one hand and a cold bottle of champagne in the other.Mercedes led him in through her modest living room. In the kitchen he spied a tantalizing confection on a flowered plate.
“Ooh, what’s that?” he inquired.
“Decadent dark chocolate cake with raspberry filling,” she replied. “I made it this morning.”
“‘Decadent?’”
“The name of the recipe,” she grinned.
The table was set with cloth napkins, candlesticks and old sterling silver flatware, decidedly out of place in the ghetto. He picked up a fork, examined the monogram, turned it over, and put it back down on the table. 1916. Old family stuff.
He put the champagne in the refrigerator, taking the chance to snoop around the bags of fresh vegetables and jars of various homemade concoctions. Mercedes looked fresh in her ironed white shirt. Aside from the few nights Mr. Friedman had joined them for dinner, Jack was her first dinner guest.
Jack’s ears tuned in to the neighborhood—the loud argument down the street, the noise of the young men playing basketball around the corner, dogs snarling at passersby, and freeway traffic. The classical station was playing the Beethoven violin concerto, so Mercedes left the dial there.
Without asking, he opened her cupboard and selected the only two wine glasses from her motley assortment of drinking vessels. He took the kitchen towel from her shoulder and opened the champagne.
“Here’s to the culinary skill of my lovely hostess,” he said. They clinked glasses and sipped the effervescent champagne, which burst on her tongue like ambrosia. Dinner not far from ready, he took the seat normally occupied by Germaine.
Mercedes sat down and drank the first glass with him. He mentioned again what a rarity a real home-cooked meal was in his life. There had been none at home, unless Janine Reneau had made himsomething in her tiny apartment. Once in college, he had always eaten out.
“You never learned to cook?”
He shook his head.
“But surely you’ve had girlfriends who cooked for you.”
“No,” he shrugged.
“No ex-wives?”
“Not one.”
“Not one who could cook?”
“No ex-wives of any variety. What about you?”
“No ex-wives for me either,” she laughed. “Only one late husband.”
She served him a plate of oven-barbecued chicken basted with her special sauce, creamy scalloped potatoes, green beans mixed with toasted slivered almonds and tiny bits of bacon. Out of the oven, she pulled piping hot dinner rolls she had made from scratch. She split one, slathered it with butter, and handed it to him. He put it all in his mouth at once and closed his eyes. She watched bliss register on his face.
The setting sun ignited the sky into the colors of orange sherbet and rose pink, which gradually deepened and darkened. She lit the tapers and turned on the stovetop light. Stars gradually appeared and the moon rose through the bay window.
“So where
is
Germaine? I was hoping to get to meet her.”
“Germaine Llewellyn is in demand. I’m afraid you will have to get in line.”
“Like her mother. Then please give me a number.”
“We’ll see.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“She’s been through a lot, Jack. I’m going to do everything in my power to protect her and keep her world stable.”
“Which includes not introducing her to . . .”
“To whom? What would you call yourself?”
“To someone who is courting her mother.”
“Is that what this is?”
“What would
you
call it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How could you possibly not be sure?”
She rose and came around to clear away his dishes. He stopped her and pulled her down into his lap.
“I’m not dating any other women and I have no intention of doing so until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until we see where this goes. Now it’s your turn.”
“You know I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“Is that by choice or circumstance?”
“My circumstances
are
my choice. I don’t want to waste my time if
“Ooh, what’s that?” he inquired.
“Decadent dark chocolate cake with raspberry filling,” she replied. “I made it this morning.”
“‘Decadent?’”
“The name of the recipe,” she grinned.
The table was set with cloth napkins, candlesticks and old sterling silver flatware, decidedly out of place in the ghetto. He picked up a fork, examined the monogram, turned it over, and put it back down on the table. 1916. Old family stuff.
He put the champagne in the refrigerator, taking the chance to snoop around the bags of fresh vegetables and jars of various homemade concoctions. Mercedes looked fresh in her ironed white shirt. Aside from the few nights Mr. Friedman had joined them for dinner, Jack was her first dinner guest.
Jack’s ears tuned in to the neighborhood—the loud argument down the street, the noise of the young men playing basketball around the corner, dogs snarling at passersby, and freeway traffic. The classical station was playing the Beethoven violin concerto, so Mercedes left the dial there.
Without asking, he opened her cupboard and selected the only two wine glasses from her motley assortment of drinking vessels. He took the kitchen towel from her shoulder and opened the champagne.
“Here’s to the culinary skill of my lovely hostess,” he said. They clinked glasses and sipped the effervescent champagne, which burst on her tongue like ambrosia. Dinner not far from ready, he took the seat normally occupied by Germaine.
Mercedes sat down and drank the first glass with him. He mentioned again what a rarity a real home-cooked meal was in his life. There had been none at home, unless Janine Reneau had made himsomething in her tiny apartment. Once in college, he had always eaten out.
“You never learned to cook?”
He shook his head.
“But surely you’ve had girlfriends who cooked for you.”
“No,” he shrugged.
“No ex-wives?”
“Not one.”
“Not one who could cook?”
“No ex-wives of any variety. What about you?”
“No ex-wives for me either,” she laughed. “Only one late husband.”
She served him a plate of oven-barbecued chicken basted with her special sauce, creamy scalloped potatoes, green beans mixed with toasted slivered almonds and tiny bits of bacon. Out of the oven, she pulled piping hot dinner rolls she had made from scratch. She split one, slathered it with butter, and handed it to him. He put it all in his mouth at once and closed his eyes. She watched bliss register on his face.
The setting sun ignited the sky into the colors of orange sherbet and rose pink, which gradually deepened and darkened. She lit the tapers and turned on the stovetop light. Stars gradually appeared and the moon rose through the bay window.
“So where
is
Germaine? I was hoping to get to meet her.”
“Germaine Llewellyn is in demand. I’m afraid you will have to get in line.”
“Like her mother. Then please give me a number.”
“We’ll see.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“She’s been through a lot, Jack. I’m going to do everything in my power to protect her and keep her world stable.”
“Which includes not introducing her to . . .”
“To whom? What would you call yourself?”
“To someone who is courting her mother.”
“Is that what this is?”
“What would
you
call it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How could you possibly not be sure?”
She rose and came around to clear away his dishes. He stopped her and pulled her down into his lap.
“I’m not dating any other women and I have no intention of doing so until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until we see where this goes. Now it’s your turn.”
“You know I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“Is that by choice or circumstance?”
“My circumstances
are
my choice. I don’t want to waste my time if
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