Chapter 5 Presley #3
“I’m sorry for overreacting. I can get a little. . . High strung sometimes.”
“You’re fine,” Ford said, looking down at his lap as if noticing for the first time that Priscilla had made her bed on his legs. “Hi,” he said, looking at her. She looked up at him and gave the tiniest little wag in reply. It melted my heart.
The oven chimed, letting us know that dinner was ready. I skated to the kitchen in my thick wooly socks and opened the door of the oven. The delicious smells wafted through the chalet, and it was divine.
“I hope you like chicken enchiladas,” I hollered, not waiting for a reply before I started plating them. Enchiladas were best served while piping hot and when the cheese was melted to near-liquid form.
Ford walked over, Priscilla not an inch from his feet as she kept up with him.
I put out her food bowl that I had prepared while I was cooking, and she excitedly went to it and started in.
I left Ford’s plate on the kitchen counter as he didn’t choose to sit with me last time at the table, so I didn’t want to smother him by forcing him to.
But, I was elated when he picked it up and followed me to the table where he sat across from me. Immediately, I jumped into prayer.
“Lord, we thank You for this food that will bring nourishment to our tired bodies. I thank You for never leaving or forsaking me, though I do not deserve Your grace time after time. And for giving me the opportunity to meet Ford, who has been a perfect steward of charity to put us up. Please bless him, Lord, for his kindness. In Your name, Amen.” I trailed off during prayer, but Ford’s quiet “Amen” barely was audible.
He paused for a moment and slowly started moving his fork.
“This is awesome. Thank you, Presley,” Ford beamed, after taking a bite. “I can’t remember the last time I had enchiladas.”
“Well, there’s more where that came from, then.” I didn’t know why I said that, but I rolled with it. “I mean, I love to cook.”
“That’s what you said.” He smiled, but it almost looked forced. The man was exhausted.
“Yes. I love to cook, and I haven’t been able to cook for someone else in years,” I said, immediately contemplating if that made me sound desperate.
Ugh, there I go again, worrying to death about what this man thought of me.
Lord, help me out. Ford’s opinion of me does not matter. I just want to be kind and respectful.
“I don’t know that I like to cook, but I sure like to eat.” Ford’s serving was disappearing fast. I sipped the sparkling Italian soda I brought while he opted for water.
As we ate, and he got a heaping second serving, I noticed the sheer size of the table.
Perfect for puzzling, and I just so happened to have brought a puzzle with me.
Could you really take a ski trip in a sleepy snowy village without putting together a jigsaw?
I didn’t think so. I also noticed how quiet it was there.
I felt a twinge of nostalgia and craved some music.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I opened my music app and scrolled until I found an aptly titled après-ski mix. The first song was soft and serene.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I motioned to the phone that played music while we ate. He shook his head. The song ended short, and the second song to come up sounded like it was playing at a rave. “Oh my. . .” I trailed off, shutting down the app.
“If that’s the kind of music you like, head down to the base of the ski resort. There’s a DJ there five days a week blasting that,” he smirked, as he finished his meal.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m more into the oldies.
Nothing from this century has won me over yet.
I have a record collection at home. The way a record player fills a space with sound is just incredible.
It might not be the crispest way to play a tune, but it sure feels the most. . . right.” Ford smiled.
“You’ll like this then.” He got up and slid his chair back into the table, taking his dish to the sink.
I got up to follow him as we went into his office.
He revealed inside of a large built-in cabinet a record player and a small collection of records.
“Go ahead and play something from here, if you’d like.
I’m going to hit the shower.” He left, heading upstairs to his room and shut the door behind him.
“Now we’re talking!” I started thumbing through the collection and was pleasantly surprised that we had music tastes in common.
I wasn’t far into his cabinet when I realized the man had more Elvis albums than I was even aware existed.
And I loved Elvis. Kind of a chicken and the egg situation, considering my name and all, but I’d listened to him all of my life.
So had my mother, who passed on her love for his tunes to me with my namesake.
I swiftly put his Greatest Hits record on and placed the needle at the beginning.
As the delicious sound filled the room, I felt at home.
By the time Ford returned downstairs, I was halfway through the album and had 1,000 puzzle pieces scattered around half of his dining room table, on the side that we hadn’t been eating at.
The dishes were already in the dishwasher, and the counters had been wiped down.
Priscilla was working on a Kong toy with a tablespoon of peanut butter inside as her prize.
My hot tea was steeping a delicious peppermint scent, and I was having the time of my life.
The song changed and my favorite Elvis song of all time came on, Unchained Melody. I stood.
“Do you want to dance?” I asked Ford, who looked like I just asked him the secrets of the universe.