Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

LUCAS’S MOUNTAIN GETAWAY
was a prefab A-frame with a deck surrounding it. The first time he’d seen it, he’d had the impression of an elementary school homework project, a Popsicle-stick model, carefully glued in the center of a shoebox lid and dragged to school for a homework assignment. Back in the 1960s the house had been brought to the site in chunks and assembled like a 3-D jigsaw puzzle. The A-frame had all the dubious charm of the era
and
the process, and when the friend who owned it returned to the United States at the end of the year, he planned to tear it down, cart it away and build something better.

Because the site was extraordinary.

The sun had already set, but the sky behind the A-frame was still tinged with orange and pink. From the back of the deck, where he stood now, Lucas could still see distant mountains. From the side to his right he could view forested slopes not nearly as far away. From the third side, if he wanted to, he could get a close-up of rocks and centuries-old rhododendron on the slope the house was nestled against. The fourth and front was the area where Lucas hoped Georgia’s car would soon be parked. Beyond the graveled half circle was the tree-canopied road that led to the Nedley farm, where this evening Dawson was undoubtedly struggling through whatever chores his father had piled on, confident that hard labor would make the boy love the land he’d been born to.

Lucas didn’t think that was going to work out quite the way Dawson’s father hoped.

Reluctantly he went inside to start the salad he intended to serve with his personal version of pasta
e fagioli,
which included sautéed shrimp as a bonus. His grandmother’s version, served to him frequently as a child, was thin and soupy. His mother’s pasta “fazul” was thick and rich. His was generally somewhere in between, which meant that Lucas won no points at all when he served it, since neither woman could claim he had learned it from her.

Of course the dish was always gone by the end of the meal anyway, no matter which temperamental cook was making it.

He had just spun the lettuce and rubbed his wooden salad bowl with garlic when he heard a car navigating the driveway. He rinsed and wiped his hands and walked through the great room to welcome his guest. He watched as Georgia parked and got out. She was wearing a dark skirt, boots and a lightweight green sweater, and she carried a wine bottle in the crook of her arm.

He smiled, because no matter how many times he told guests not to bring anything, they always arrived with wine. Since he had a bottle of good Chianti breathing in the kitchen, he hoped she wouldn’t be offended if he set this one in his wine rack for another day.

Darkness would fall very soon, so he enjoyed this twilight glimpse of her while he could. He liked the cinnamon color of her hair and the way it swung toward her face and grazed her cheeks when she walked. The walk itself was nice, lithe and easy, as if she was perfectly comfortable being who she was. He liked her smile and the fact that she rationed it so it was always something of a surprise.

He had never been able to figure out what attracted a man to one woman when a prettier or smarter or wealthier version might be standing right next to her. He had no idea why he had been so instantly attracted to Georgia, who easily, in his opinion, covered the first two, pretty and smart. The third, wealthy, had never been on his personal radar. Lucas was a man who believed money was important as far as it went, and after it went that far, he forgot about it. He liked a roof over his head. He liked going into a gourmet grocery and leaving with Parmigiano-Reggiano that had been branded with the Consorzio’s logo. He liked being able to afford Chianti
classico riserva,
if the occasion called for it.

Which this one did.

Otherwise money was unimportant to him, which was ironic, since he now had far more of it than he’d ever expected.

Georgia climbed the steps to the front deck, and to his surprise, rose on the balls of her feet and kissed his cheek before handing him the wine. He hadn’t taken her for someone who displayed affection easily. Everyone kissed everybody in his family for any reason, and the familiar greeting warmed his heart, while the unique honey-vanilla fragrance that clung to her warmed his blood.

“I just need to warn you right away,” she said. “No one has ever accused me of being a good cook. When I tell you I’m making dinner for you next time, I mean I’m making reservations.”

He laughed. “A woman who doesn’t compete with me in the kitchen. My favorite kind.”

“Really? Most men think it’s akin to missing an appendage.”

“They’re just afraid they’ll starve, since nobody ever taught them to cook for themselves.”

“And somebody taught you?”

“My greatest competitors. My grandmother, Rosalia, and my mother, Mia. That’s the Italian side of the family. My father’s side is Scots-Irish and
his
father used to swear that someday he’d make us a brilliant haggis, although no one’s put that to the test, which was the point of offering.”

“The two sides get along?”

“No one gets along. They’re all crazy about each other, but they’re noisy and argumentative, and when I was growing up my father and mother regularly communicated through me and my siblings. We took turns carrying messages and making bets on exactly when they would forget they weren’t speaking to each other.”

He held the door, and she preceded him into the house. She stopped just inside the doorway and looked around. “This looks like a very easy place to live.”

The room was a barn, and he knew it. “If you mean everything’s in plain sight, you’re right.”

She smiled up at him. “A great house for a man alone who doesn’t need privacy.”

“There’s a bedroom behind that door,” he pointed, “and a bathroom behind that. Otherwise, what you see is what you get.”

“So maybe the house is small, but that just means those luscious smells in the kitchen permeate every room.”

“I hope you like Italian. I drew on real life for Zenzo. He’s half-Italian, like me, and he learned to cook from the women in his mother’s family.”

“I made his acquaintance on Wikipedia. You’ve done nine books in the series, and some people are afraid you’ll wrap it up in the next few years.”

“Only if I get tired of it, or my readers do. So far there’s no indication of either.”

“I bought the first two,” she said, and the words sounded like a confession.

“So what did you think?”

“I opened up the first one and stared at the title page for a while, then I put them both on my bookshelf. I decided I didn’t want to filter you through your books. When I know you better, I’ll look forward to reading them.”

He liked that more than he could say.

The kitchen—the heart of the house, in Lucas’s opinion—was separated from the rest of the great room by counters. Once past them, he set the wine on the closest one, and only then saw what it was.

He laughed. “Perfect. That’s what we’re having tonight.”

“You don’t have to serve it now. You can wait if it’s not appropriate.”

“No, I mean I have a bottle of the very same Chianti, one year newer, breathing on the counter.”

“I could pretend to take credit, but the truth is I can only take credit for knowing where to shop and who to ask.”

“Who needs to know more than that?” He took a platter off the counter and gestured to the table behind them. “Shall we?”

“That looks wonderful.”

“The fig jam is my grandmother’s. She knows I can’t live without it.”

He waited until she settled into one of the two comfortable chairs flanking the round table where he ate most of his meals, then he set the platter in the center and returned for the wine. To go with the antipasto, he had chosen a light Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, and now he opened it at the table, since it didn’t really need to breathe. In addition to a small jar of jam, the lettuce-lined platter held what he thought of as simple fare: fresh cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, oil-cured olives, skewers of
bocconcini
threaded with basil, and tiny superb tomatoes. Crusty bread and a wonderful Taleggio rounded out the rest, along with Genoa salami he’d bought at Toscano and Sons on Atlanta’s Westside before heading home.

“This is dinner, right?” Georgia asked as he poured.

“No. Eat slowly and savor. I guarantee we’ll still be hungry, but don’t worry, we’re having a light meal tonight. Zenzo’s specialty. Carefully chosen quality ingredients, good but not expensive wines, simple recipes cooked with passion and anticipation.”

“So will you be fixing a dish from one of your books?”

“Already fixed, and a particular specialty of his, but of course when I write about any dish, I don’t spell out all the ingredients and techniques. Just enough detail to put the reader at the table.”

“Then you don’t give recipes.”

“Zenzo’s a cop, not a chef, so it never occurred to me. No one was more surprised than I was when it turned out that the food’s a big draw for readers. In this fast-food age, Zenzo’s attention to quality and detail paired with simple preparation found a fan base.”

“Apparently so. When I bought your books, the bookseller couldn’t say enough good things about them.”

He hoped she hadn’t mentioned his presence in town. “I’m keeping a low profile here, or trying to.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t mention that Zenzo himself was cooking dinner for me.”

He smiled, and she smiled back. He handed her a plate and a napkin, then sat to join her. They clinked glasses almost as if on cue.

“To a friend giving her honest opinion about tonight’s dinner,” he said.

“Here’s my problem. If I critique it honestly and there’s the faintest tinge of criticism, I might not be asked to test another recipe.”

“No, I’ll be supremely grateful. You’ll just keep me from suffering ridicule at the hands of the Capelli women.”

“That’s the Italian side of the table?”

“The Ramseys eat whatever’s put in front of them and usually pour too much salt and pepper on it before they’ve had a bite. And no matter what my mother serves, my father drinks a glass of milk and scoops up his leftovers with a slice of white bread slathered with margarine.”

“How many children did your parents have?”

“I’m one of five, so we know they reached accord at least that many times. Four of us cook like Capellis and one cooks like a Ramsey. Luckily, that one is married to a woman of Lebanese heritage who’s confirmed for all of us that fresh hummus is the world’s most perfect food.”

Georgia put her glass down and began to make selections for her plate. “This looks so good.”

“You skipped lunch,” he guessed.

She paused. “You know, I did. I went up to Madison County to visit a friend, but she wasn’t home so I waited. I’d expected to stop on the way home and get something, but it was midafternoon by the time I left, then you called with this lovely invitation. I wasn’t going to spoil my appetite.”

“I’m glad you came.”

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and met his eyes. “We were going to talk about Dawson.”

“So we were.” He began to fill his own plate. “A literary magazine?”

“He has many talents. Writing is one of them. And if we can knock the chip off his shoulder long enough that the other students can stand to be in the same room, I think he’ll be a good organizer.”

“I really like the idea. He told me about a story he was working on, and the idea’s original and creative. But I haven’t seen anything yet. I think he’s so used to being criticized by his father he’s reluctant to chance it.”

“I called his mother this week, and she okayed me discussing Dawson with you, but I haven’t asked him. I think I need his permission, too.”

“I have an idea that cuts through that. Do you have a faculty advisor for the magazine?”

She shook her head. “We’re stretched to the breaking point. I’m trying to decide who’s a little less stretched. One of the teachers actually suggested this, but she’s working with Dawson on an independent study, so I think he needs some variety.”

“How would a community volunteer be instead?”

Georgia was nibbling on the cantaloupe. “Do you know how good this is?”

“Ripe cantaloupe, good prosciutto. I didn’t even drizzle it with vinaigrette, although I sometimes do.”

“It’s perfect. So a community volunteer, meaning you?”

He didn’t have to ask himself why he had volunteered. He was alone here, and while that was a blessing when he was working, he was used to being surrounded by friends and family. He might be here so he could get more done on the book without the Capelli women standing over him, but he was also lonely.

“Meaning me,” he agreed.

“You’d really be willing? Have you worked with teenagers?”

“I have nieces and nephews. Lots of them.”

“You’ve gotten to know Dawson. You know some of his issues.” She popped an olive into her mouth and made a sound of pure delight. “All our kids have issues. Some of them are at BCAS because they quit trying in their other schools, for whatever reason. So they’re behind, and maybe not motivated or confident enough to put themselves out there. They’ve been slapped down, and frankly some of them have done more than their share of slapping, too. We believe in them—or I should say most of our teachers do—but they aren’t easy kids. As often as not you’ll leave feeling frustrated so little seemed to be accomplished.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“I’ve worked with overprivileged, highly motivated students, too. You have to take success wherever you can find it.”

“I won’t go into this with the idea of turning out Pulitzer prize–winning material.”

“They would be lucky to have you.”

“And, just so you know, only a part of my volunteering is wanting to get to know you better.”

“What percentage?” She didn’t sound coy at all, more like someone who wanted to see if her hunch was correct.”

“Well, more than fifty, less than ninety.”

She added a few things to her plate. “I’m glad I’m in the majority.”

“And only a part of your agreeing was wanting to get to know me better?”