Chapter 28 Holly #2
“Let’s get out of here,” he says. Then he pays for our groceries and leads me into the balmy evening, reminding me of another thing I love about Atlanta: the gentle summer nights that follow scorching-hot days.
It’s a short drive to Hugh’s place, a carriage house in the historic and affluent Druid Hills neighborhood, less than a block from Emory’s campus.
Towering elms line the steep driveway leading to a lovely brick Tudor Revival home.
Hugh parks and gestures for me to lead the way up a rickety exterior stairway beside the garage.
“Welcome to my glamorous home,” he says, turning the key in the lock and then easing the door open.
The first thing I notice is a small kitchenette, with a Formica counter the size of a school desk, above which are open shelves painted white and neatly stacked with four plates and four bowls.
The oven, against the edge of the counter, is a two-burner type that wouldn’t even fit a casserole dish inside, and the squat refrigerator looks like it belongs in a dorm.
“Needless to say, I don’t entertain much,” he says as we step into the room.
He turns to close the door behind us, giving me a chance to do a quick scan of the room—the only room.
It’s a studio apartment, the key feature being a full-size bed, neatly made with a duvet covered in white cotton and two fluffed pillows.
In some ways, it’s a classic graduate student crash pad, but the very small number of items filling it are of much higher quality and are much more artfully arranged.
Hugh slips off his shoes and sets them on a wooden rack beside the door, where a row of leather loafers lines up neatly beside one pair of gently used running shoes.
“Force of habit,” he says. “You don’t need to—”
But I’m already leaning down to remove my heels, relishing the feel of cool tile under my bare feet.
“No sofa?” I ask, glancing up to see him set the grocery bags on the small counter.
“No room,” he replies, then walks toward a worn leather armchair in the corner, between two full-to-bursting bookcases.
The chair, which is the only one in the apartment, besides two small metal dining chairs, sits on an antique Persian rug.
When he reaches over to turn on the reading lamp, the area fills with warm light.
“Please, have a seat,” he tells me, gesturing toward the plush cushion. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
I sink in, savoring the commingled scents of leather, old books, and freshly washed sheets. It seems that Hugh wasn’t exaggerating when he said his life is far from glamorous, but there’s something so inviting about this small apartment that I can’t help feeling at home.
Hugh walks across the room and pulls a wine bottle from the kitchen shelf. He opens it and fills two glasses, brings one to me. We silently clink our glasses together, and I take a sip—a rich, complex Bordeaux in a delicate crystal goblet.
Unable to resist tucking my legs under me, I curl deeper in and let myself watch him, his back turned to me while he unloads groceries, sets a speaker on the counter, and pulls a cutting board and knife from under the sink. John Coltrane’s “Naima” quietly fills the small space.
“Music okay?” he asks.
I nod, remembering the first time I heard Coltrane, played barely adequately by a middle-school jazz band, and the many times and places I’ve heard him since. I never imagined I’d hear “Naima” in a garage apartment in Druid Hills, while watching a sexy British man cook for me.
Hugh fills an electric rice cooker and sets the timer.
“Your meal will be served in approximately twenty-four minutes,” he announces, taking a glass bowl from the shelf and pouring something from a jar.
He walks toward me and sets the bowl beside me, handing me a cloth napkin.
“Spicy pickled okra to hold you over,” he says.
“Ohmygod, I love pickled okra so much,” I exclaim, because it’s true, and because I’m genuinely shocked that the esteemed professor is serving it.
“Well, then,” he replies, heading back into the kitchen to run a bunch of cilantro under water, “that’s something else we share in common.”
I wonder what in the world else Hugh could believe we share in common. Maybe our ill-spent youth? I decide not to ask.
He pulls items from the fridge and arranges them on the small counter: onions, cucumber, tomatoes, carrot, radish, and a lemon. He places them beside a hunk of ginger, a head of garlic, and several spice jars, then removes a Tupperware container, sets a pot on the stove, and pours in the contents.
I’m feeling more relaxed, sipping fine wine in this cozy studio apartment, than I’ve felt in weeks, maybe months. I have the strange sensation, here, of having been transported to another time and place, where douchey men, shady business transactions, and blackmail simply don’t belong.
Last night, we met up with Eli and prepared him to bait the hook for Griggs.
Over “pregame” drinks at Griggs and Anna-Byrd’s before the gala, Tripp will ask Griggs for advice on how to invest his trust fund.
We’re betting on the fact that Griggs won’t be able to resist luring Tripp into the Lake Chiaha scheme. A pretty safe bet.
But the last person I want to think about right now is Griggs Johnson.
“Can I help?” I ask Hugh, pushing all thoughts of our scheme out of my mind for just one night.
“No need,” Hugh says. “Just never tell my mother that you saw me do this.” Then he takes an Instant Pot from the cabinet and sets it beside the rice cooker. “I love her recipes, but it seems I rarely have three days to set aside for preparing the meals I enjoyed as a child.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I tell him.
He pours oil into the Instant Pot, then sprinkles in cumin seeds. While they sizzle and fill the air with their bright aroma, Hugh expertly dices an onion, then tosses it in. He continues to add ingredients, while I crunch my way through hot okra and wash it down with bold red wine.
I’m mesmerized, watching him chop and stir with a confidence that reveals he’s done this many times before.
On a whim, I snap a photo of him at work and send it to Luisa.
After Eli left last night, I filled Luisa in on how Hugh arrived at the club to explain his long silence, and the sweet and supportive things he told me in the park.
She responds immediately:
Sexy British Professor cooks???? too good to be true?
I read her text and smile as a picture of Eli, standing beside a Weber grill in an apron, downloads.
Eli says “hi” and his meat is tastier than pridmore’s
I laugh out loud at that one, causing Hugh to turn toward me, questioning.
“Luisa,” I say, gesturing toward the phone, which seems to appease him. I shoot back a quick reply:
Eli wins. Pretty sure Hugh is vegetarian
Then I slide my phone into my purse and turn my full attention to the moment.
Hugh begins to set the small kitchen table with cloth napkins and water glasses.
He opens the door and steps out to the landing, cuts three bright zinnias from a window box attached to the metal stair rail.
He puts them in a bud vase and sets it at the center of the table, then returns to a stove to warm parathas on a griddle.
I let myself observe the back of his neck, the place where his neatly trimmed, dark hairline meets freshly shaved skin.
I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers across that skin, and whether he might want me to do that.
I wonder if it would be smooth, or if I’d feel dark stubble under my fingertips.
“Dinner is served,” he announces.
I climb out of the armchair, running my hand along the smooth leather as I walk away.
By the time I reach the table, he has already set a low bowl, heaped with steaming rice, a dish that looks a bit like scrambled eggs, and a couple of other deliciously scented sides.
He brushes a steaming paratha with ghee and then sets it on my plate.
“You’re not one of those people who thinks cilantro tastes like soap, are you?” he asks. I shake my head, and he releases a handful of fresh herbs over my bowl. “My mum still calls it coriander,” he muses, “even when it’s fresh.” He refills my wine and comes to sit across from me.
“Paneer bhurji and dal makhani,” he tells me, “with a kachumber salad. The simple comfort food I carry with me wherever I go in this world. I hope you enjoy.”
Following his lead, I tear an edge off the soft buttery paratha and dip it into the dal.
I honestly can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me, much less in their home kitchen.
I feel overcome with gratitude for the delicate balance of this meal, and the simple pleasure of being in this place with Hugh.
“It’s a miracle that you made all of this fabulous food in an Instant Pot, in less time than it would take for us to get a table at Deer and Dove,” I exclaim.
“I actually made the paneer yesterday,” he responds. “It’s absurd, really, to make paneer when it’s easily found at the corner shop. But somehow it relaxes me at the end of a long work week, to press the curd through cheesecloth. It’s a bit like meditation.”
“But yummier,” I reply.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.” His face shows genuine delight. “And the dal? Not too spicy?”
“Bring on the spice,” I tell him. “I love it.”
“Then next time, I absolutely will add more heat,” he replies, smiling.
I feel a blush rise to my cheeks, imagining the next time he cooks for me, and all the ways we might find to add heat. He glances away, toward my almost empty water glass, his expression making clear that he’s also considering the double meaning of his words. Then he jumps up to refill my water.