Outside the Lines by Amy Hatvany Page B

baking pans are there?”
    “We can fit four in the oven at a time. Dinner is served at six, so that gives us about three hours to cook it all. Does that sound doable to you? I usually just boil the potatoes and pour the sauce over them.”
    “I think they taste better in the oven,” I said. “With the edges and top all browned and crisped up?”
    “Oh yeah. Just like Mom used to make.” Rita patted her flat belly appreciatively.
    I laughed. “Not my mom. I get my culinary passion from my father, for sure. He taught me a lot of the basics.” My voice quavered. I swallowed hard to keep the muscles in my throat from closing up.
    Rita set her spoon down and gave me an unexpected hug. She was surprisingly powerful for her petite frame. When she pulled back, she kept her hands on my arms and looked me straight in the eyes. “You are a wonderful daughter for trying to find him, Eden. All about the love, like I said. Your life feels out of balance without him.”
    I nodded and the tears rose up and spilled down my cheeks despite my best attempt to keep them at bay. “I miss him,” I whispered. “So much.”
    “Of course you do. And I have no doubt he misses you, too.” She gave my forearms a squeeze before letting go, then clapped her hands together once. “Okay then! We need to get our asses moving if we’re going to get done!”
    I wiped at my eyes with a dish towel. “Right. So if you spray the pans down with nonstick and fill them about three-quarters of the way with sliced potatoes, I’ll get the ham diced.”
    “I can do that,” Jack said. I whipped around to see him standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long he’d been there or what he’d witnessed. Great . I’d spent maybe a total of half an hour with the guy and I’d already cried twice. I probably seemed as off-kilter as some of his clients.
    Jack walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out two good-sized plastic-wrapped hams. Not the kind from a butcher with a bone, like I would use if I were making this dish for a party, but rather the pressed lunch meat variety of ham, factory-injected with water to keep it moist.
    “So, tell me what to do, Chef,” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “How do I cut this up?”
    I sniffed and attempted a smile. “With a knife?”
    He laughed and I went to stand next to him. He pulled out a large serrated knife from the drawer and held it up for my appraisal. “Will this do?”
    “It’s the right size, but the serration will tear the meat up.”
    “It’s the biggest one we’ve got,” Rita said. “Our peeps won’t care if the meat is a little torn around the edges. I say go for it.”
    “Okay,” I said, pushing down the professional chef’s voice inside my head that was screaming about using the wrong tool. “And I noticed a huge bag of grated carrots in the crisper. Were you planning to use them for anything?”
    “No,” Jack said. “The produce guy who donated the potatoes threw those in as an extra. I thought maybe we could make carrot cake or something.”
    “ You’re going to bake?” Rita said, incredulous.
    “No, smart-ass,” Jack said. “I was hoping I might talk Eden into it.”
    “I have a better idea,” I said. “Since they don’t get a ton of vegetables, how about I throw them into the sauce? The cheese will cover up the taste and most of the color. They’ll never know we’re sneaking in the vitamin A. They could use it, right?”
    Jack smiled and nodded. “Absolutely. I say do it.”
    Rita agreed. “Definitely. But when you’re done with that, there’s cake mix in the cupboard. You know. If you feel inclined to whip up some dessert.”
    “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. The nervous flutter in my chest had disappeared. I put my head down and did what I knew best. I cooked.
    As it turned out, I didn’t have time to bake a cake since the oven was occupied with scalloped potatoes until it was time to open the doors for dinner. After dicing up the ham, Jack