21. Ivy
twenty-one
Ivy
“No, thinner than that.”
Beck holds up his piece of dough like it's supposed to prove something. “This is thin.”
“That's a pancake. Lefse is thinner than a pancake.”
He looks at me, then back at the dough with skepticism. “I’ve fought wild fires. Why is it so hard to flatten a potato?”
The kitchen looks like it lost a fight with a flour truck.
There's a fine dusting across the counter, across the rolling pin, across Beck's forearms, across, if I had to guess from the way my shirt feels, me too.
I decided that Beck missing the Silver Creek lefse was a wrong that needs correcting.
Somewhere between deciding that and teaching him, I forgot how much of an undertaking making lefse is.
It's a normal Saturday otherwise. Reid left with Trevor an hour ago for some errand.
Tessa has passed through twice already, once for coffee and once, inexplicably, for a spoon she never left with.
Dani's doing laundry. Cassidy's reading on the porch.
Nobody's paying much attention to what Beck and I are doing in here.
A week ago this would have felt like something. Now, it's just Saturday.
It's been a good week. The kind where nothing dramatic happens and that turns out to be the whole point.
Sunday dinner at the Grangers'. Working together during the day.
Evenings at the crew house. Beck fixed the wobbly porch step without anyone asking him.
Slow, steady progress on my thesis. After not having him around, I don't think I've stopped noticing how much I like just having him nearby, even if we’re not doing anything.
“My grandmother taught me this,” I tell him, taking his overly thick attempt and rolling it flatter myself. “I was maybe eight the first time. She'd stand me on a stool so I could reach the counter.”
“Was she patient?”
“No. Not even remotely. She'd take the rolling pin out of my hands about every ten seconds and say it still wasn't thin enough.” I smile, thinking about it.
“There was flour everywhere in her kitchen too.
I think it's just part of the process. She used to say if you weren't wearing some of it, you weren't really making lefse.”
“So this is authentic.”
“Very.
He tries again, more careful this time, and it's better, thin enough in most places I let him move on to the griddle without further critique.
Beck's not bad at this, which surprises me a little.
He's patient, the same steady focus he brings to everything, even when the dough clearly isn't cooperating with him.
“Would she have approved?” he asks, nodding at his second attempt, currently browning unevenly on the griddle.
I study it for a long moment. “She would've liked you.”
“Yeah?”
“She liked anyone who tried. She had less patience for people who gave up because something was hard.”
Something in his expression softens at that, quick, there and gone, and I go back to my own dough before either of us can make it into a bigger moment than it already is.
“Hold still,” Beck says a minute later, reaching toward my face. “You've got flour on your nose.”
I hold still, assuming this is going to go the way it went at Silver Bell, his thumb brushing something away, a kiss following it.
“Did you get it?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you just put flour on my nose on purpose?”
“Maybe.”
I retaliate, getting a generous handful onto his shoulder before he can dodge.
A small, entirely justified flour battle follows, brief but thorough, until we're both standing here covered, laughing, close enough that the laughing starts to fade into something else.
Beck's got flour in his eyebrows. I probably look worse. Neither of us seems bothered by it.
He kisses me. No hesitation, no uncertain first-time energy, just easy and warm, flour dusting both our faces. I think, not for the first time, I could do this every single day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.
“Is that lefse?”
We break apart to find Nolan standing in the doorway, nose visibly working.
“Did you smell it from outside?” I ask.
“I smelled it from the porch. Can I have some?”
“It's not finished.”
“I can wait.”
He sits down at the table like this settles the matter, unbothered by the fact Beck and I are both standing here covered in flour looking suspiciously rumpled.
Cassidy wanders through not long after, drawn by the same smell, and asks if there's enough for her too.
“You didn't even eat lefse at the festival,” I say, remembering.
“I know. I really wanted to. I was saving room.”
Nolan sits up straight. “Saving room. For what?”
“The pie contest.”
“You planned that?”
“Of course.”
Nolan stares at her like she's just confessed to a conspiracy. “I ate three meals before that contest.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Cassidy says, unsympathetic, and goes to fill a glass of water like she hasn't just retroactively made her own victory a hundred times funnier.
The kitchen stays busy for a while after that.
Dani comes through for water and stays long enough to steal a piece straight off the griddle.
Reid and Trevor get back from wherever they went and want to know what's happening.
Somebody's always coming or going, grabbing something, asking a question, and through all of it Beck's just here, standing at the counter, making my grandmother's lefse. It’s unremarkable to everyone. Except me.
Once we've got another batch finished, I make one the way I love mine best. Warm off the griddle, butter melted generously across it, cinnamon and sugar, rolled up. I hand it to Beck and watch him take a bite, invested in his reaction.
He chews. Swallows. Says absolutely nothing.
“Well?”
He takes another bite. “I need a larger sample size.”
“I knew you'd like it,” I say.
My grandmother taught me this in a kitchen two hundred miles from here, years before Beck ever existed in my life. Now he knows how to make it too, badly, but he knows, and something about that feels bigger than it should over a piece of fried potato dough.
Eventually Nolan and Cassidy disappear with their share. The kitchen empties, leaving Beck and me with the cleanup. Flour on the counter. Flour on the floor. Flour, somehow, on the ceiling, which neither of us can explain.
Beck starts wiping down the counter without being asked, and I survey the wreckage of what used to be a functional kitchen.
“My grandmother would be horrified,” I say.
“At the mess?”
“At your rolling technique.”
He throws the dish towel at me, which I dodge.
“What are you doing Friday night?” he asks, once we've gotten most of the flour under control.
“After work?”
“After work.”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Don't make plans.”
I look at him, trying to read whatever's behind that. “Why not?”
“I want to take you on a real date.”
That catches-me-off-guard. Because somehow, in the middle of everything we've done together, we haven't actually gone on a date. Not the classic version. Not Beck deciding, asking, planning.
“The hike wasn't a date?” I ask.
“We looked at plants. I can do better.”
“I liked the plants.”
“I know you did. I still want to do better.”
“Where are we going?”
“You'll find out Friday.”
I try a few more angles, casual questions disguised as innocent curiosity, direct requests, even an attempt at bargaining that involves promising him more lefse. He gives me nothing, just keeps wiping down the counter like he hasn't just made the rest of my week considerably more interesting.
“Fine,” I say. “Keep your secrets.”
“I intend to.”
I watch him finish cleaning, flour still dusted through his hair, looking too pleased with himself for a man who spent an hour losing to potato dough.
I'm going to spend the next six days wondering what he's planning.