“I’ll do that.”
As he was about to turn, Celia came through the drapes at the back of the stage, her arms overflowing with rags and sprays and brushes, all kinds of cleaning supplies. Her hair was caught back under a splashy purple bandanna, and her jeans were filthy. He wondered what she’d been doing.
Then her eyes lifted and she caught sight of him, and a sharp, hard spark darkened the silvery irises to a gun-metal gray. Her chin rose.
Eric gave her a quick nod, then pivoted blindly, nearly missed a stair and bolted from the room. There was no other word for it. The damnable thing was, as he stood outside again, he realized that for an instant, he’d really felt a little better.
* * *
Cooking was not an art that had come easily to Celia. Her mother had never entered a kitchen in her life, and her father, being male and Texan, could hustle up pecan pie or biscuits, but nothing substantial. As a result, Celia had spent the past ten years slowly but surely educating herself on the finer points of putting a meal together. It was mathematical and orderly, and she enjoyed the meshing of ingredients that formed a new product. It soothed her.
In the late afternoon after seeing Eric at the school, she baked one of her grandmother’s specialties, turtle brownies. It was the first real baking she’d been able to do since the flood, and as the scent of chocolate and caramel and pecans wafted through the newly cleaned kitchen, a sense of ease crept through her. She hummed under her breath as she washed the bowls and spoons, then shook out a paper doily to decorate a plate.
When the brownies had cooled, she cut them into perfect squares and arranged them on the lacy paper, admiring the contrast of dark chocolate against snowy white. Pretty enough for an entry in the fair, she thought, then grinned—as if she’d dare compete with women who’d been cooking for thirty or forty years!
Her grandmother had won first-prize ribbons for watermelon-rind pickles and plum jam and peach chutney every year. Celia remembered sitting on a stool in this very kitchen, listening to injunctions about sterilizing jars and washing the lids with a hot wet cloth; about cutting plums just so and loading slices of fruit into the jars in an even way. She had yet to tackle canning. Maybe this fall.
When the brownies were finished, she showered and changed into a cool cotton sundress, then brushed her hair. It wasn’t until she found herself on the road toward town, the brownies in her hands, that she allowed herself to realize she was on her way to Eric.
But the truth was, he’d nearly tripped down the steps in his haste to get away this morning—tripped like a gangly fourteen-year-old who suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. When he had first seen her, his eyes had filled with a hungry appreciation any woman who wasn’t a complete idiot would recognize. It had pained her a little, and she knew she’d given him what her daddy would have called a ‘a dirty look.’
And then Eric, flustered, had turned to flee, nearly tripping on the stairs. It made him seem so vulnerable that Celia had been thinking about him all day. As old-fashioned as it was, she was taking him brownies to make up for being mean.
Thick evening fell, turning the sky a purply silver above the cottonwoods and pines as she walked. Hidden just beyond her field of vision, Jezebel sang softly to the gathered birds drinking from her skirts. Aside from the chiming of crickets and the occasional call of a bird, the world along this narrow country road was still.
Celia found herself slowing, feeling every pore in her body open to the warm, cottony air, to the nectar of silence no city could ever hope to reproduce. As it had so many times since she’d finally accomplished her dream of coming here, a swell of joy overtook her. Never before had she felt as if a place embraced her, as if the land itself welcomed her into its bosom. Only in Gideon.
Home at last.
She
As he was about to turn, Celia came through the drapes at the back of the stage, her arms overflowing with rags and sprays and brushes, all kinds of cleaning supplies. Her hair was caught back under a splashy purple bandanna, and her jeans were filthy. He wondered what she’d been doing.
Then her eyes lifted and she caught sight of him, and a sharp, hard spark darkened the silvery irises to a gun-metal gray. Her chin rose.
Eric gave her a quick nod, then pivoted blindly, nearly missed a stair and bolted from the room. There was no other word for it. The damnable thing was, as he stood outside again, he realized that for an instant, he’d really felt a little better.
* * *
Cooking was not an art that had come easily to Celia. Her mother had never entered a kitchen in her life, and her father, being male and Texan, could hustle up pecan pie or biscuits, but nothing substantial. As a result, Celia had spent the past ten years slowly but surely educating herself on the finer points of putting a meal together. It was mathematical and orderly, and she enjoyed the meshing of ingredients that formed a new product. It soothed her.
In the late afternoon after seeing Eric at the school, she baked one of her grandmother’s specialties, turtle brownies. It was the first real baking she’d been able to do since the flood, and as the scent of chocolate and caramel and pecans wafted through the newly cleaned kitchen, a sense of ease crept through her. She hummed under her breath as she washed the bowls and spoons, then shook out a paper doily to decorate a plate.
When the brownies had cooled, she cut them into perfect squares and arranged them on the lacy paper, admiring the contrast of dark chocolate against snowy white. Pretty enough for an entry in the fair, she thought, then grinned—as if she’d dare compete with women who’d been cooking for thirty or forty years!
Her grandmother had won first-prize ribbons for watermelon-rind pickles and plum jam and peach chutney every year. Celia remembered sitting on a stool in this very kitchen, listening to injunctions about sterilizing jars and washing the lids with a hot wet cloth; about cutting plums just so and loading slices of fruit into the jars in an even way. She had yet to tackle canning. Maybe this fall.
When the brownies were finished, she showered and changed into a cool cotton sundress, then brushed her hair. It wasn’t until she found herself on the road toward town, the brownies in her hands, that she allowed herself to realize she was on her way to Eric.
But the truth was, he’d nearly tripped down the steps in his haste to get away this morning—tripped like a gangly fourteen-year-old who suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. When he had first seen her, his eyes had filled with a hungry appreciation any woman who wasn’t a complete idiot would recognize. It had pained her a little, and she knew she’d given him what her daddy would have called a ‘a dirty look.’
And then Eric, flustered, had turned to flee, nearly tripping on the stairs. It made him seem so vulnerable that Celia had been thinking about him all day. As old-fashioned as it was, she was taking him brownies to make up for being mean.
Thick evening fell, turning the sky a purply silver above the cottonwoods and pines as she walked. Hidden just beyond her field of vision, Jezebel sang softly to the gathered birds drinking from her skirts. Aside from the chiming of crickets and the occasional call of a bird, the world along this narrow country road was still.
Celia found herself slowing, feeling every pore in her body open to the warm, cottony air, to the nectar of silence no city could ever hope to reproduce. As it had so many times since she’d finally accomplished her dream of coming here, a swell of joy overtook her. Never before had she felt as if a place embraced her, as if the land itself welcomed her into its bosom. Only in Gideon.
Home at last.
She
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