Chapter Thirteen
Sundays were Eloise’s favorite day of the week. Today, while the rest of the family went to church, she stayed home to fix a special treat for Sunday supper. Danny seemed on edge for the first time since arriving a few days ago at the idea of going into town for church. Bless Aunt Eileen, she seemed to sense that was too much for him and suggested Danny might want a little more time to acclimate before going into town and he should stay home. He’d stayed in his room for a bit, but then, with his trusty new friend at his heels, went outside for a bit of fresh air.
The back door slammed shut and she thought it might be her brother, only Quinn came in stomping his feet.
She didn’t know enough about ranching, but from the amused glint in his aunt’s eyes when he told her why he needed to skip church as well this morning, Eloise hoped the real reason had something to do with her. It was silly, and a little school girlish, but she couldn’t help how she was feeling.
Eloise looked up as Quinn stepped into the kitchen, the back door closing behind him. The rich aroma of her meat sauce simmering on the back burner hung in the air. “You’re just in time.” She reached for the canvas apron hanging by the pantry. “I’m making pasta from scratch for supper.”
Silently, Quinn eyed the orderly chaos spread across the kitchen counters—flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt arranged neatly beside her wooden board and rolling pin.
“From scratch?” He hung his hat on the peg by the door. “I thought that’s what stores were for.”
“Blasphemy.” She laughed and tossed him the spare apron. “Nothing compares to homemade. I’ve been wanting to try Aunt Eileen’s pasta roller since I spotted it tucked away in the pantry.”
Quinn chuckled, hesitantly taking the apron. “Glad someone knows what that thing is for. I’m not sure even Aunt Eileen does.”
“Now you’ll both know.” She measured flour onto the wooden board, creating a small mountain. “I’m guessing you’ve never made pasta before?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say it was on my list of life skills to acquire.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day.” She made a well in the center of the flour mound, almost like a volcano. “Hand me those eggs?”
Quinn passed them to her, watching curiously as she cracked four eggs into the center of her flour crater.
“Now for the magic.” She drizzled olive oil and sprinkled salt over the eggs. “See how the flour creates a wall to keep the eggs contained? That’s the first trick.”
“Does it always work?” He leaned closer, genuinely interested.
“Not always.” She smiled, remembering countless messes in culinary school. “Which is why we start in the center and work our way out. Here, I’ll show you.”
Using a fork, she began beating the eggs, gradually incorporating flour from the inner walls of her volcano. Quinn watched, his eyes gleaming with focus and teetering with fascination at the transformation as the mixture slowly became more solid.
“This is where it gets hands-on.” She set the fork aside. “Ready to get messy?”
His brows shot up a moment before he stretched out his arms and rolled his sleeves up, revealing tanned forearms. “I’m all yours.”
Now her brows rose to her hairline and then she had to hold back her laughter when he realized how those three little words could mean something totally different.
“Uh,” he cleared his throat and swallowed hard, “I mean, uh,” He sighed. “Never mind.”
Chuckling, she returned her attention to the mound in front of her. “Start pulling in more flour, like this.” She worked her fingers to incorporate more flour into the sticky mixture. “Don’t worry about getting it perfect. Pasta dough is forgiving.”
Quinn’s large hands looked almost comical next to her practiced ones, but he followed her lead, cautiously working flour into the developing dough.
“That’s it,” she encouraged. “Now we need to knead it until it’s smooth and elastic.”
Quinn’s expression remained skeptical as they worked the dough together. “How do you know when it’s ready?”
“I feel it.” She pressed her palm into the increasingly smooth mixture. “It’ll tell you when it’s right. Here, try.”
Placing her hands on either side of his, she guided them to the dough, surprised by how naturally he took to the motion—pushing forward with his palms, folding the dough back, turning it slightly, and repeating. The kitchen filled with comfortable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of kneading and the occasional gust of wind rattling the old windows.
“You’re a natural,” she observed, ignoring the urge to place her hands on his again as he worked the dough.
“Had a good teacher.” His voice came out softer than usual, almost intimate in the quiet kitchen.
The dough gradually transformed under their hands, becoming silky and elastic. When Eloise pressed her finger into it, the dough sprang back immediately. “Perfect.” She brushed flour from her hands. “Now we let it rest.”
“Rest?” Quinn’s eyebrows buckled together. “Dough needs a nap?”
Wrapping the dough in plastic, she didn’t bother to hide her laughter. “Thirty minutes, minimum. Gives the gluten time to relax. Otherwise, your pasta fights back when you try to roll it.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Can’t have rebellious pasta.”
“While we wait,” she grabbed a cutting board, “we can prep the sauce. Hand me those mushrooms?”
They fell into an easy rhythm—Quinn chopping where directed, Eloise stirring and seasoning. She found herself increasingly aware of his movements, the careful precision he brought to each task. The same attention to detail he showed in his construction work translated surprisingly well to cooking, expertly mincing garlic as she’d shown him. She tossed the additional ingredients into the simmering sauce and stirred. Taking a small taste, she seemed content with the seasoning.
“How long does the sauce have to cook?”
“Hours.”
“Hours?” Those eyes popped open wide again.
“Here.” She held her hand under a spoon and drew closer to his mouth. “Taste.”
He blew softly before slurping up the taste of red sauce. For a second she thought, his eyes were going to roll back in his head. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. This is the best sauce I’ve ever had.”
“And it’s not done yet either.”
The timer dinged, signaling the dough had rested long enough. Reluctantly, Eloise took a step in retreat. Too bad she didn’t have the nerve to move forward instead of back and kiss the drop of sauce away from the corner of his mouth. Now wouldn’t that be something worth keeping up?
Eloise turned to clear the counter, dusting it liberally with flour. “Ready for the tricky part?”
What he was ready for was to toss the pasta aside, pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, but that was sadly out of the question. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
She unwrapped the dough, cutting it into manageable sections. With her palm, she pressed on the first piece. Hands much smaller than his moved with a confidence that spoke of years of practice. The same hands that had made that incredible sauce now worked magic with flour and eggs.
“You really love the kitchen.” It wasn’t really a question.
Continuing to mix the ingredients in front of her, she nodded. “One of my foster parents was a pretty good cook. Learned from her Italian grandmother. That’s where I learned how to make the spaghetti sauce, or gravy as she called it. She’s the one who taught me to use carrots instead of sugar to cut the acid of the tomatoes.”
“Having tasted the sauce—er, gravy—so far, I’m really glad she shared her secrets.”
A shadow fell over her eyes. “We were only with her for a couple of years when she had a stroke. Couldn’t take care of us anymore, so we moved to yet another foster home.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. Right about now, he wished that she’d had a happy and loving family to live with all her life. She hadn’t said much, but he knew most of the homes were less than optimal. He was terribly tempted to pull her into a hug and promise her that her life would be forever perfect.
On a deep sigh, she reached for more flour, spreading some on the counter, and placing a drop on the tip of his nose. “Oops.”
“Oops?” He let out a laugh, about to reach for the open flour container.
“Ah, ah.” She shook her head, giggling and shoved a dish rag in his hand. “We have pasta to make.”
“Mm,” he muttered, wiping the flour from his nose. “Pasta.”
“That’s right. Pasta.” Still giggling under her breath, she picked up a rolling pin. “First we need to flatten it. Starting in the center, you work outward.”
“You, as in me?”
Her grin widened, but she didn’t say a word. Just in case she was planning another flour attack, he took a half step in retreat.
He tried to concentrate on the dough rather than the sweet smile that always seemed to have a way of making his stomach do back flips whenever she flashed it in his direction, or the way the sunlight shining through the kitchen windows caught the golden highlights in her hair.
“Your turn.” She handed him the rolling pin.
His first attempt was too heavy-handed. The dough stuck to the wooden surface.
“More flour.” She reached across him to add flour.
“Careful with that,” he teased.
Holding a scoop of flour in her palm, she teasingly held up her hand as if about to pelt him with the whole shebang. Chuckling softly, she merely waved her hand, lightly dusting the counter.
Her shoulder brushed his, heat shot through him all the way to his toes, his fingers tightened on the rolling pin and he sucked in a deep breath.
Oblivious to the sensations running through him, she continued as if they hadn’t been teasing each other. “And a lighter touch. Like you’re coaxing it, not forcing it.” Her voice was soft and low and just as tantalizing as the brief brush of shoulders.
Making another effort, surprise caught him when the dough began to yield under his gentler pressure. “How about that? It’s actually working.”
“Of course it is.” Her smile got him every time. “You build things. This is just another kind of building.”
Loving how she looked at life, he rolled the dough thinner, watching it transform into a translucent sheet.
“Perfect.” Her approval warmed him more than it should. “Now for the fun part.”
“I thought we were already having fun?”
“I thought so too.” Still smiling, she turned and fed the dough through Aunt Eileen’s pasta machine. “Another trick, don’t rush this either. Turn the crank very slowly.” The sheet emerged even thinner, more delicate. “You try.”
Their fingers brushed as she passed him the dough. He focused on the task, afraid she might read in his eyes what he barely understood himself.
The kitchen fell quiet except for the rhythmic turning of the crank.
“Now we cut.” She changed the attachment on the machine. “Fettuccine or spaghetti?”
“Chef’s choice.” He’d never felt like smiling so often in his life.
“Fettuccine.” She nodded firmly. “Holds the sauce better.”
Together they fed the sheets through again, this time watching them emerge as perfect ribbons of pasta. She gathered them, creating little nests on a flour-dusted tray.
“That’s it?” he asked. “We’re done?”
“For now.” She covered the pasta with a clean towel. “They need to dry a bit before cooking.”
Her hands were flecked with flour, a smudge of it on her cheek. Without thinking, he reached out, his thumb brushing it away. “Flour.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended.
“Thanks.” She didn’t step back.
The air between them seemed to thicken. Say something , he urged himself. Anything. Tell her how you feel . “Eloise, I—”
The back door swung open, the patter of paws spilled into the kitchen seconds before Danny’s laugh, shattering the moment.
“Perfect timing.” Eloise stepped back, her smile a little shaky. “Quinn and I just finished making pasta.”
Danny’s eyebrows rose as he surveyed the flour-dusted kitchen. “Looks more like a mess is what you made.”
Quinn forced a laugh, though everything in him wanted to grab those lost seconds back. What had he been about to say? What would she have answered?
Another moment and the front door creaked open, the sound of laughter and chatter drifting through the home as the kitchen filled with family. Quinn found himself watching her interact with the different members of his vast family as if she’d always been one of them, debating whether or not he’d imagined the disappointment in her eyes when they’d been interrupted. Wondering if he’d ever find the courage—or the moment—to finish what he’d started to say.