4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
B efore Jules could cook another thing in this kitchen, the sink would have to be fixed. It would drive her crazy knowing it was still leaking if she spent any more time in here than she already had.
Determined to do it herself, she climbed underneath, armed with YouTube, and tinkered around with the tools she bought yesterday.
It only took a few minutes to realize she might be in over her head. After tightening and loosening various nobs and screw-y looking parts on the pipe, she took a quick break to wipe off the beads of sweat forming on her forehead and to see if she’d made it any better. Turning the faucet back on, Jules held her breath. To her horror, water spurted out of the pipe in all directions. She’d made it worse. A lot worse.
“Fuck,” she shouted. Jules always had a bit of a potty mouth on her. She rushed to turn it off and clean up the mess before grabbing the car keys to head back to the hardware store. Maybe this time, they could recommend a good plumber.
As she turned into the parking lot in front of Nicholson’s, Jules was forced to maneuver her car around a large white pickup truck, annoyed that someone thought they were special enough to take up two prime parking spaces with their obnoxious vehicle. You’d never see a pickup truck in D.C. unless it was a delivery vehicle. Most people didn’t even own cars, let alone a monstrosity that large.
Shaking her head, she walked past the truck and stepped inside, making the doorbell jingle, which must have been broken yesterday. This time, two employees greeted her wearing colored vests, eager to be saved from the afternoon boredom.
The older of the two men led her back to the plumbing section, determined to help her fix the sink without calling a plumber. Apparently, he had a thing against plumbers and handymen, going on and on about how anyone with more than two brain cells could figure out how to take care of their home. Unfortunately for him, Jules wasn’t one of them; she’d never owned a home. Of all the places she’d lived since high school, they were all rentals, so she always had a landlord for these sorts of issues. Jules regretted her decision to come back instead of admitting defeat and finding a professional online.
Just as they rounded the corner of the paint aisle into plumbing, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stick up. A deep, low voice reverberated through the store, one she’d heard just yesterday and had featured heavily in her dreams last night.
Miles was here, of all places. She knew Riverbend was small, but this small? Come on.
Jules slowed her pace behind the Nicholson’s employee to buy some time. Should she leave? Turn around and hop back in her car? Her mind said to run, but her body moved towards his voice.
Sure enough, there he stood, phone up to his ear in the middle of the plumbing aisle.
“Yeah, I’ll come by later tonight,” she heard him say into the phone before hanging up.
“Miles, back so soon? Weren’t you here this morning?” the Nicholson’s employee asked as they walked up.
Jules stood behind the guy, hoping Miles wouldn’t see her, but not trying to look suspicious either. Be casual , she thought to herself. Don’t make this weird .
“Hey, Mike. Renovating this house will be the death of me and my wallet,” he responded, grabbing a package of unrecognizable white plastic parts that hung in front of him. “I need some more O-rings for the bathroom sink installation.”
When he turned around to leave, she caught sight of his face under his battered blue ball cap. He looked tired, yet still as handsome as yesterday. He took a step forward to leave and spotted her, cracking a crooked smile that shot a sharp pang straight to Jules’ heart. The corners of his eyes creased in a way that they hadn’t years ago, and it made him even more attractive.
Why was her body reacting like this? She needed to get herself under control; she wasn’t a lovesick teenager anymore. She was a goddamn grown woman.
“Jules, what are you doing here?” he asked, trapping her in the aisle.
“She’s having some trouble with a leaky kitchen sink. Figured I’d try to help her before spending a fortune on a plumber. They’d try to take a young pretty woman like her to the bank, ya’ know?” Mike responded before Jules could get a word out.
Jules cringed.
“Is this at your grandma’s house?” Miles asked, ignoring Mike.
Jules nodded. “Her sink has been leaking, so I thought I’d try to fix it while I’m here. Turns out I’m no plumber,” she said with a sarcastic smile.
“Hmm, I could come take a look. I’m not a professional either, but I might be able to handle a leaking sink."
Mike cut in again, explaining that Miles had been renovating an old house in town by himself. “He knows what he’s doing, even if he is all self-taught,” he finished with a wink. He sure had a way with words.
Jules hesitated for a moment. Sure, it wouldn’t hurt to have a second opinion, especially after she’d made an even bigger mess of things earlier. But the feminist in her screamed she didn’t need a man swooping in to save the day. She could handle a leaky sink herself, right?
“Thanks, but I think I’ve got it,” she replied. “This seems to be the easiest of the issues that need fixing around that house.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem. I could use a break from my own projects,” Miles said, waving the package of O-rings in his hand. He wasn’t giving up, and Jules didn’t want to come off rude again like she had yesterday.
“Plus, you have a bum ankle."
“Oh, yeah. Well, my ankle is fine now,” Jules said in a flustered voice. She’d almost forgotten about it. The swelling had all but disappeared. “Just needed some ice and a night of rest. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes on the sink,” she gave in. “When can you swing by?”
“Glad to hear it. How about now?”
Jules couldn’t think of a reason why not.
On the drive home, with Miles following in his obnoxious white pickup truck, she checked herself slyly in the mirror. She wasn’t expecting to see anyone she knew at the hardware store, let alone Miles. Again. Thankfully, she had brushed her hair and put on some mascara this morning out of habit. She never felt fully awake until she had tamed her hair and washed her face. It was a habit she’d picked up from the other Cuccia women in her family over the years.
Nervous energy pulsed through her as they arrived at the house. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea , she thought. She desperately hoped her grandma was napping because she did not want to answer a thousand questions about this later.
Once in the house with Miles lying halfway under the sink, Jules didn’t know what to do with herself. Should she sit? Stand? Nothing seemed appropriate. Just as she leaned casually against the counter, the hem of Miles’ shirt rose, exposing the part of his tanned abdomen where his muscles formed a V shape pointing south. Jules’ mouth went dry, and her lower belly fluttered.
This was a bad idea.
Still unsure what to do, she slid over to the other side of the kitchen, where he’d be out of direct eyesight, and asked him about the house he was renovating.
“It’s the yellow house on Van Buren Street. Well, it used to be yellow, now it’s white. The one that had all those tacky garden gnomes out front,” he said from under the sink. “I bought it about a year ago and decided to renovate it myself. It’s the project that just keeps on giving.”
Jules remembered the house. She always wondered where someone could buy so many different gnomes, but mostly why someone would want that many.
“Do you still have the gnomes?”
“I kept a couple. Felt wrong to re-home all the gnomes,” he said with a slight chuckle. Clearly, he didn’t lose his taste for cheesy jokes.
She couldn’t help but wonder if he lived there alone, or maybe with a girlfriend. “Is it just you and the gnomes, then?”
“Nope,” he said, still under the sink.
Jules held her breath. Of course, he had a girlfriend, or maybe a wife ? Why wouldn’t he?
But then he added, “There’s also my cat, Sir-Toots-A-Lot.”
She let out a loud laugh and the breath she was holding.
“Sir-Toots-A-Lot? Like my flute?” she asked, amused.
Back in high school, Miles and Jules came up with silly names for their band instruments. He picked out “Sir-Toots-A-Lot” for her flute and she named his saxophone “Sir-Honks-A-Lot.”
“Yeah, well, he farts. A lot. So, the name fits,” he replied as he slid back out, not meeting her eyes.
Turns out all the sink needed was a good tightening up. When they tried the tap, the water ran smoothly without leaking. Jules felt a little silly for having him come all the way here just to turn a wrench a few times, but at least it was fixed.
She thanked him, expecting him to start towards the door, instead he turned to face her. Their eyes locked for a long, searing moment. The energy buzzed between them. Jules could feel her heartbeat picking up as her breath grew shallow. They hadn’t been alone like this in a long time, and her body was betraying her. Miles took a tentative step in her direction, keeping his gaze fixed on her.
Unsure of the moment, Jules broke eye contact and asked if he wanted anything to drink, turning her back to him to open the refrigerator.
“No, Jules. I don’t need anything to drink,” Miles purred in his low, deep voice that sent a shiver up her back.
Another few seconds of silence passed between them before he quietly added, “I think I should go.” Jules felt a quick stab of disappointment.
“Yeah, I’m sure you have a lot to do with the house and all. Thanks again for your help.”
“Anytime,” he said as he turned and walked out.
Alone in the kitchen, her thoughts toppled over themselves: Why did he move back here? Where was he before, and what was he doing? Why was he being so nice to her, and why did she react to him that way?
Seeing Miles again was a complication. One she had not prepared for. Both times they ran into each other, Jules turned into a bumbling idiot, which was unlike herself. Often, her thoughts were a jumbled mess, but she could always pull off an air of confidence in front of people.
Although she had to admit she enjoyed seeing him, she wouldn’t let herself forget what had happened between them years ago. She still felt the sharp hurt rise when she thought of it and was too ashamed to face her own part in the mess. He’d never look at her the same if he knew what she did. Jules was still working on forgiving herself, and she couldn’t expect him to do the same. Not to mention what he did that night. It was all too messy and best left in the past.
Before she could spiral too deep, a chorus of coughs and sneezes came from upstairs. She met Grandma Rosa at the staircase, helping her down as she continued to sneeze. Her grandma’s skin looked ashy grey, and her voice sounded nasally. She had caught a cold. It was probably all the meds she took that lowered her immune system.
“Let me make you some chicken noodle soup,” Jules offered.
Her grandma screwed her face up in a disgusted look.
“No, no. If you’re going to cook, let’s make good use of it.” She shook her head. “There’s a recipe for my minestrone in the tin. We should have everything we need for it.”
Jules did as instructed and got to work chopping the vegetables and boiling the broth. As she cooked, Grandma Rosa told her about how she would cook this soup for Grandpa Lou and Barb whenever they were sick. Jules had it growing up, too.
She remembered a time from grade school when her grandpa picked her up one afternoon after she got sick on the playground. The nurse had called home, trying to get her mom, but she wasn’t around. Jules must have been seven or eight at the time, and she felt awful. The kind of stomach bug that made it hard to even move your head without feeling bile rise in your throat.
When they got home, Grandpa Lou had settled her on the couch in the TV room with two big pillows and an orange puke bucket on the floor. He would come in every ten minutes to check on her, worry creasing his face. He was so beside himself, he eventually sat on the floor next to her, watching cartoons with her for hours until she fell asleep.
It made Jules sad to think about, but she was grateful to have had so much time with her grandpa. He always made her feel special and taken care of. Growing up, Grandpa Lou was so present in her life that it never even occurred to her to miss having a dad of her own. Grandpa was there, but now he wasn’t. Now, all she had were these memories.
Rosa watched her like a hawk as Jules turned all the chopped vegetables into the pot of broth, stirring often, ensuring they softened but did not get soggy. That was the difference between a fresh homemade soup and a canned, thoughtless soup: the crispness of the veggies. Of course, balanced seasonings helped, too, she reminded Jules, as she arranged the garlic, oregano, parsley, thyme, and more on the counter near the stovetop for her. Grandma Rosa measured nothing, just went off her gut and a lot of tasting as it came together. Jules had a hard time with that; she was a rule follower, so it felt wrong to just eyeball important ingredients. She wanted to follow a system and know that in the end, everything would taste the way it should.
“That’s not cooking from the heart,” her grandma once had told her years ago when they were making chicken piccata. “Every dish is different, even if they have the same name. Feel what it needs and adjust as you go. Cooking is a lot like life, in that way.”
Grandma Rosa could always connect cooking and food to just about anything that was going on in life. Jules had missed that.
They spooned heaping mouthfuls of soup from their bowls, careful not to spill on the fancy tablecloth. It was a symphony of hearty, vibrant flavors and comforting textures, each bite packed with tender carrots, zucchini, celery, and green beans, cooked just enough. The broth, rich and flavorful, balanced the tangy sweetness of ripe tomatoes with the savory depth of vegetable stock and herbs. The final sprinkle of fresh grated parmesan and drizzle of good olive oil took it to the next level, while the subtle heat of red chili flakes gave it a gentle kick. A quick squeeze of lemon at the end brightened the taste and tied it all together.
It was the kind of soup that warmed you from the inside, hearty enough to battle a head cold but light enough to be gentle on your stomach. Even though she had some help, Jules felt a satisfying sense of accomplishment for making such a simple yet delicious meal. It unlocked a dormant part of her soul. She could feel the creative energy flow back through her body, leaving her aching to do more, make more.
Bellies full, they each drifted off to their rooms for the night. Jules settled on her bed, grabbing her computer to check her missed emails. Part of her wanted to see a full inbox, to feel needed outside of Riverbend. Becoming replaceable wasn’t an option in her mind.
Her laptop whirred to life after two days of rest. It took a few frustrating minutes to connect to the house Wi-Fi network, which Jules had set up years ago before she moved to D.C. She still remembered the password: BoBo1957, the name of their old dog, plus the year her grandparents got married. At least some things never changed, she thought. Slowly, she watched her inbox tick up with new messages. At the top was an email from Becca’s personal account:
Jules-
Hope everything is going well and that you’re getting some deserved downtime.
We talked briefly about this before you left, but wanted to remind you to sign your employment contract for the PR firm. Look it over and shoot me any questions. I’ve attached it here, again.
I’m so excited to take this next step with you by my side. We’ll be unstoppable.
-Becca
Rubbing her eyes to relieve the pressure building behind them, Jules knew she had to review the contract. Just not tonight. It deserved a fresh mind, she rationalized, as a vague attempt to keep putting it off.
It had been over a month since Becca had offered Jules the Chief Communications Officer role, the chance to move into a leadership position. But Jules couldn’t bring herself to make it official and sign the papers. Becca was taking an enormous leap by starting her own agency, and Jules admired her for it. But honestly? She was terrified. What if it flopped? What if she sucked at the job? And did she even see herself doing this in a few months, let alone a few years? The whole thing felt way too big to decide tonight. She was exhausted, and her brain was done. A podcast and some sleep sounded much better. The rest of the emails could wait.
As she was dozed off, her phone lit up with a text from Winnie. Jules groaned, but she was used to receiving texts from Winnie at all hours of the day.
Hi :) Emily and I are going to the football game on Friday. You’re coming with us. It might be fun or just make us feel old! xx
Winne met Emily on a cruise to the Bahamas five years ago and they’d been inseparable since. Not long after returning from the trip, Emily visited Winnie in Riverbend and never left. It worked for them since Emily was a copy editor and could work from anywhere with an internet connection. While Jules never understood whirlwind romances, she adored Emily. The two of them together were a sight to be seen, a voluptuous redhead and a tall, gorgeous bleach blonde model type. They demanded attention wherever they went. But it was more than that; they balanced each other perfectly. Emily was a calm oasis to Winnie’s electric storm of a personality.
Jules sent back a thumbs-up emoji before dozing off into a deep sleep she didn’t realize she needed.