Recipe for Disaster (29 page)

“Damn it.” Liam turns around to see what I’ve done, and since we’re working on the same three-foot-wide piece, when he does, he ends up standing right behind me, so close that I can feel the heat of his body along the full length of my back, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. “Oops. A little miscalculation there, lass.” He reaches his arm around me, resting his forearm on my shoulder, drill in hand, and deftly removes the screw. “Try this one.” He hands me the proper screw, from a small leather pouch on his belt.

I take the new one from him and it goes in smoothly. I’ll have to use a little wood filler on the other side, but not a big deal; it won’t be noticeable in the end. I’m not sure what is wrong with me today. We get that wall finished without further incident, but then, when we start the next one, I bring in a piece upside down, requiring we uninstall and reinstall it. Then, while doing the drawer slides for the shoe drawers, I put the first three I install in backward before Liam catches me.

“You’re not quite yourself today, eh? I think I know what’s distracting you.”

“You do?!” This raises alarms. If he knew that I was all thumbs today because he is being funny and charming and unintentionally sexy, I will simply die of mortification.

“You’ve got a lovely evening planned with your hubby, and can’t wait to stop work.”

I’m totally puzzled. “And what makes you think that?”

“I saw the fridge when I grabbed a bottle of water on my way up. Looks like the makings of quite the dinner.”

I’d read about a very delicious dinner Gemma made for Mr. and Mrs. Rabin for their 45th anniversary, the last menu fully outlined in her journal before it just stops. Steak Diane, all the rage at the time in the posh hotels, steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce, classic potatoes Dauphinois, a chocolate soufflé. It sounded like fun, and nothing beyond my capabilities, although the soufflé worries me a bit. Today would have been the Rabins’ 115th wedding anniversary. Seemed fitting to give the menu a try. Not that I’m going to tell Liam that.

“Yep, going all out.”

“Lucky man, Jag. Tell you what, you love-struck thing, let me finish in here. I’ve got your meticulous plan, and frankly, you’re getting in your own way a bit. You go start your dinner prep, take an afternoon off for a change.”

I begin to protest, and then realize that he’s given me the perfect way to get out of this room where his horrible testosterone is getting all over me.

“Thanks, Liam. I appreciate it.” I leave him to the work, and head downstairs. I snap on Schatzi’s leash, and we head down the front stairs.

“Taking the dog out for a bit,” I yell down the hall to Jag.

“Want me to do it?” Emily yells out.

“Nope, I got it, could use the air, thanks.”

“Have a nice walk!” Jag yells back, muffled behind the mask he’s wearing to protect himself from the fumes.

The fresh spring air is a little brisk today, but it feels good to get out and clear my head. Schatzi and I take a quick walk around the park, and then head back. I pull the recipes I’ve copied from Gemma’s journal.

A special private anniversary dinner. The party is Saturday, with all the children and grandchildren and friends coming to celebrate, but for tonight, it is just the two of them, and I wanted to do something very special. I spent a day with my friend Marcel who works at the Drake, learning how to make Steak Diane, the popular restaurant dish that Mrs. Rabin fell in love with on their last trip to New York. Instead of the dining room, I’ve set a table in the small sitting room upstairs, in the turret where they can see the park while they eat, abloom with spring, lush and green.

Once Schatzi is back in the kitchen, safely behind the dog gate, I go to the bedroom. I’m still weirdly hopped-up and on edge from my day with Liam. I’m hoping a shower will help clear my head a bit. I slip out of my work clothes and into my robe, grab my towel, and go to the bathroom. When the water is hot, I get into the shower, not a much better trickle than the one upstairs, and certainly not the luxury of the downstairs bath, but still, the water feels good. I soap myself, feeling the sweat and grit wash away, and luxuriating a bit in the slick motion of my hands over my skin. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve got one hand braced against the wall, my forehead pressed against the cool tile, my other hand feverishly working, until I find a quick explosive release. A small “oh” escapes my lips, and then an embarrassed giggle. I can’t even believe I’ve just indulged myself, especially with three other people in the house. I feel sort of wicked, and a little sheepish, but altogether better.

Sated, and feeling at once clean and dirty, I dry off, twist my hair into a bun, and put my robe back on. I go to my room and get dressed, pulling on jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. I head to the kitchen and begin to prep dinner. I invested in a fifteen-dollar handheld mandoline, knowing that my knife skills would never be good enough to get the potatoes thin and uniform. I shockingly manage to slice them all without opening an artery, and briefly cook them in a mix of cream and half-and-half, with a pinch of nutmeg, a sprig of thyme. I’ve got a buttered dish at the ready, which I’ve dutifully rubbed with the cut side of a half clove of garlic, but I’m suspicious of this maneuver; I can’t imagine it will really impart much flavor. When the potato slices are pliable but still not cooked, I transfer them to the dish, discarding the sprig of thyme, and add enough of the cooking liquid to barely cover them. I pop it in the preheated oven, wondering how that soupy mess of potato and cream will come together into a sliceable dish.

I follow Gemma’s recipe for hollandaise sauce to the letter, and it comes together beautifully. I put it in the warming drawer, which will hold it at the perfect temperature until I need it. Grant loved warming drawers, and there are two in this kitchen, one beneath each wall oven. Like the stove, the ovens and drawers are all BlueStar, top of the line and gorgeous. In addition to simply being the best equipment for serious cooks, their products come in pretty much the whole Pantone rainbow, so while we kept the range a charcoal gray to blend with the cabinets, we did the wall ovens in a deep poppy orange. Since they are on opposite walls, it creates little splashes of color that really save the kitchen from being too monochromatic. Grant hated side-by-side or up-and-down wall ovens. They are either too high or too low, or you are elbowing your partner in the eye while you are basting the Thanksgiving turkey and they’re baking the rolls. We installed ours on opposite sides of the kitchen at counter height, with the warming drawers below. One gas oven, for roasting, next to the range, the other electric, for baking.

My preparations go smoothly, and soon I’ve got the meat seared, ready to be reheated in the sauce last minute, the asparagus in the steamer, the soufflé in its dish, buttered and lined in ground almonds. I’m just putting the soufflé in the fridge to hang out till I bake it off while we eat dinner, when Jag comes into the kitchen. I toss him a bottle of water, which he drains in one go.

“Smells good in here, what are you cooking?” he says, wiping his brow.

“That is the potatoes Dauphinois in the oven. You do not want to know how much cream is in them.”

“Yum. Are the girls coming over?”

“Nope, just for you.”

His face falls. “Oh, Anneke, did we?”

I’m an idiot. I never checked with him to see if he had plans tonight. “No, we didn’t. You going out?”

“I was supposed to, but I can try to . . .”

“Don’t even think of it! I’ll have a feast here with Emily, and you can have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”

“You’ve gone to such trouble . . .”

“Really, I was just in the mood to cook, don’t worry about it. Go!”

“You’re sure?”

“If you don’t, I’ll be horribly angry with you.”

He comes around and kisses my cheek. “Best wife a guy could want.” And he heads off to his room to get ready for his night out.

“Bye, Anneke, I’ll see you later.” Emily pokes her head into the kitchen. “Mmmm. Smells good!”

“Where are you off to?”

“Meeting Georgia for a movie night. Have fun!”

I look around the mess I’ve made of the kitchen. I’m more disappointed that I won’t have a witness to what I think will be the single best meal I’ve ever made, the one I’m going to be proudest of, than I am about Jag and Emily both going out.

“Looks like just you and me, pup. Hope you like steak Diane.”

“I actually love steak Diane,” Liam says behind me, making me jump half out of my skin.

“LIAM! Seriously, you have to announce your presence when you enter a room or I’m going to have a fucking heart attack.”

“Sorry. I’ll get that bell coordinated. I’m done upstairs if you want to come inspect.”

I follow him past the bathroom where we both laugh at the sound of Jag singing a Beatles tune in the shower. He actually has a pretty good voice, and the joy in the way he is warbling makes me believe that he does in fact want to hold my hand. Liam and I head upstairs.

“Ta-da,” he says, pushing the door open, to reveal the closet of any girl’s dreams. He has installed not only the closet components, but the glass doors as well; the island is in place, and the chandelier sparkles overhead.

“Oh, Liam, thank you. It’s perfect!” I say, and without thinking, I throw my arms around him in a jubilant hug.

“You’re welcome. Smells quite tasty down there; how is the big dinner coming?”

“Little dinner, just me and the pup, I totally forgot that Jag had a previous engagement.”

Liam’s face goes dark. “Something he couldn’t switch? In light of the anniversary, all your effort . . .”

“It isn’t our anniversary, if you want to know the truth, it’s the anniversary of the original owners of the house, actually, my own weird thing. And he did offer to change his plans, I insisted he keep them. The cooking is as much for me as anyone else, I’m teaching myself. So not a big deal.”

“Well, if you don’t mind putting up with me a while longer, I’m ravenous, and my evening is wide open.”

Ha, like I’m going to let Liam stay here and have some delicious sexy dinner with me.

“Sure, there’s plenty if you really want to stay.” I could kill my mouth right now. I blame Grand-mère’s stupid etiquette training; I might want Liam to go home and leave me to my dinner, but there isn’t a single polite reason to decline his offer.

“Lovely. I will trouble you for a towel, if you have one, tidy myself up a bit.”

“Of course.”

I fetch him a towel, and he heads downstairs to the first-floor bath, while I go to finish the dinner. Jag spins through on his way out to say good night, and is gone in a flash, beard oiled and shiny, smelling of cologne. I’m just flaming the cognac for the steak sauce when an unexpected voice behind me says, “
Opa!
”

Which is how I singed off my left eyebrow.

M
ore?” I ask Liam, pushing the soufflé dish toward him.

“Don’t mind if I do, Cyclops.” He winks at me.

“You ASS. If you hadn’t scared the SHIT out of me and distracted me, I wouldn’t have leaned over the stupid pan.”

“I’m kidding. It’s not terrible.”

He’s lying. It’s terrible. I went to the bathroom after to find that my left eyebrow was weirdly curly, and when I ran my finger over it, the whole thing crumbled and smeared black ash across my forehead. Now my eyebrow is just a bit of stubble over my eye, and I look strangely surprised. And the kitchen smells like chocolate and burnt hair.

“So much for my eyebrow modeling career.” I can’t help but laugh.

“It’ll grow back, sweet. My sister once plucked hers completely out altogether, and they came back.”

“Older or younger sister?”

“That one? Younger. Youngest, actually.”

“Of how many?”

“Sisters? Six.”

“And brothers?”

His face gets serious. “Was one.”

“Was? I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. He and Mum were coming home from his basketball game, hit by a drunk driver.”

“Oh, Liam, that’s horrible. I’m just so, so sorry.”

He shrugs. “It is what it is. I still have the girls, plenty of mothering I can tell you, most of it unpleasant, almost all of it unnecessary, and yet not unwelcome.”

“And your dad?”

“Pissed off to the pub when I was four and never came back. It’s why we moved here; my mum’s brother, Murph’s dad, had made it big enough to bring us all over, sponsor us for citizenship. We lived with him and his family for three years before we could get our own place, that’s why Murph is so good to me. He’s more like an older brother than a cousin; we shared a room.”

I’m totally gobsmacked. And more than a little sheepish. “Wow.” And also, apparently a brilliant conversationalist.

He smiles. “Wow indeed. So that is me sad little tale of woe, what’s your’n?” he says, exaggerating his accent.

“Not as bad, but in some ways worse, I suppose.” I give him the brief: mom, Grand-mère, Joe. “I wish I’d had siblings, someone to know me, go through it with me, or help me get through it. I have a mom, but I feel like an orphan; when Joe died it was the last person I felt was mine. Then it was just my once-a-month obligatory awkward dinners with my grandmother for a dose of disappointment until she died two years ago. You’re lucky to have family.” I don’t talk about that with people. Not the girls, not Jag, not Grant, not even Joe when he was alive. It is my secret sorrow.