“You can only send him a thank-you if I get to hand-deliver it. I want to see his face when he reads it.”
Lou turned off the faucet and set the vase on the windowsill. She slipped a bouquet of pristine white calla lilies into the water.
“He did good.” Sue nodded at the flowers. Lou smiled, still thrilled Al had remembered her favorite flower.
“Yes—yes, he did.”
They grabbed the still-warm plantains and a pitcher of mojitos and left the kitchen for the patio.
• • • • •
Lou’s apartment was tiny and cozy, with a brilliant patio—the perfect spot for summer gatherings. Looking to the south, Al could see the tall buildings of downtown Milwaukee against the still blue sky, to the north, trees and swaths of green intermingled with postwar houses. As he had walked through her flat, he caught glimpses into each room, little flashes of Lou. In the dining room he saw several photos with laughing and kind faces. He hoped to hear the stories behind each one. Her kitchen overflowed with food preparation and delicious aromas, while her living room housed an impressive cookbook collection. He spotted a copy of Modernist Cuisine and looked forward to seeing where their collections overlapped and deviated.
Al and Harley turned as Sue and Lou stepped onto the patio. Upon first meeting Harley, he had worried they wouldn’t have much to discuss. After all, what would a tattoo enthusiast have in common with an Eton-educated food writer? To his surprise and relief, they shared the same passion for quality tea, and he now knew of three stores where he could purchase it in bulk.
Lou stopped next to him and handed him a fresh mojito. He scooped a handful of plantains as Sue walked by with the still-warm-from-the-oil pile. As he chewed, Sue asked the question he dreaded.
“So, Lou tells us you’re a writer. What do you write?”
Al swallowed and sipped his drink while perfecting his answer.
“I write freelance pieces. Thanks to Lou, I’m working on an article about the various ethnic influences in Milwaukee’s food scene.” All true. He’d already spent hours researching the ethnic festivals’ origins, the people involved, and their affiliations with local restaurants.
“So you write about food?”
Sue looked thrilled by the idea. Al’s heartbeat raced. He needed to change the topic. He liked these people; he didn’t want to lie to them. So far, he’d gotten away with revealing so little, even after his failed attempt to show Lou his Good Land article.
“I write about whatever I’m hired to write about, unless I have a story to pitch, like Lou’s idea.”
“And he’s an experienced Irish rain dancer.” Lou winked and touched his arm. Sue and Harley exchanged confused looks.
“So,” Harley said, “you could write about Lou.”
Al’s forehead scrunched.
“Now, I’m not sure I follow?” Al said.
“Well, since her review, work’s been rough. If you wrote about her, that might help.”
Al opened his mouth to get more information.
“Harley.” Lou rolled her eyes. “Al doesn’t want to write about me. We’re here to have fun, not talk about my catastrophe of a career.” Lou looped her arm in Al’s. “Besides, he wants to see what’s on the grill.”
Lou pulled him away from Sue and Harley, toward the smell of garlic, citrus, and oregano wafting off the grill. He was curious about their work, but he couldn’t ask without the risk of having to answer more questions about his own job.
Lou lifted the hood. He had tried to peek earlier, but Harley had physically blocked him with a terse “No peeking.” What was finally revealed went beyond his expectations. A large butt of pork looked blackened with a thick coat of spices, fat melted down the sides adding flavor and moisture to the crust. His mouth drowned in saliva.
“That looks fantastic.”
“It tastes even better,” Lou said with confidence, “especially with the mojo.”
“I’d like to formally offer my services as taster.” Al reached toward the roast, going for a juicy dangling bit of meat. Lou slapped his hand.
“You’ll have to wait. It needs to rest an hour.”
“You’re such a pork tease.”
“That’s why there’re plantains and mojitos. You’ll live.”
Lou lifted the roast onto a cutting board, covered it with foil, and carried it to the kitchen. Al trailed after, opening the door for her. In the kitchen, he noticed the lilies in a place of honor. He smiled. He could see Harley and Sue on the patio. Such a unique pair: Harley with all his tattoos and grumbly voice, and Sue with her sailor’s vocabulary and rough edges. Al turned to face Lou.
“How did the three of you meet?”
Lou picked up a washcloth and started wiping the counters and putting dirty dishes in the washer. She smiled.
“It’s been so long, I almost can’t remember.” She paused in her cleaning to give the memory her full attention. “I met Sue in school. We found Harley at our first job. We were so young. Harley didn’t have a beard then. Sue and I would go drinking after work and Harley would follow, but never sit by us, just keep an eye on us. On Sue, really.”
Al tilted his head toward the window.
“They’ve been simmering that long?”
“You have no idea. But I finally think they’re about to boil over.”
“Nice one.” Al laughed.
“I’m all about the food humor.” Lou set down her washcloth and headed back out, waving her hand at Al to join her.
• • • • •
An hour later, the four sat at the patio table laden with the sliced pork, mojo sauce, black beans, cilantro lime rice, and grilled peppers and onions.
“Dig in,” Lou said.
“About bloody time,” Al mumbled, reaching for the end piece before anyone else could grab it and sliding it onto Lou’s plate. He then proceeded to load his own plate with a bit of everything on the table. He looked up to see Lou smiling at him. He smiled back, then focused on his plate for the next fifteen minutes. It was some of the best food he had eaten in years; and yes, he included The Good Land in his comparison. Lou’s food was that good. Talk focused on silly topics ranging from comic book heroes to politics. Paranoid, Al had steered the conversation anytime it seemed to veer toward work, which wasn’t often. No one rushed to eat. They lingered before dessert, picking at stray pieces of pork, tucking them into every available space in their stomachs. Conversation and wine flowed. He looked around the table at the open, relaxed faces. Al had found more friends, more reasons to love his new home.
• • • • •
After coffee and dessert, Lou shooed Sue and Harley out. Al didn’t want to leave, but Lou clearly wanted to get the cleaning started. She pulled out her purple rubber gloves and started filling the sink with steaming water. Al brought in some of the empty wineglasses from the patio.
“That was fantastic. I adore your friends, and the food . . . the food. Fantastic.” Al placed his hands on his chest and leaned onto the fridge in faux swoon. “You are a goddess in the kitchen.”
Lou blushed. “Thanks.”
She went to get more dishes, causing an envelope to flutter and drift to the floor in her wake. Al picked it up, noticing Devlin Pontellier’s return address on the snow-white paper, postmarked this week. He turned it over to see a thick card and tickets poking out. More than anything, he wanted to know what was on that note card. Why was Devlin sending her tickets? Were they going together? His stomach clenched, worried he had missed his opportunity with Lou.
She walked back into the kitchen, and a line creased her forehead as she saw Al holding Devlin’s envelope. He struggled to wipe the disappointment from his face. After all, he had no claim on Lou.
“It dropped when you walked by,” Al explained, and set the offending envelope back where it fell from.