Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
I raced straight to Aunt Catherine’s house while Gary and Kyle swung by their place to grab bathing suits and a change of clothes. When I walked in the house, Purrfect must have used some sort of telepathic cat voodoo power to foretell the impending disaster I had set in motion because she made a noise that sounded like the meowed version of what the hell were you thinking and then bolted out the back door.
The truth was, I didn’t cook, I couldn’t cook, and the last time I tried to cook anything more complicated than a box of ramen noodles, I nearly burned down my apartment. After a diet of microwave pizza, frozen pot pies, and Chinese takeout, I wasn’t sure if I could cook Osso Buco if my life depended on it. And my life did depend on it, a life of happiness and joy spent with Jack, or a life spent miserable and alone staring at ugly kitchen wallpaper.
After pacing back and forth across the kitchen for a solid ten minutes trying to tamp down a panic attack, the first thing I did was search for a recipe. Scouring social media, I learned that Ossu Buco is a traditional Milanese dish comprising veal shanks braised in white wine, onions, and various herbs no normal person has ever heard of. And according to rocketkitty90210, Osso Buco is a flavorful but extremely complex dish, and a great way to showcase one’s culinary mastery.
The second thing I did was call every food delivery service in the greater central Florida area. Unfortunately, it turns out, Osso Buco is not a very popular takeout or delivery menu item. It is also not available in the frozen food section of Publix. Or Whole Foods. Or Aldi.
That’s as far as I got because the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a face full of flowers. At least I think they were flowers. Some of them may have been weeds. Gary held the fist full of flower-like plants at arm’s length. “These are for you.”
“You brought me flowers?” Why did Gary bring flowers? I invited Gary over to talk business. Wallpaper business. Distracting Janet business. That’s it. There should not have been any flowers involved.
“I picked them,” Kyle beamed, peeking out from behind Gary’s leg.
“They’re a housewarming present,” Gary explained.
Phew. Gary didn’t bring me flowers. He brought the house flowers. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or jealous.
“It was Kyle’s idea,” Gary said, patting the top of Kyle’s head. “He said boys are supposed to bring girls flowers. He kind of insisted. And then I figured maybe they would be a nice compliment to all that greige.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, taking the bundle of weed looking flowers from Gary’s hand. One of my fingers got stabbed by a thorn. I could feel the sneeze attack already building. I found an empty vase, filled it with water, and let the weed flowers soak.
Meanwhile, Gary and Kyle embarked on a self-guided tour. I watched as they wandered. Gary was wearing khaki shorts, flip-flops, and an ocean blue Aloha shirt speckled with surfboards and palm trees. The shorts showed off the bottom half of his tanned legs. The color of the palm trees made his grey-green eyes really pop. I had the sudden urge to pour a bottle of tequila in a blender and make us a pitcher of margaritas. But margaritas didn’t pair well with Osso Buco, I assumed, so I restrained myself.
After he had a few moments to look around, Gary said, “It looks amazing in here. I can’t believe the difference.” Did Gary Wright just give me a compliment?
“Well, I am a professional,” I said.
“That’s quite the setup.” Gary pointed to the dining room table, a walnut stained behemoth with big chunky legs. The chairs were foam grey, with high backs and pewter buttons up and down the sides. The place settings were Wedgewood china, the stemware Reidel. In the center was a towering spray of white orchids, flanked by vanilla candles encased in frosted crystal. “I guess I should have worn my tuxedo.”
“That’s not where we’re sitting,” I explained. “That room’s just for show.”
Gary pointed to the artwork on the wall. “Oh look, a Gustave Caillebott.”
“If you say so.” It was a print I ordered online, then put in a frame I found at a garage sale. In the painting, smears of muted blue waves lapped at a sandy shore, a rock strewn cliff jutting up behind them. I had no idea who painted it, I just liked how the colors matched the chairs. “You know that artist?”
“Well, not personally, obviously, since he died in the eighteen hundreds. But I know his work.”
“Impressive.”
“Well, I am a professional,” said Gary.
An involuntary laugh barked out of me. “A professional painter.”
“Exactly.” Gary seemed to delight in my confusion. “Not all painters just paint houses, you know.”
I pointed at the piece of professional artwork, elegantly framed by me , on the wall. According to Gary, a Gustave Caillebott. “Are you trying to tell me you paint like that?”
“Not impressionism, no. And certainly not as good as Gustave. But I do paint landscapes. Mountains. Beaches. Trees.”
I tried to picture in my mind what some of Gary’s so-called paintings could look like. Again, a child’s finger paint creation came to mind. Smeared browns and blues and greens. Yellow and orange, most likely. Actually, probably a lot of reds.
“I can show you sometime if you want.”
“Sure,” I said, just to be polite.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I left something in the van.” Gary ran back to his van and returned with a brown paper bag cradled under one arm. He reached into the bag and exhumed a bottle of wine. “I also brought this.” As he pulled out the bottle, I couldn’t help but notice the curve of his biceps under his shirt. “Look familiar?” Gary asked.
The biceps or the bottle? The biceps I clearly remembered from the time I found him not wearing a shirt in Aunt Catherine’s backyard, when he was hosing off his paint brushes. But the label on the wine bottle looked familiar too.
“The one we picked out at the grocery store,” I guessed.
“The Syrah from France. When we were stalking Janet,” Gary added. “Well, when you were stalking Janet, and tricked me into helping you.”
“Trick seems like a strong word,” I said as I took the bottle of wine from his hand.
“Strong but accurate,” said Gary.
“And last, but not least.” Gary reached back into the grocery bag. “I brought this in case you were in the mood for something other than wine.” He pulled out a six-pack of SourPaw, the beer from FoxPaw, the local brewery. “I believe you said this one was your favorite.”
“Awww, you remembered.” He remembered??? Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and patted his upper arm like he was a dog that had performed a trick. There’s that biceps again. Gary’s jaw ticked as his eyes darted down to where my hand touched his arm. And then when our eyes met again, his cheeks turned at least six shades of pink. Was his jaw always that jutting? Were his lips always that full?
“Look!” Kyle’s voice broke the spell. Purrfect lingered in the hallway, scoping out the intruders as if plotting the best way to evict them.
“Oh, that’s just Purrfect,” Gary said, his voice drawing long on the purr.
“Can I pet her?” Kyle’s eyes lit up.
Purrfect looked up from her paw licking, tongue still protruding, suddenly concerned. She gave me her don’t you fucking dare look. I gave her my payback’s a bitch look.
“Can I, Mary?” Kyle looked like a kid on Christmas morning waiting for permission to tear into a stack of presents.
“Sure,” I told Kyle. “She really loves her belly rubbed.” Purrfect hated her belly rubbed. “But you have to catch her first.” I wasn’t sure how old Purrfect was when I involuntarily inherited her, but she still had her cat like reflexes and could outrun an Olympic track team if she wanted to, especially if the Olympic track team was trying to rub her belly.
Kyle accepted the challenge with a leap and a shriek. Purrfect bolted upright with a leap and a shriek. All four paws pedaled at the slick laminate flooring like a drag racer burning rubber. Lots of spinning. Not a lot of forward progress. Her paws barely found purchase just as Kyle lunged. Purrfect squealed in terror. Kyle squealed with glee.
“Well, that should keep them busy for a while.”
When I turned back around, Gary pulled two bottles from the six-pack. “Should we open a couple of these before dinner?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “That will give me an excuse to show you the kitchen.”
After making our way across the house, I paused dramatically at the entrance to the kitchen so Gary could take it all in. The last time he had been here, everything was still original to the house. Linoleum flooring. Formica countertops. Kitschy kitchen relics from the long distant past. It was like walking into one of those period exhibits in a history museum. A history museum dedicated to bad kitchen taste.
Since then, everything got upgraded. The pink cabinets ripped out by the root and replaced with a modern slate grey. Gus had pulled apart the formica countertops with a crowbar, then replaced them with a metallic pearl granite. The new faux oak flooring I selected was pristine. Not a single nick, scrape, or stain. The entire room was transformed. Except the wallpaper. Wallpaper that refused to peel off. Wallpaper that refused to die. Like a cockroach scurrying around in the wake of an atom bomb.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”
Gary took his time as he circled the kitchen, looking everything over with a critical eye. “I like it,” he said at last. “You did an amazing job. Really.” Another Gary compliment!
I handed Gary a beer. He took a long sip. “But I see what you mean about the wallpaper. Doesn’t really match your new vibe..”
“Gee, you think?” I took a sip of my beer, too.
“I still think you should keep it, though.” Gary traced his finger along one of the vines.
“You’re serious?” It was like he had some sort of wallpaper fetish or something. Is that even a thing?
“It’s authentic.” Gary tilted his bottle for emphasis.
“Dated.” I tilted mine for rebuttal.
“Classic,” said Gary.
“Old,” I countered.
“You know what they say?” Gary pointed at the wallpaper. “Retro is the future.”
I rolled my eyes. “They don’t say that. No one says that. It’s two completely different styles. You put them together and they clash.”
The dimple on Gary’s left cheek made an appearance. His sea foam green eyes twinkled.
I could tell he was up to something. “What?” I asked, taking a sip of SourPaw to brace for whatever he said next.
Gary pointed to my beer bottle. “What was the first sour you ever had?”
“This one,” I said. “I tried it at the brewery. And the only reason I even tried it is because Mike, the owner, was giving out free samples.”
“What did you think when you first saw it on the tap list?”
“What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure where Gary was going with this. If he was trying to convince me of something, he would fail. Once I made up my mind, it didn’t change. Ever.
But Gary persisted. “What did you think when you first saw that FoxPaw Brewing made a sour beer?”
“I thought it was the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”
“But then you tried it.”
“Of course I tried it. It was free.”
“And you liked it.”
“Not at first. At first I thought it was terrible. But then Mike, the owner, made me savor it a little. Hold a sip in my mouth so the flavors could swirl around on my tongue. I don’t know, I guess it kinda grew on me.”
“And now you like it.”
I shrugged, refusing to answer him. It was a stupid point, and I had no intention of helping him think he made it.
“If I remember correctly,” Gary said, “In the grocery store, when you were stalking Janet …”
“When we were stalking Janet,” I interjected.
“When you tricked me into helping you stalk Janet,” Gary continued. “You said, and I quote, this happens to be one of my favorites.”
“Beer and wallpaper are two completely different things.”
“Fair enough. The point is, just because two things don’t seem to go together, that doesn’t mean they can’t work.”
I thought Gary was done with the lecture, but apparently he wasn’t quite done galloping around on his high horse. “A Spring flower poking up out of a snowdrift. Sunbeams filtering through the shadows. A majestic mountain, looking high over a storm-tossed ocean. Juxtapositions. That’s the thing I like about painting,” said Gary.
“Okay, Bob Ross, my kitchen will not be your happy little accident.” If Gary was trying to convince me to keep the wallpaper, he had failed miserably. Failed spectacularly. “It would never work.”
“Well then,” Gary said. “I guess I’ll just have to show you.”
Reluctantly, I joined Gary on the other side of the kitchen. We stood next to the wall with no counters or cabinets. Just wallpaper, as far as the eye could see. There were so many flowers and vines it felt like we were in the middle of a meadow, on a mountain in spring. Maybe if we drank enough SourPaw, we could reenact the Sound of Music.
“Look,” Gary’s voice brought me back to the present. “We keep it here.”
“We?”
“On this accent wall.”
I shook my head vigorously. “The green vines clash with the greige.”
“I’ll repaint the walls. Get rid of the greige.”
It was a good thing the vines were only in wallpaper form. Otherwise, I might have used one of them to strangle him. “I already told you. I like the greige.”
Gary kneeled down and pointed to one of the tiny pink roses. “Here, look.”
Against my better judgement, I knelt down beside Gary, our bodies now close. The scent of mint and jasper lingered on his body like a protective shield. Actually, no, not a shield. Shields keep things off. The smell coming from him was the opposite of a shield. A magnet. Meant to pull things close. I had the sudden urge to gorge myself on chocolate mint ice cream between shots of jasper flavored gin.
Gary pointed right at the heart of the flower, which was colored a deep shade of red. “This one. This color here. We blend classic and contemporary.” We again?
Gary stood up and offered me his hand. I took it. He pulled me to my feet. Sparks of electricity seemed to pass from his skin to my skin, then ricochet through my entire body. I must have stood up too quickly, because a rush of warmth raced up through my chest and into my head, then back down my body again, pooling between my legs.
“Come here.” Gary put his hands on my shoulders, taking a position behind me. Gently, he pulled me back until I had a good vantage point to take in the entire room. He leaned close, lips nearly brushing against my ear. “Just picture it.” That smell again. Mint and jasper. “We repaint the walls.” We. “Draw off the colors of the wallpaper to counter balance the grays.”
I tried to envision what Gary was describing, but I found it hard to concentrate. I felt faint. If it wasn’t for Gary’s firm grip on my shoulders, I would have toppled over for sure.
Gary whispered in my ear again, and the warmth that had been gathering in the lower half of my body start bubbling up like a long dormant volcano. “I think it could work.”
I’ve always had an eye for design, since I was a little girl. My teacher featured my dinosaur themed decoupage during Parents’ Night in kindergarten. When I was in middle school, my Animal Farm diorama won first prize in the county art show. Colors. Patterns. Textures. If something in a room was missing, I knew exactly what it would take to complete it. If someone needed help to pick out a new color, I could find the perfect match to suit their tastes. No one ever taught me. It just came to me. Instinctively. I could see it all in my mind.
When I looked again at the center of the rose, it all clicked. Gary was right. The darker red would complement the slate grey perfectly. Maybe a few accent pieces could play off the green of the vines.
When I pulled away to face him, Gary’s hands slipped from my shoulders. I was surprised how quickly I’d gotten used to the feel of them on me and as soon as they weren’t, it felt like a part of my body was missing.
“What do you think?”
I took a deep breath to settle my pounding heart. “I think … you might be right.”
“Maybe we can talk more over dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“The Ossu Buco,” Gary reminded me. “You were going to wow us with your cooking skills. How’s it going, by the way?” We both glanced at the oven, which was clearly lifeless, dead, and empty. Like my soul.
“Well, I got as far as looking up a recipe,” I said. “And I found two of the seventy-five spices it requires in my pantry. Speaking of which, do you know what marjoram is? I mean, does anyone really know what marjoram is? Does it actually exist or do the people who write these recipes just like to mess with our heads? And what about bay leaves? Is that like a leaf that somebody pulled out of an actual bay? And don’t get me started on rosemary.”
“Um, I didn’t?”
“Who likes rosemary? Nobody likes rosemary. Rosemary is disgusting. That guy who wrote Rosemary’s Baby probably named the mother Rosemary because the herb rosemary is the spawn of Satan.”
I was spiraling. I needed to stop spiraling. I wanted to stop spiraling. But I was so far gone I didn’t think I could. When I looked back up at him, Gary had that deer in the headlights look. I had that driving a jacked up four-wheel-drive pickup truck with a shotgun rack in the back, foot heavy on the gas pedal look.
“Mary, it’s okay. Just take a breath.” Gary put his hands up, like a police negotiator talking to someone on the ledge of a tall building. “Did you cook anything yet?”
I dropped my head in shame. “No.”
Gary surprised me when he said, “Good. Honestly, the thought of eating baby cows grosses me out. And Kyle’s favorite foods are chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. It’s a low bar to impress him.”
“Who said I was trying to impress him ?” I said.
“If not Kyle, then who were you trying to impress?” Gary asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, certainly not you ,” I answered. “I’ve already done that with my hiking and baseball skills.”
“Don’t forget your cat rearing skills,” Gary added.
“Oh yeah, that’s at the top of the list for sure.”
To punctuate the point, Purrfect scrambled across the kitchen floor, Kyle in hot pursuit. Purrfect paused just long enough to flick me off with one paw, then raced into the dining room. From the dining room, we heard a crash. Then a high-pitched meow. Then the sound of breaking glass.
Taking pity on me, Gary said, “Why don’t you go deal with whatever just happened out there, while I look in the fridge to see what I can muster up for us to eat.”
“No way,” I said. “I invited you here. I should be the one cooking.”
“Mary.” The way he said my name felt like he wrapped me in a blanket, all soft, warm and cozy. “It’s fine, really. I like cooking. Do you have any chicken?”
I nodded.
“How about tomatoes?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Luckily for me, I had put in a grocery order the prior day. I had a bunch of food delivered so I wouldn’t have to go out shopping and stay focused on the remodel. For the first time in my entire life, I actually had a well-stocked refrigerator.
“Maybe if you play your cards right, I’ll show you how to make grandma’s homemade sauce. Just never tell her because then she’d have to kill you.” Gary thought about it some more. “And then kill me.”