FIFTEEN Plans Within Plans
T RISTAN: OCTOBER
The seasons are changing now that a month and a half here with Elle has passed. I don’t usually like the season of fall. The rain and chillier temps remind me that winter’s right around the goddamn corner. I can’t stand it. Any of it. The snow. The ice. The freezing my balls off anytime I step out of bed.
Yuck.
But this year as I peek out the window and see the leaves falling it doesn’t make me want to huck all my paring knives out the door in protest for once. I notice the chrysanthemums the neighbor just put in her yard and the crispness in the air. Rather than turning into a grouchy bastard, it makes me want to preheat the stove and bake.
Maybe it’s being here with Elliana. Not only have I never had sex this regularly in my life, but I don’t hate it here.
Despite Jackson’s prickish presence, I’ve been able to go from preparing meals I want to share with Elle to branching out and discovering new dishes on my own. It’s like I’m taking part in a special experimental culinary contest, and everything I make somehow comes out tasting like the winning entry.
Part of me frets about this. I shouldn’t feel this goddamn optimistic since I’m not an optimist. Frankly, I’m anything but. Yet signing up with Elegance hasn’t become the shitshow I’ve been bracing for. At least not so far.
No telling when the other shoe will drop.
Still, maybe it won’t until after this job is over. And a hundred grand ? Being in striking distance of down payment territory for my own restaurant? Will that really happen? Maybe. Not that I believe in counting chickens before they’ve hatched. Because I don’t. Especially when it seems too good to be true.
But maybe.
I’ll have to bootstrap a lot of it. Invest in the right kitchen supplies and be willing to settle for second-hand. I’ll be lucky as hell to locate a business with a workable kitchen at all. It can’t be anything too extravagant, but something decent might just be within the realm of possibilities.
This is another reason why I’ve been experimenting. If this pie-in-the-sky concept ever comes to fruition, I’ll have a prepared menu ready to serve. Dishes developed from my personally vetted expertise and tastes. Like tonight’s dinner, for instance. I’m baking citrus-glazed salmon fillets with red-skin garlic mashers and creamed spinach with a full-bodied pinot noir from an excellent year. Not your everyday fare.
I hear Elliana entering the house, and hold my breath, listening.
I want to hear if she’ll remark on what I’m doing, perhaps about the aromas seeping into the rest of the house. She frequently says complimentary things about my cooking, and if she says it now, it’ll mean she has an appreciation for this untried meal of mine.
Yet when she comes in, she’s mumbling under her breath instead, and nothing she mutters sounds like she’s even noticed the food.
“Happy Birthday to me...” she grumbles, sounding about as cheerful as I usually do. In her hands is a stack of mail—and this is unusual—she’s glaring down at the top piece as if it offends everything she holds dear.
“What’s that?” I ask her.
“Oh, I need to renew my license, so the DMV sent me this oh-so-thoughtful reminder. It expires in thirty days on my birthday.”
I offer her my commiserating commentary while secretly tucking away the information she just provided. Elle’s birthday would be in a month in mid-November. If I want to get anything elaborate together, I’ll need to hop to it, ASAP.
“I’m making a grocery list,” I casually mention. “Thinking about putting a few new desserts to the test. You have any preferences?”
Offhandedly, she answers, still frowning at her notice from the DMV. “Um, I like almost anything sweet. How about key lime pie or a chocolate ice cream cake?”
Later that night after our glazed salmon with all the fixings—which she fucking loved, by the way—she takes me to her bed, which is perfect. After some energetic sex that leaves us each panting, I prepare to depart. She’ll wait until I have enough wherewithal to put my legs back under me before pointing toward the door, but I know that time is coming.
Still, to delay my expulsion for as long as I can, I trail my fingers along the rounded and velvety contours of her hips, hoping to postpone that ejection for a while longer.
“Were you the type of little girl who begged for a pony, a baby doll, or a dirt bike growing up?” I inquire of her, plying her for clues about what she might like as a present.
“A cat,” she says, and I blink. “I used cats to decorate everything in my room as a girl. I had a million of those figurines. I also had cats on my comforter, my pillows, my sheets, my calendar. Even my purse. But my mom was allergic, so I could never have a real one.”
Creatures of the feline variety are cool. Never had a pet myself growing up, but I’ve long felt a certain camaraderie with the animal. Something about it being either affectionate or aloof according to its mood vibes with me.
“Are you always a cat for Halloween?” I picture her as this sexpot in a skin-tight catsuit accompanied by ears and a long tail.
Goddamn, my cock is raring for another round, and that’s probably not going to be the deal.
“Not always, but sometimes. I did a bit of trick-or-treating, but my folks and I were more about visiting local places to expand our knowledge and appreciation of natural beauty. Every spring we’d go down to the National Arboretum to see the cherry blossoms. It was like an annual pilgrimage for us.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was. I loved that place. I used to spend hours feeding the fish in the koi ponds. I’d go back to my dad and ask him for coins to buy fish food over and over. And the ducks. I loved feeding them, too.”
Storing away this data, I don’t even balk when she shoos me out moments later. Once back in my room, I start conceiving of a plan. Then, I siphon out some of my precious weekly pay to buy supplies and separate groceries. That way, she has no access to the receipts.
“What’re you up to?” Jackson asks me when I’m in the backyard. Noah is behind him on one of his rare days off work.
“Elle’s birthday is in less than a month. Thought I’d surprise her.”
“I want in,” Jackson states, and while I hadn’t thought of asking him for a contribution, these preparations of mine have become more ambitious than I initially recognized.
“Me, too,” the kid volunteers, so I explain what I want to do.
“I’ve done some construction work in the past,” Jackson says, shocking the shit out of me. He goes inside, retrieves some notepad paper, and proceeds to sketch out a few of his ideas. They don’t even suck. “If we do this... Then, attach it to these joists, we should have plenty of long-term stability.”
Noah runs a finger along what Jackson has drawn. “I’m no plumber, but I do lots of stuff with pipes and hoses at the fire station. I bet together we can figure this all out.”
Murphy’s Law ensures that rain pours for the next two weeks, fucking up our timetable. We end up having to rush the most essential builds until the last minute and in weather that has descended into far more frigid temps.
I loathe being chilled—and my teeth chatter half the time—but the silver lining is that Elle doesn’t happen upon our clandestine project. I keep fearing that she’ll discover us before it’s done, but by some miracle, she doesn’t.
Noah’s brute strength mixed with Jackson’s know-how allows us to be more productive than I ever could’ve hoped for, and due to this, we actually manage to pull this thing off.
By the day before Elle’s birthday, we’re ready, and I’m certain she has no clue.
We’re in the clear.
So, when we catch sight of her pulling her SUV into the garage, we take our places, ready to spring.