“Now that you no longer have your father,” she further explains.
We still don’t say anything.
“Your father didn’t leave you well provided for?” she assumes.
“No,” I
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