Chapter 11 #2
‘I see this is where the magic happens.’ Zoey pointed to the living-room area.
There, a deep couch sat amid bookshelves and a guitar, looking out the front window with its views of the daisy-smattered fields.
One side sported a paw-patterned blanket that Zoey assumed was Alice’s.
Alice hopped up, confirming Zoey’s suspicions.
‘Alice and I have read many a book on that couch. The stars here at night are unbelievable.’
‘You do the Portland thing and just leave your curtains up, even though some creeper might be out there looking right in?’
‘But I do have curtains,’ pointed out Nick, who was rattling around in the kitchen. ‘I figure if they’ve come all the way out here, they deserve the view. Besides, I’ve really only had one individual – to my knowledge – get weird on me. Your sparkly friend Darina.’
‘God, poor Darina,’ said Zoey. ‘I really hope she’s doing all right. June says she hasn’t heard a peep from her in days.’
She still wasn’t quite sure what had brought on Darina’s mental break, although her job did seem stressful.
And apparently cartwheels didn’t help with stress management.
When she’d asked after Darina’s wellbeing the next time she’d seen June, Darina’s Skeletor-ish best friend had simply shrugged.
‘I try not to dwell on the negative. It ushers in bad energy, and I can’t do that to my practitioners. ’
‘I hate bad energy,’ Nate the Hater had said. Zoey had spent a while mulling over that statement, wondering whether it negated itself, or the opposite. She’d have to ask the English teacher who came in on Mondays, demanding the strongest thing Zoey could legally give her.
‘She hasn’t been in at all?’ asked Nick now, sounding surprised.
Zoey shook her head. ‘Not for a while now.’
Nick turned from the cabinet he’d been banging around in. ‘I mean, she was in a bad state. I don’t know if she was sick with a fever or if it was a mental-health issue. I know we’ve been joking about the whole brains thing, but …’
Zoey swallowed as she thought about Nestor digging about in the dumpster. ‘But it’s not … you know.’
‘Zombies?’ said Nick with a chuckle.
‘Exactly!’ She’d felt ridiculous even thinking it, but apparently they were on the same wavelength. Which made her feel quite … pleased.
Still, she knew in her heart that wasn’t what was going on.
Zoey had always been a sceptic. She was certain that the vast majority of ghost sightings could be put down to gas leaks, and that vampires were just a cultural metaphor for lust. And she’d had plenty of arguments with Joaquin about the existence of Bigfoot.
So she couldn’t quite make the leap between people wandering around muttering about brains and zombies being an actual thing.
Nick wiped a smudge off a pan, considering. ‘I mean, there are diseases that have side effects not unlike what we think of when we think of pop-culture zombies. Like rabies or toxoplasmosis. But zombie zombies … no way.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Zoey, although she pulled her cardigan around her. ‘It’s just coincidence that everyone’s shuffling around opining about grey matter the way they do on TV.’
‘Uh-huh. Just our brains finding patterns where there are none.’ Nick went back to work in the kitchen.
‘Maybe there’s just something in the water,’ Zoey suggested as she thumbed through the well-loved copy of Mushrooms Demystified sitting on a side table.
‘Well, if that’s the case, I recently replaced the filter on my fridge, so we’re all good. Any dietary restrictions?’ called Nick, hefting a massive lemon with a few leaves still attached.
‘Just dietary ambitions.’ Now Zoey was glancing over the paintings and photos on the walls: most were original oils and watercolours with 1960s vibes.
And some black-and-white photos: family members, some; others old farms or industrial set-ups.
There was only one framed movie poster, and thank God, it wasn’t Tarantino.
The Last Man on Earth (the Vincent Price post-apocalyptic horror classic, not the whimsical TV show of the same name).
Zoey could work with that. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’ve got it. Go pop your feet up and enjoy the view. Here.’
He passed her a glass of white wine and set to work chopping mushrooms. Zoey didn’t need to be told twice: the view from her current vantage point was quite something. And that wasn’t even taking into consideration the view outside.
Nick measured out some pasta into the pot of water he had boiling, then starting fixing a creamy sauce.
‘Herbs from the veggie patch, mushrooms from the greenhouse, pasta from this weird little roadside shop in Battle Ground that also sells cheese and meat in volumes that my fridge simply cannot handle.’
Fridges were becoming quite a motif in their relationship. ‘Well, if ever you need help moving a backup fridge, I do owe you one.’
The kitchen grew fragrant with the aroma of garlic and butter, and humid from the boiling water.
The windows misted, and Zoey found herself dreaming of quiet winter evenings in this very same kitchen, sipping at a glass of wine, smiling at Nick’s cheerful patter as he ran about the kitchen, stirring his sauce and checking how far along his pasta was.
‘Garlic bread?’
‘If you have some on hand.’
Nick brushed some garlic butter over a sliced length of Italian bread, then popped it into the oven.
‘You’re pretty deft in the kitchen,’ said Zoey, approvingly.
Nick sprinkled some pepper into his sauce. ‘My parents love to cook, and they always invited us to help out. And my sisters are both foodies. I think the sibling rivalry is probably the main thing inspiring my love of a gourmet meal.’
‘You have my full permission to take a photo and send it over to them as proof of your sibling superiority.’
‘I’ll pop it in the group chat,’ promised Nick.
‘You have a family group chat?’ Zoey was astonished. How could anyone be so … well adjusted? Was this normal? Should she be concerned?
Nick regarded her as he stripped some basil. ‘You’re looking at me like I might turn out to be a serial killer.’
Zoey groaned. ‘You’re polite, and clearly you keep to yourself. What other conclusions am I meant to draw?’
‘That I’m the kind of nice boy you’d want to bring home to … whoever your favourite people are. Ainsley and Co. And also that I’m a great cook.’
Nick plated up two portions of the mushroom pasta on retro mustard-yellow plates that he confessed were a Goodwill find, then fiddled about with some shaved cheese and a garnish of parsley.
‘The group chat is going to love this,’ said Zoey. ‘You could step in as sous chef at Departure.’
Nick puffed out his chest.
‘Can I take a photo?’ he asked. ‘With you as well?’
Zoey wasn’t ordinarily the selfie-taking type, but she felt … disarmed. Like she didn’t have to be prickly and protective. Because there was something here, in this whole situation, that felt safe. Accepting.
‘Should we slurp the pasta?’ said Zoey mischievously.
‘Yes, absolutely. On the count of three.’ Nick grabbed his fork and started twirling his pasta. ‘One, two, three …’ he counted around a mouthful of pasta, then yelled, ‘Parmesan!’
‘Parmesan!’ shouted Zoey in unison as the camera shutter clicked.
Having sent off the text, Nick hefted his plate. ‘Dining table or porch?’
‘Let’s do porch,’ said Zoey decisively. ‘I want to feel this whole country-living thing. Plus, I heard an owl before, and I want to see if I can hear it again.’
‘That’s Minerva. She lives in the barn. Every now and then she’ll end up outside the house, right in the middle of the day. Confusing, but if it means she handles the mole situation, I’m all for it.’
They headed outside to the wrought-iron bistro set on the porch. Nick had turned on a set of fairy lights: they added a soft illumination to the cosy outdoor space – and some striking shadows to his already gorgeous features.
‘I subscribe to the year-round-fairy-lights philosophy,’ he said with a shrug, indicating for Zoey to sit. ‘And we don’t get fireflies here – which my aunt in North Carolina is always reminding me about – so we might as well make our own.’
The two of them dug in to the pasta, which was rich with a mix of mushrooms: oyster, shiitake, chanterelles, each of them with a distinct taste and texture that shone through the creamy sauce.
‘This is incredible,’ said Zoey, who was almost certainly wearing half of her sauce on her face.
‘It’s easy to whip up something half decent when you have your very own greenhouse and a personal veggie patch.’ Nick smiled over at her. No, not smiled. Veritably beamed. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
They chitchatted about the farm and Nick’s commute, and about the likelihood of Romero showing up in time to be declared the winner of his mayoral campaign. (According to Ainsley he was polling extremely well. Apparently his Cat Nip message was resonating.)
When they’d finished, Nick shot her an appraising eye. ‘How are we feeling about some local, possibly explosive honey on bread for dessert? I know it’s not the most gourmet, but it is really good.’
Zoey murmured her assent, and Nick returned a few minutes later with a plate piled high with freshly sliced bread and a pot of honey with a chunk of honeycomb in it.
He passed her a knife, and she dug in to the honey with such vim that she managed to get it over her shirt, her wrist, the table, and the plate. And finally the bread, so all was not lost.
‘You’re meant to eat it, not wear it,’ teased Nick.
‘Well, that depends on what you’re into,’ she said, archly.
Did Nick flush this time?
‘Fair. All right, moment of truth,’ he said, as Zoey took a bite.
Her taste buds exploded in a divine chorus. Little birds tweeted in her brain, like in a Disney cartoon.
‘Damn, I need a fainting couch,’ she admitted, through a mouthful of bread. ‘I might have to talk to Bozo about sourcing some of that for the smoothie shop.’
‘Don’t go hitting your head,’ warned Nick. ‘It’s a bit of a drive to the nearest hospital. Just ask poor Darina.’