“Are you giving me homework?”
“Something like that. You shouldn’t miss them because I’m busy. But if you keep getting lippy, I might make you write an essay for me. Perhaps something on the role of multiple ethnic cuisines in Milwaukee’s evolving food culture?” Lou said with a smile, but Al liked it.
“That’s actually a great idea.” Al paused, already mentally plotting out the article.
“Are you going to write it?” Lou asked, her eyes widening.
Al’s pulse quickened as an alarm bell clanged in his head.
“What happened to no work talk?” Al took a few slow, even breaths to appear calm. Lou looked even more surprised, then nodded her head.
“You’re right—you probably shouldn’t discuss your weekend safecracking work for the local criminal masterminds. This is about getting you to love Milwaukee.”
Al smiled as the alarm in his head slowed, then stopped. Everything returned to normal; crisis averted. He didn’t notice that Lou had started talking again.
“. . . State Fair rocks. Great people watching, farm animals, root beer milk, and never-ending deep-fried food on a stick. And you can’t forget about the cream puffs. That’s our thing.”
“When’s State Fair?”
“Not until the end of the month.”
“So, no plans until then?” Al’s brows scrunched a little, struggling with what that meant.
“I hadn’t really thought much about what’s next. I kind of thought you’d be sick of me by now.”
“Never! As you say, I’m just looking for excuses to hang out with little old you.” Al could feel his face flush at the truth in his comment. This was getting complicated. His attraction was growing and he loved spending time with Lou, but his plans to leave Milwaukee at the earliest opportunity hadn’t changed. The more he wanted to act on his feelings, the more he knew he shouldn’t. It would only hurt them both when he left.
“I suppose we could check out the Harley Museum. I’d offer to take you for a ride, but I don’t go near them. Though if you really want to try it, I know someone who could take you out. I understand it’s different from any other motorcycle.”
“That works. You’re on such a roll; you don’t want to lose momentum.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Lou smiled and winked, then turned to the stage as the first smooth notes of music floated into the evening sky. Lou leaned back against Al’s legs before he could straighten up. Her hair spilled over his hands, cool and silky. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he leaned in and sniffed. Vanilla. And not some diluted note buried among other laboratory-born scents, but real vanilla bean. Then Al leaned back, too, and closed his eyes, savoring the sweet smell of Lou, the feel of her hair over his hands, her weight against his legs, and the strumming guitar paired with a soulful voice. Milwaukee summer was more fun than he’d imagined.
• CHAPTER TWELVE •
Sweet silence. Lou heard her footsteps echo on the asbestos-tiled staircase. She unlocked the front door to her apartment and hung the keys on the hook next to the door. A hallway led down the center of her apartment with doorways opening to each room. To the left were her bedroom, bathroom, and living room. The other side housed her kitchen and dining room, linked by an arched opening. Except for the bathroom, all the floors were worn oak, common in older Milwaukee buildings. At the end of the hallway stood a door leading to a private balcony, her favorite apartment feature. More of a rooftop terrace, the balcony had a patio table and chairs, a grill, and a few pots for fresh herbs and veggies. These tended to die since she never watered them, but every summer she tried.
Aside from the stove light in the kitchen, humming and sending a faint glow into the hallway, the apartment’s silent darkness soothed her ears after the loud music at Summerfest. She could still feel the bass pumping in her chest but lacked a distraction to occupy her mind. Lou took a deep breath, smelling the lemon air freshener in the hall outlet. She closed the door and let her aloneness wash over her. Lou hadn’t spent much time at home in years. If she wasn’t at Luella’s, then she’d spent her time at Devlin’s. She didn’t like the echoes of her empty apartment. It emphasized everyone missing from her life. The silence no longer soothed.
Lou clicked the deadbolt and latched the chain. She kicked her shoes into the small pile near the door and began turning on all the lights, starting with the overhead light in the hall. As she walked the hall, dust bunnies raced behind her. She should probably do something about that—everyone knew dust bunnies multiplied faster than their real-life counterparts. She tossed her phone and keys on the kitchen counter, grabbed the Swiffer from the hall closet, and started collecting hair balls, moving into the dining room—she recalled seeing a dust elephant under the old pine table.
Lou groaned when she flicked on the light. What happened to the table? Covered in so many open cookbooks and rumpled notebooks, it looked like a decoupage project gone wrong. She needed to start cleaning up after herself. Time to act like a grown-up instead of chasing dreams like a child. She propped the Swiffer against the wall, setting it against the doorframe so it wouldn’t fall—which it did anyway. Twice. She could finish sweeping when she cleaned off the table.
Lou stacked cookbooks, sorting according to topic. She carried one stack into the living room to reshelve and returned for another armload. An old smiling face caught her attention as she walked toward the dining table. A dusty picture of her grandma looked over the room, along with several other family photos. She always liked the idea of working while they watched her. She never felt alone in here.
A favorite picture showed her parents standing in front of the old County Stadium wearing Brewers T-shirts and holding a tiny screaming baby. Her first Brewers game. It was one of the few pictures she had of all three of them. It wasn’t fair. Some people had enough family to start a small country and she had no one. No one to call on Mother’s Day, no one to suggest she keep her home cleaner, no one to tell her what to do. Looking at her parents’ smiling faces, the protective way they held her, she tried to hear their voices and what they would say. But Lou couldn’t hear them anymore. She couldn’t hear their voices, but her memory of that whole horrific day of the accident remained etched in detail. She could remember what she was wearing, the weather, the shush of sliding down the wall and curling into a ball, where she stayed until Sue had ushered her into bed.
Her mom and dad would have loved Luella’s, watching her come alive with fresh ingredients in one hand and a ten-inch chef’s knife in the other. Her whole life, they had encouraged her to try new experiences even if they ended in disaster, like when she had skateboarded for the first time and broken her wrist. They had applauded her efforts, asked her what she learned, and held her until she stopped crying. Her fingers brushed the glass over their arms in the photo, wishing they could hold her now. But she was on her own.
Lou looked down at her fingers. Well, she should at least dust. Halfway to the kitchen where she kept the dusting supplies, Lou stopped.
“I’ll do that later,” she said out loud.
Not looking at the pictures on the walls, she grabbed the last stack of books, feeling better now that she could see the scuffed wood of her table again, and carried them to the living room. She still needed to put away her notebooks and pens. How did so many accumulate?
In the small, cozy living room, she set the books on the floor next to the first stack. When she’d moved in four years ago, she had painted the walls a cheerful Caribbean blue to offset the white fireplace, mantel, and built-in bookcases. The fireplace worked, but she’d never used it. Instead it contained three dusty blue pillar candles on copper candlesticks. The bookshelves sagged with cookbooks ranging from relics recovered in her grandmother’s kitchen to every edition of Cook’s Illustrated, with a smattering of cookbooks by celebrity chefs, such as Barefoot Contessa and Bobby Flay.