The Dating Intervention: Book 1 in the Intervention Series (14 page)

Delaney walked out of Summer’s house, picking her way through the plastic swords and discarded pajamas strewn on the floor. Just as she got to the front door, nudging a remote control monster truck out of the way with her foot, Summer called, “Oh, and Dee? We know this online dating stuff is hard. We know you need an alternative.”
 

“Thank goodness,” Delaney muttered.
 

“So we signed you up for a speed dating event this week. I almost forgot to tell you. Let me check the details again and I’ll email them to you.”
 

Without answering, Delaney tried to sneak out the front door as if she hadn’t heard her.

“I know you heard me,” Summer yelled before she made it outside. “And have fun at cooking class! Don’t be late!”
 

***

Country Kitchen, Juniper’s lone specialty cooking boutique, sat across the street and down the block from Rowdy’s. Delaney often window shopped there as she walked to work, impressed (but mostly overwhelmed) by the tools and gadgets displayed in the picture window.
 

The storeowners, a retired couple from Phoenix, ran a bed and breakfast for years and brought their expertise to Juniper. High-end utensils, cookware and accessories lined the shelves. Classes took place in the actual kitchen, which sat at the back of the store.
 

Delaney grimaced when she realized people walking by could see the kitchen from the sidewalk. She wasn’t ready to go in, just yet.

“As long as I don’t cut off a finger or something,” she muttered to herself.
 

“I know what you mean. You’re here for How to Boil Water, right?”
 

Delighted, Delaney turned to face the woman who stood next to her. Short, wild, curly hair the color of honey framed an oval face and horn-rimmed glasses framed bright blue eyes.
 

“Beth,” the woman said, smiling and extending a hand.
 

“Delaney.”
 

“My mom’s making me take this class,” Beth said. “She thinks it’ll help me get a decent guy.”
 

“My best friends. Ditto.”
 

They grinned at each other.
 

“Shall we?”
 

A bell over the door jangled when they walked in, making Delaney feel conspicuous. The hardwood floor, which was probably original to the 1930s-era building, creaked as they walked back to the kitchen. Free-standing islands (half countertop and half stovetop) were placed in two rows, three deep.
 

A couple already stood behind the middle island on the right, so Delaney and Beth took the other middle island. Long counters lined the two side walls. A huge refrigerator and more counters, topped with baskets of onions and potatoes, occupied the back wall. Open cabinets beneath the counters held mixing bowls, baking dishes and serving dishes. Whisks, spoons, spatulas and other implements Delaney didn’t even recognize hung from pegs on the walls.

An older woman wearing a white apron and daisy-pattern head wrap approached them. Her skin was the color of chocolate and her dark eyes held a mix of warmth and humor.
 

“I’m Wendy, your instructor,” she said. After introductions, she said, “Write your names on your aprons. You get to take them home with you at the end of the class. We’ll get started in a few moments.”
 

Wendy walked over to greet another pair of women who had come in. Delaney and Beth wrote their names on their aprons.
 

“Now what?” Beth asked. “Should we get some wine, or something?”
 

She motioned to a wine rack above the refrigerator.
 

“We should. Definitely. But I think it might be for cooking.”
 

“So, your best friends are worried about the state of your dating life, huh?” Beth asked as she tied her apron on.
 

“Yeah. Well, it’s more like they just don’t like the guys I choose. They say I always look for fixer-uppers and it’s symbolic of how I run my entire life. They want me to get a new job, learn how to cook and get a decent boyfriend.”
 

“Ouch. Is it all true?”
 

“Yep,” Delaney said, trying on the acceptance. She wouldn’t say it felt good, but it definitely beat the rose-colored glasses of avoidance.

What about you?”
 

“Pretty much the same. I just went through a divorce actually. My mom told me it’s because I was selfish and ate takeout all the time.”
 

“But you read between the lines, right?”
 

“Right. I sucked at marriage. I suck at cooking. I’m not sure how my cooking skills relate to my marriage skills, but we’ll see. I figure it couldn’t hurt. Right before he left, I decided to mend things. We’d been growing apart for a while and I knew it was my fault. So I cooked him what was supposed to be this big, fancy steak dinner. Only I overcooked the steak, undercooked the baked potatoes and wilted the crap out of the green beans. Don’t even ask me how dessert turned out.”
 

“Ugh. I know. To prove I could cook, I offered to make lemon chicken for my friends the other night. One of them, Summer, has four kids, so I cooked for them, too. They ate it, but I have a sneaking suspicion she bribed them. Told them that if they ate my dinner she’d take them out to eat, after.”
 

Delaney felt herself relaxing. Maybe this could be fun. Aside from the couple across from them, a pair of men, another pair of women and two other couples had come in. Once everyone had put on their aprons, Wendy stepped to the front of the kitchen area.
 

“Good evening, everyone,” she said. “Welcome. I know this class is called, How to Boil Water, but I think it’s safe to assume everyone here already knows how to do that, right?”
 

Everyone chuckled. One of the gay guys elbowed the other, who shrugged.
 

“You already know this is a four-session class. During the first two sessions, we’ll cook entrees. During the third session, we’ll work on side dishes. And during the final session, we’ll put some salads together. At the end of the course, you’ll each receive a cookbook containing all the recipes we work on, as well as several variations on each recipe. If you want desserts, you’ve got to take How to Bake a Cake or Feed Your Sweet Tooth. Okay? Tonight, we’re starting with a simple spaghetti recipe.”
 

A low murmur ran through the student body.
 

“Spaghetti? I can do spaghetti-os,” Beth said.
 

“Now, students,” Wendy said, interrupting the chatter, “don’t worry if it sounds complicated. We’re taking it step by step. I’d like one partner to go get a yellow onion and a package of Italian sausage from the back and one to get a pot” (she held one up as an example), “fill it with water and start it heating on your stovetop. Once you’ve done that, grab a saucepan” (this, too, she held up).
 

“I’ll get the meat,” Beth said. “Just can’t resist a good sausage.”
 

Delaney snickered and walked over to the side cupboard to retrieve pot. She set it to boil, then grabbed a saucepan and returned to her post. Beth came back with a package of sausage and an onion.
 

“You’ll find olive oil in your cabinet, under your counter,” Wendy said, “and measuring spoons. Measure out a tablespoon of olive oil, put it in the saucepan and put the meat in. Then we’ll chop.
 

“Always work with sharp knives. I’ll demonstrate the onion chopping and then once we get that in the pan, we’ll add the sausage and then do the garlic bell peppers and zucchini. Ready?”
 

Side by side, Delaney and Beth chopped their vegetables. Delaney found the rhythmic tapping of her knife on the wooden countertop oddly soothing. Why hadn’t she done more cooking before this? She remembered thinking it was so weird when Josie would call and say she was cooking, drinking wine and listening to music. Now she could see just a glimmer of the appeal.
 

“That looks very nice, Delaney,” Beth said. “Very nice.”
 

“Why, thank you, Beth,” Delaney said. “As does yours.”
 

The truth was, neither set of vegetables looked particularly pretty. The pieces were irregular and oddly shaped. But they were chopped and added to the pan with tomato sauce, stewed tomatoes and plenty of seasoning.

“I never have this much stuff in my kitchen at once,” Delaney said to Beth, who nodded.
 

“Don’t worry, ladies,” Wendy said. “I’ll also be giving you a list of items to stock your kitchen with so you can always make yourself something to eat. No more bare cupboards, no more bare tables.”
 

The setup was perfect, Delaney thought. Wendy glided around the room, reminding each pair to add their seasonings, put their pasta in the water, drain their pasta, or stir the sauce.
 

“Can I just bring you home with me?” Delaney asked as she passed by on her final walk-through. A few of the other students chuckled.

“I’m sure I’d love that, Delaney,” Wendy said, “but after I’m done with you here, you won’t need me. I promise.”
 

The finished product steamed from colorful bowls, sending off scents of spicy sausage, tangy tomatoes and sweet peppers. Delaney’s mouth watered.
 

“Wow,” Beth said. “This is the first time I’ve ever actually wanted to eat something I cooked!”
 

“You have an uncanny knack for echoing my sentiments.”
 

Returning home after the three-hour class, Delaney felt exhausted. Who knew cooking could be so much fun and so tiring, all at the same time? Her legs were sore, her neck was sore and her stomach was full. The house seemed so still, so quiet, so …
lonely
after an evening spent in a busy, bustling kitchen packed with people stirring up savory scents, together.

Was that the difference between a house and a home? Not just the cooking, of course. Anybody could cook. But the having someone to cook with, to eat with? Cooking together, with the intent of filling your bellies, of nourishing your bodies, of falling into bed to sleep together … that was a home.
 

Maybe Summer and Josie were onto something, she thought. Of the three of them, Delaney was the only one who came home to an empty house every night. A house that smelled like vanilla-scented candles or berry-scented lotion or maybe microwave popcorn.
 

But it never held the rich smell of a dish she’d put her time, energy and thought into. And, although she hated to admit it, she thought, wrinkling her nose, love. You could put love into cooking. Delaney never prepared food for anyone – not even herself. And after tonight, she realized maybe she was worth it.

When Delaney originally volunteered to pick Summer’s kids up from school each Tuesday, Summer gave her strict instructions about what they could listen to on the radio. She started with a list (a long one) of unacceptables: “No rap, no foul language, no sex music, no hard rock, nothing about guns or prostitutes.”
 

When Delaney tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for Summer to hand over the keys, checking her watch because she was afraid of being late on the inaugural Carpool Tuesday, Summer finally said, “Oh! I have an idea!”
 

After a good three minutes’ worth of rummaging around on the floor of the van’s passenger side, she came up with a CD.
 

“Just play this,” she’d said. “It’ll make things simpler.”
 

Within a minute of playing the cheerful, high-pitched, repetitive kids’ music, though, Delaney could feel her ears starting to bleed. The CD mysteriously disappeared. Since then Delaney had allowed the kids to take turns choosing the radio station on the ten-minute drive home. If she heard bad language or sex talk, she switched the channel.

Today, because it was Sarah’s turn to choose, Delaney put in her mental earplugs. Sarah always chose the easy listening station. Always. And belted out every song. So today, by the time Sarah’s voice broke through the barrier, she was shouting:
 

“Aunt Dee! Aunt Dee, can you hear me?”
 

Delaney turned down the cheesy love songs and said with exaggerated sweetness, “Yes, Sarah?”
 

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for, like, six minutes!”
 

“Since the school dismissal bell rang only four minutes ago, I sincerely doubt it. But sorry. I was tuning out your sappy romance music. Let’s start over.”
 

“Okay.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Aunt Dee?”

“Yes, Sarah?”
 

“Remember that guy who helped us after the car accident last week?”
 

Boy, do I.
 

“Yep,” Delaney said.
 

“Well, he was really handsome, wasn’t he?”
 

Boy, was he.

“Yeah. I thought so.”
 

“Are we going to see him again?” Sarah said.
 

“Probably. It’s a small town.”
 

“Is he going to be your boyfriend?”
 

“I don’t even know him, Sarah. What if he’s not even nice?”
 

“Well, he’s handsome, isn’t he? And he did stop to help us after the accident. And he didn’t even know us. Only a
nice
stranger would do that.”
 

Delaney nodded at Sarah’s sound reasoning. “Good points,” she said. “All of them. Well, we’ll see, I guess.”
 

“We’ll see,” Sarah said.
 

***

The wheelchair access stall in the Juniper Public Library’s bathroom barely fit all three of them, but Delaney, Summer and Josie crowded in anyway, trying at once to be quiet and lay the ground rules for the next phase of The Dating Intervention.

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” Summer squealed.