Chapter 11 #2
The hairs on the back of my neck tickle. Because she’s saying something that I’ve never brought to the forefront of my mind. Yet… it’s something that’s always been tucked there in a corner.
I have a lifetime of memories of Mom, Grandad Pete, and Grandma Vale in this kitchen. They play like a silent movie in the background all the time. They are so present, I notice them like one notices wallpaper—which means never.
And also always.
I glance at Pop. He’s standing with one hand on the wall and the other on the back of his chair, staring openly at Hattie. His reel of memories is probably richer than mine.
Hattie looks from him to me. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean that your house is haunted. I—”
“No. No. You didn’t say anything wrong.” I set the bakery boxes on the table and reach for her bag. “Here, let me—”
But she tugs it toward her. “I want to help,” she declares. Not rudely but firmly.
I nod. “Okay. Anything you want.”
She blushes a little and plops the grocery bag on the table. “The grapes need washing.” She fishes them out of her bag and carries them to the sink.
I look down at my hands and my T-shirt and decide now’s my chance. “I need to clean up too,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Hattie chirps, already cranking the faucet.
I give Pop a warning look, and he just scowls at me. I shake my head and jog upstairs. I peel off my shirt, wash and dry my face, neck and hands, and am buttoning up an old but clean shirt when I return to the kitchen.
Pop’s sitting in his chair as Hattie unloads the shopping bag. I grab plates, utensils, and hunt down the pie cutter for her quiche.
“Orange marmalade?” Pop’s grumbling voice twists like he’s never heard of it before.
I glance over my shoulder, about to give him a silent scowl, when I see the look on his face. It’s almost boyish.
He’s gripping the small jar of preserves in his trembling hand with a nearly confused smile. “I haven’t had this in years. Your grandmother used to love the stuff.”
A flash of memory. Mom carrying a pan of biscuits to the table.
Grandma Vale spooning orange marmalade over the sliced and buttered halves of her biscuit.
Grif wrinkling his nose at the bits of orange peel in the spread.
Then Grandma Vale telling him his face might freeze like that if he wasn’t careful.
I chuckle. “She did.”
“Orange marmalade is the best,” Hattie declares, holding out her hand for the little container. Pop hands it over to her. “I’d eat it every day if I could.”
“Well, why don’t you?” Pop asks, frowning.
Hattie twists open the jar and sets it down in front of him. “Macros.”
Pop scowls. “Macros?”
“Macronutrients,” I say to Pop.
He aims his confused scowl back at Hattie. “Are you a farmer? Worried about soil depletion?”
“No. I’m not a farmer,” Hattie says, opening the fig jam now. “My mom says preserves have too much sugar, so we never buy it.”
“Hmph. Sugar’s the point when it comes to preserves,” Pop grumbles.
Hattie returns to the table. “I’ll remember that the next time Mom tries to crush my marmalade dreams.”
And then the impossible happens. Pop laughs.
It’s short. Anyone other than me or Grif would think it was a cough. But it’s not.
He looks as surprised as I am. He hasn’t so much as smirked since Sunday after Paul’s pronouncement. But he’s smiling at Hattie right now.
I’ll be damned.
She opens one of the pastry boxes and tips it toward my father. “Croissant? There’s French, cream cheese, chocolate, and almond,” she rattles off.
Pop blinks into the box, a little stunned.
“I know, right? That’s why I got three of each, so we wouldn’t have to make up our minds.” She gives a cute little shrug. “Take one of everything.”
A smile twists the corner of his mouth. “Maybe just an almond and a cream cheese,” he says.
Hattie holds the box patiently while he selects one and then the other, his tremors setting off a small shower of pastry flakes.
“Beck?”
It’s only when Hattie offers the box to me that I realize I’m staring at her like she invented starlight.
I take a croissant, not even sure which one I’ve picked, and set it on my plate.
“You only want one?” Hattie gazes longingly into the box.
I’m about to nod when I clock the disappointment on her face.
If I only take one, will she, like, hold herself back? Jesus, I want her to have as many as she wants. Enjoy the hell out of this rare feast she brought to our table.
“One? No way?” I reach in and grab another, this one almost square with little blobs of chocolate dotting two ends. Then I grab one covered in toasted almonds.
Hattie beams and puts the same three on her plate. A French, a chocolate, and an almond croissant.
I open the other box and moan at the sight. Pop frowns and peeks over.
The bacon cheddar quiche looks rich, savory, and satisfying. No, I am not going to have to cook tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow night.
“Good God, Beckett. Your girlfriend is trying to kill us.”
Hattie freezes, mid-reach for the marmalade. “No, I’m not—” She whips her gaze to me. “Do y’all have a gluten allergy? Or are you diabe—”
“No,” I interject, trying my best not to chuckle. “He just means you’re spoiling us. Think of it as his way of saying thanks.”
Hattie pulls her chin in and eyes Pop with suspicion. Behind his glasses, amusement twinkles in Pop’s eyes. The same way he used to tease us over breakfast when we were kids, the four of us sitting around this table on Sunday mornings.
God, I haven’t thought about those days in years.
“Oh… um… Even though I’m not attempting murder, just brunch, and even though I’m not Beck’s girlfriend since this is only our second date and—” she shakes her head, looking adorably baffled, “I don’t even know how people go from Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date to being someone’s girlfriend because I’ve never been someone’s girlfriend—you’re welcome. ”
Pop stares like he’s just swallowed a boiled egg. In the shell. Then he turns to me and clears his throat.
“I like her.”
My smile is a runaway train. “I like her, too.”
Hattie’s brunch is a field trip to heaven’s front porch.
The croissants are so light and soft, eating the three I’ve served myself is nothing. Pop wears this funny grin as he slathers each bite of his with orange marmalade. And when he digs into the bacon cheddar quiche, his grunt of satisfaction startles all three of us.
The food is so good. And I honestly don’t know if it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had because the local French bakery is a thing of wonder… or if it’s because it’s from Hattie.
I mean, having her here feels like we replaced all the bulbs in the kitchen with 1000-watt halogens.
We linger over the food, but not too long. I don’t have long to begin with, and I want to show Hattie around.
I also want to find a quiet corner in one of the store sheds and kiss her until the sun goes down.
When Hattie offers to help clean up, I tell her I’ll leave it until tonight.
“But it’ll just take a few minutes,” she says, already standing from the table, plate in hand.
Gently, I take it from her and set it back down. “We only have a few minutes before I have to get back to work.” This might be an exaggeration. I have about forty minutes left, but none of them are going to be spent doing dishes.
I take her by the hand instead. “C’mon.”
Hattie blinks at me before looking back at Pop. “It was nice meeting you. You’re not nearly as grumpy as Beck said you’d be.”
My snort catches me off guard, but Pop only grins at her.
“I blame the company,” he says with a wink.
I tug Hattie toward the door, but not before catching Pop’s look of warning.
“Mind your manners with that one, Beckett,” he threatens, low and rumbly.
Hattie frowns at my father. “Beck has excellent manners, Mr. Olivier. He asked for consent the first time he hugged me, and he didn’t even want to hug me today before he had a chance to wash up.
But I don’t even care about a little dirt or sweat because Beck’s hugs are so good.
He should do a podcast, teaching people how to hu—” She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Wait. Did he learn that from you?”
“I—” Pop coughs and clears his throat. And I’ll be damned, but Pop blushes. He fucking blushes.
Griffin will never believe this.
Fighting my laugh, I grip Hattie’s hand tighter. “C’mon, sweet. Let’s go.”