Keep Dancing (7 page)

Vicky’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me that. Does Jack want kids?”

Jack had once mentioned to me that he wasn’t sure if he could make babies, since he’d never gotten a woman pregnant in all his years of sowing wild oats. But that was private information. “I think he might, in sort of a vague, non-specific way. But he’s always in the studio or doing interviews, or in meetings about album covers and tours. And I’m in the office all day. Who’d have time to raise a child? Plus, we haven’t even talked about marriage. It’s way too soon for any of that.”

Vicky smiled. “Doesn’t sound like his Mum thinks so.”

“How’d the Hawtey meeting go?” Meredith asked the following week as I put some jacket copy on her desk. I had told her in confidence about my interview.

“I think really well. They’re seeing a lot of people, but Ted Rathbone wants me to come back in a couple of weeks and meet the publisher.” I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much, but I had a good feeling about this. “Ted seemed very friendly. Although he spent more time reminiscing about when he was editor of the Harvard newspaper, than he did asking about my own editing. But I guess it’s a good sign if he wants a second interview.”

“That’s fantastic, Julia! I’ll keep my fingers crossed. And how goes it with your handsome boyfriend?”

I knew I could trust Meredith not to tell anyone I was with Jack. I’d kept a lid on it all last summer when I first started seeing him, and was glad I had when we’d broken up in the fall. I decided to keep it a secret when we got back together, only telling Vicky and Meredith. I wanted to make absolutely sure we were really staying together before I let the cat out of the bag.

“Things are good. He’s putting in long hours, rehearsing for their upcoming tour. Anyway, since he’s been working so hard lately, I thought it would be nice to make him dinner one night.”

Dot’s comment about “the way to a man’s heart” had stuck in my mind, as well as Jack’s mother’s heavy-handed hints about his love of home cooking. I knew that Meredith knew her way around the kitchen, since she handled most of our cookbooks.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

“But I’ve never made anything more difficult than spaghetti. What would be an easy meal that I couldn’t screw up?”

“Oh, there are lots of options.” Meredith took off her half-rims and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What kinds of things does he like to eat?”

“I guess pretty much anything; eggs, pizza, filet mignon. I’d like to make him something kind of romantic, but it can’t be the least bit complicated.”

“I know exactly what you should do. Why not make Cornish hens? They’re just little roast chickens, and they look great when they’re nicely browned. You could do that with some wild rice and green beans. Then you could pick up a fantastic dessert at a pastry shop. That’s all you really need, along with a good bottle of wine.”

“How do you cook a Cornish hen?” I envisioned myself, hair pinned up and wearing a flowing dress, relaxing jazz on the stereo, putting a delicious plate of food before Jack in a glow of candlelight.

“It’s simple. You just stick it in the oven for an hour and a half, on three-twenty-five. Throw a little butter on top, then toss in some carrots for the last forty-five minutes. A ten-year-old could make it.”

“That sounds doable,” I said.

On the way downtown after work, I stopped at a grocery store. I picked up two Cornish hens, a box of wild rice, some butter, a bunch of carrots, and a can of green beans. I didn’t bother going to a pastry shop, but on impulse I grabbed a tub of vanilla ice cream, just in case Jack had any room for dessert. I also put a foil pan in my basket since I wasn’t sure if he had any poultry-roasting equipment. The little chickens were surprisingly pricey, but I figured he could get a second meal out of the leftovers. I didn’t bother buying wine, as alcohol was the one thing Jack was completely stocked up on.

I felt like a real chef, getting ready to make a fancy meal all on my own. Dot had rarely cooked after my father moved out, so I’d had no training in this area. That timeframe from age fourteen to when I’d left for college had been so awful that I’d made a conscious effort to forget most of it. What I did recall of our meals post-Dad involved warmed-up pizza or a can of soup. Often I’d dined alone on PB&J while waiting for Dot to get back from the bar. But now I figured, How difficult could it be to throw a meal together, when people all over the country did it almost every night?

When the elevator opened, I could hear Jack playing something mournful. The plaintive notes lingered like the scent of burning leaves in an autumn breeze. He had stuck the guitar pick between his lips, and was strumming the strings with his fingers. I loved that intent look of his, as if the only thing in the world that existed were the sounds he was making. The only other time he got that look was in bed.

Noticing me standing there, Jack put down his guitar and came over, his shirt unbuttoned, jeans riding low on his lean hips—sexy as hell. From the way his choppily layered hair stood up in back, I knew he’d been wrestling with a new tune. I was tempted to drop everything and run my hands down his muscled chest.

“You brought groceries?” he asked, peering into the bags before taking them from me. I followed him into the kitchen.

“I thought I’d make dinner instead of ordering takeout. Don’t peek, it’s a surprise.”

“This
is
a surprise,” Jack said, putting the bags on the counter. “I could go for something homemade.”

“I’m psyched about this thing I’m going to cook. How’s the new song coming along?”

Jack made a frustrated noise. “It’s like pink smoke. Every time I think I’m getting close, it drifts out of my grasp. But I’m done for now; want me to put on some dirty blues? How about a little Bo Carter?” He came near and put his hands on my hips. “I’m the banana in yo’ fruit basket, baby. You can squeeze my lemons, and I’ma eat yo’ cherry pie,” he sang in his black blues voice, making me laugh.

“Some Bo would be great. Okay, let me get going on this.” I shooed him out of the kitchen. “Meredith told me exactly what to do. I’m just going to get something in the oven.”

I turned the dial to 325, unwrapped the Cornish hens and dropped them into the foil pan. They make a loud
thunk
as they landed. After cutting some chunks of butter on the birds, I stuck the pan in the oven and placed the box of rice and can of beans on the counter. I put the ice cream into the freezer, which was totally bare except for a bottle of vodka. Then I took the rubber-banded bundle of carrots and started washing them in the sink.

“Now which one reminds you of me?” Jack asked, coming back into the room. He looked over my shoulder as I scrubbed.

I pretended to think about it and poked through the bunch. “This one,” I said, holding up the puniest carrot I could find.

“Hey, that’s the runt of the litter. Surely I’m better than that. What about this?” He pointed to a thick, nubby stub.

“Nah. Maybe this.” I held up a gnarled tuber.

“Ooh, that’s ugly.”

“Actually, here you are.” I pulled out the longest one. “Except you’re much bigger around.”

“Well thank you, I guess.” He gave a wry grin, creating those handsome creases around his mouth. “I try to please.”

“You
do
please.”

“I could tell. Baby, last night you were squeezin’ me johnson so—”

“I get the picture,” I said.

“We could do that again, as soon as we eat.” He examined the carrot. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have two,” he said, stuffing it into his jeans. “How does that look?”

I laughed at the twin bulges in his crotch. “Very strange. But kind of intriguing.”

He grabbed me and walked me backward. “Imagine what I could do with two of these,” he said, lifting me onto the countertop. “Just think of the possibilities.”

An hour and forty minutes later, I remembered the hens. “I’ve got to check on dinner,” I said, sitting up in bed.

Jack smiled at me lazily. “Hurry back.”

“No, I need to get going on things. It should be ready in about half an hour.” Meredith had told me to let the poultry sit while I prepared the side dishes.

“All right, after dinner then.” Jack got up to put on his jeans,
sans
underwear as usual. “Let me know if you need any help.”

I pulled his “Better Living Through Chemistry” tee-shirt over my head and went into the kitchen. I would have thought there would be a nice roasting smell by now. I opened the oven and checked the hens, but they didn’t look the slightest bit brown. I felt inside the oven;
Yep, the heat’s on
. Using two kitchen towels, I lifted the foil pan and put it on the stovetop. The chickens felt cold to the touch.
What am I doing wrong?
I opened the oven door and put my hand in again. Definitely there was heat.
Maybe Meredith forgot how long they take to cook.

I put the pan back in the oven, turned the temperature up to 400, and put water on to boil for the rice. The chickens would probably be another twenty minutes, which was exactly how long the rice needed to simmer, apparently. So that would actually work out fine. I figured the green beans would only need about ten minutes to heat up. Really, this whole cooking thing seemed to be about timing.

I boiled the rice on high as the box instructed, and turned the burner down low. Only then did I notice that I was supposed to use
two
cups of water for every cup of rice. My mother never measured anything, so I didn’t realize you were supposed to.
Oh well, it looks about right. I’ll just boil off any extra water at the end.

Jack came into the kitchen for another beer. “I was going to ask you to open some wine,” I said. “To go with dinner.”

“Sure. What are you making?” He pulled a bottle of white out of the fridge.

“Take a look.” I opened the oven a crack.

“Is that squab?” he asked, peering in, his thick hair falling into his eyes. “I
love
squab. I haven’t had that in ages.”

“I guess it’s squab. Meredith called it something else.”
If he wants to call a Cornish hen a squab, that’s fine with me. I wonder if a squab is a pheasant.

“When will it be done? I worked up an appetite back there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the bedroom.

“In about ten minutes.” I checked on the rice; there was still a lot of water in the pot, so no rush on that. I decided to go ahead and heat up the green beans. “Can you find me your can opener?”

Jack started yanking drawers open. “I must have one in here somewhere,” he said. After an exhaustive search, he concluded that he did not. “I’ll get those beans out. Hand me the towels.”

I gave him two dishtowels and he stacked them on the counter, then put the can on top. He went to get a big knife and jabbed it into the lid. Bean juice squirted all over the place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I warned. “It’s not worth it. We don’t have to have a vegetable.”

“You went to all this trouble; I’m gonna get it open.” Jack pulled out the knife and punched it in again. Finally he got half the lid cut through. He pried it up and poured the contents into a small pot.

“There’s your beans,” he said, presenting it to me with a flourish. I clicked a back burner and put them on the flame, then opened the oven door again and slid the pan toward me. The hens, or squabs, were getting brown on the outside, but beneath the dark patches they were still pink.

“Good, they’re finally cooking.” I turned it down to 350. “That should be ready in a few minutes.”

But over the next quarter-hour, as I moved the pan back and forth on the rack to check, they just didn’t seem to be getting done, as far as I could tell. I could still see patches of pink below the skin, which was now very dark; almost black.

“Is the oven working?” I asked. “It feels like it’s on, but I think it might be a hundred degrees off. This is taking forever.” The water for my rice had long boiled away, and I was keeping it warm in its pot. I had turned off the beans too, as they had started to percolate in their juices.

“It worked fine the last time Sammy used it for those slice cookies,” Jack said. “He put it on whatever temperature they cook at, and they were done in ten minutes flat.”

“Maybe something’s happened to the wiring since then. Something’s definitely wrong.” I slid the pan across the rack yet again, astounded to see that the meat still did not look white beneath the blackened crust.

Jack tossed his beer bottle and poured us both a glass of wine. “If they’re not done soon, let’s order something. I’m starving.”

It was a logical idea, but it sort of pissed me off. “It’ll be ready soon. You really should get the oven looked at.”

Jack shrugged and took a gulp of wine. I downed mine and opened the oven door again. This time when I dragged the pan across the rack, something dripped and smoke began belching out. Quickly I slammed the door as the alarm began to shriek.

“Can you shut that off?” I shouted over the din.

Jack pulled a chair over to the wall and banged at the alarm with a spatula. It fell and hung dangling from a wire, mercifully silenced. “I’ll get the super up here to fix that, and also check the oven,” he muttered.

“Maybe I should call Vicky. She cooks once in a while.” I went to dial her number, glad to escape from the kitchen for a minute. To my relief, she picked up the phone.

“Hi, it’s me. Listen, I’m at Jack’s. I’m trying to roast some Cornish hens…No, it was Meredith’s idea,” I replied. “But they don’t seem to be cooking. The rice and green beans have been ready for ages.”

“Maybe you didn’t defrost them enough. How long did you leave them out?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I brought them right home and put them in the oven.”

“Julia, were they frozen?”

I thought for a moment. “They did seem kind of hard.”

Vicky made a strangling sound.

“Don’t you dare laugh! I’ve spent three hours trying to make this damned meal. And now smoke’s pouring out of the oven because I rubbed a hole in the foil pan, I checked it so many times.” Over in the kitchen, Jack was waving a towel around.