Pinpoint (Point #4) (34 page)
Read Pinpoint (Point #4) Online
Authors: Olivia Luck
Oscar
“Hi, honey!” Without fail, every time Iris hears the door shut behind me as I enter our home, she calls out the same cheerful greeting. The endearment is a constant reminder of the domesticity I never imagined I would have. Yet here I am, overwhelmed with gratitude for the way my life has changed since meeting Iris.
I jog into the kitchen and find my wife of a year standing over the stove, mixing vegetables. She looks over her shoulder to flash me the megawatt smile I’ll never tire of.
“Hey, baby.” Dropping my phone on the countertop, I bend down to scratch Minx, our German Shepard mix, behind her ears. Then I make my way to Iris; I close my arms low around her waist and press a kiss to the spot behind her ear that always makes her giggle. “Lower the heat,” I whisper into her ear.
She lets out a mock sigh. “Will you ever let me cook without critiquing?”
“Will you ever let me bake without critiquing?” Nuzzling against Iris, I inhale her unique scent. Then I gently bite her earlobe.
“Stop distracting me. Your parents are going to be here any minute.”
I press another kiss to her neck, unwilling to let her go. “What can I do to help?”
“Dress the salad.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As I set off on my task, my wife (God, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of calling her that) flits around the kitchen like a pixie. She moves with a casual grace, as if each movement is choreographed. But Iris doesn’t have an ounce of insincerity in her. This is how she moves naturally.
“What’s going on at Caroline?”
“We’re booked tonight.” There’s no denying the satisfaction this brings me. “And for the rest of the month.”
Iris pauses next to me, rises to her tiptoes, and smacks my lips with a kiss. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this lately, but I’m proud of you.”
All the accolades, Michelin stars, and positive reviews from critics mean nothing to the praise I see shining from Iris like a brilliant light. It sounds ridiculous, but Iris is my sunshine. She is the light of my life. To think I was living in the dark . . . Nah. I’m not wasting my time thinking of negative memories.
“Are you sure you want to come in Sunday morning? If it’s too much–” When the restaurant holds brunch events, Iris often comes to the kitchen to do the pastries. For other private events, she’ll bake upon special request. It’s not a full-time job, but it keeps her connected to the restaurant and me.
“I love that you’re concerned about me, but I’m doing fine, honey.” She interrupts me deftly, squeezing my waist with both hands as she floats by on another mission to extract wine glasses from the china cabinet.
“Violet stop by today?” I ask.
“Yes. She brought Rocky for a play date with Minx. I’m glad she’s slowing down with Expertly Planned while she’s pregnant with the twins.” Iris shakes her head but smiles. “Technically, Cameron forced her to limit the number of events, but at least she listened to him. Ever since the Sterling wedding, she’s been at the top of the call list for elite events in Chicago. Thanks to you, I might add.”
Chuckling, I set the wine bottle on the countertop with a clink. “A day’s worth of work and I’m getting credit for it?”
Iris pauses in her works and moves to me. She rises to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my cheeks. “I’ll never forget you offering to take my place, Oscar Alexander. I’ll never stop telling you that you’re a good man—the
best
man.”
Still unused to the lavish praise my wife showers upon me, I yank her closer and cover her lips with mine. “And you are my good woman, Iris Alexander.” She giggles, places a hand on my chest, and gently pushes me away.
The doorbell rings, ending our discussion and sending Iris gliding to the front door. Minx follows dutifully, more protective of her mistress than ever. When we moved into a lakeside home less than a mile from Caroline, we gave my parents the keys, but my mom still doesn’t like using them. Says she wants to respect our boundaries. What she doesn’t quite grasp yet is that my wife loves my parents as though they were her own. The sounds of jovial greetings drift into the kitchen. I finish with the salad and make my way to my family.
“There’s my boy,” my mom says as though I’m still a child. She opens her arms, and I go into the embrace. I weave my arm around my wife’s trim waist once the greetings are finished and lead them all into the kitchen where Iris has laid a platter of appetizers.
“Honey, do you want to serve the salad first or at the same time as the main course?”
“Whatever you want,” I say obligingly. The rules of the elite restaurant don’t exist in this house. Iris rules the house with a relaxed hand. At first, I had to bite my tongue, but now, I recognize all the merits of the laid-back atmosphere.
“Okay.” She fills wine glasses for my parents and me, continuing to move fluidly.
“How are your students?” Mom asks Iris.
“Wonderful,” Iris gushes. Backed by Mentoring Chicago, my wife launched a daily afterschool program for students interested in baking and cooking. They only cook once or twice a week; the other days they gather to talk, work on homework, watch movies, or learn bigger concepts. The program is Iris’ pride and joy.
Mom and Dad continue to pepper Iris with questions while she directs me to finish setting the table. I can’t help but smile to myself as I set to the task. Iris is the only person I allow to order me around, and frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. This life works for us.
Once we are seated at the table, Iris passes around a breadbasket, and I serve the salad. Minx settles at Iris’ feet. We launch into a conversation about Caroline.
“How is Clint adjusting without you?” Dad asks.
“Moving on to other projects with other chefs. I’m not sure he likes working with Peter.” Thinking of the chef I hired to take my place in my absence of overseeing what I’m now calling the city restaurants, I smile wryly. Peter is just as tough as Clint is, if not more so. Watching them butt heads is entertaining, but it hasn’t negatively impacted the quality of the restaurants. And, of course, I retain the final word with my eateries.
A ding sounds from the kitchen.
“That’s the meat,” Iris explains. “Oscar, would you mind slicing it?”
“So long as you didn’t use the slow cooker,” I say drily. That offending piece of machinery has no spot in my home.
Iris playfully pushes my shoulder. “I learned my lesson. But you know, once we have a baby, the slow cooker might be our friend.”
Silverware clatters to the table. My mom stares at us with open-mouth shock. Dad’s eyes go wide.
“I’m going to be a grandmother?” Liquid swims in Mom’s eyes.
Iris slaps a hand over her mouth. “Shoot. I didn’t want to tell you like that. I had a whole plan and . . .” She laughs, shaking her head. That’s my wife, completely natural. “You’re going to be grandparents in May.” What they don’t know is we’ve started investigating adoption too. After our first is born, our next child will be one who needs a loving home—a home that Iris and I want to give badly.
There’s a rush of movement. Mom and Iris jump up and down in a hug. Dad pats me on the back, even his eyes wet with tears. My chest swells with all the emotions I once fought off. Love. Peace. Euphoria.
Sometimes, I have to remind myself that this is my life. Because it’s more than I dreamed a life could be. But it’s mine, and I’m never letting it go.
Olivia Luck calls Chicago home. She loves traveling with her husband, baking for her parents, and taking walks with her dog. Olivia started writing when she was eight and paused to dabble in various other pursuits like dance and piano. In the end, she always came back to her pen and notebook.
Get in touch with Olivia, she adores emails:
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