The Color of Us Page 14

  “Okay.” I don’t tell her that it’s what I think is best.

  The awkward silence makes me blurt out, “So, I’ve been seeing a lot of Danny Schroeder. He’s here a lot.”

  “Okay,” she says. “And?”

  “Just wondering what you remember about him.”

  And that question leads to a longer silence.

  “I do. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. He’s one of Paul’s guys, so he’s been working on the house.”

  “He’s doing well?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I think so. Danny has been so cool about welcoming me back and hooking me up with his friends and stuff.”

  “Good. I’m relieved to hear that.”

  There’s something in my mom’s tone and wording that makes me take notice.

  “Wait, what? Why ‘relieved’?”

  “No, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I say nothing and wait for her to continue, my stomach starting to form knots.

  “I forgot that Mike … Mike spent a lot of time with him. Looked after him.” I can hear how her voice changes. “Took him out on our boring errands, kept him next to him while he worked on basic house repairs. Leaky sinks and stuff. Mike took him fishing because you girls were not interested.” She laughs. “They used to come home empty-handed but happy nonetheless.”

  “So, his mom really wasn’t around much?”

  Her sigh is not lost on me. “Andie was eccentric. And aloof. Those are the kindest words I can come up with right now. I can’t say that I was overly impressed with her, and neither was your dad. I didn’t know her well, and I suspect nobody in town really did. She wasn’t invested in anyone here. Including her son. None of us in our social circle who had kids were perfect, but we cared. We all loved without hesitation.”

  Her silence after this goes on for too long.

  “But she didn’t?”

  “No,” my mom states solidly. “No, I don’t think she did.”

  She’s set us up for the most perfect and awful exchange. She’s opened this conversation to be about way more than Danny and his mom. It could be about my mother’s emotional absence in recent years.

  Instead of going there, I say weakly, “I’ve been cooking. Making breakfasts for people. People you used to know. Lunches and dinners too. Real cooking. It’s been fun, and it turns out that I’m not bad at it.”

  “Cooking?” she asks.

  “Like, I’ve been learning how to chop vegetables, sauté things. Make sauces. Also, I’m kind of an egg expert now,” I say with a hint of pride.

  “Oh. I didn’t know that was something you wanted to learn about. But that’s great. It sounds like you’re having fun.” Her words are kind, but her tone is flat. Confused maybe.

  “I am.” The doorbell rings. It’s an excuse to hang up, but I wish that I didn’t want one. “Mom, I’m sorry, but someone is here. I gotta go.”

  “Keep me updated on the house.” Right before we hang up, she says awkwardly, “I’m glad things are going well. With this cooking and all. Meeting people.”

  “I am too.”

  “Before you go, do you have a guess about how long all of this work will take?”

  I can sense her agitation. “I know you want this all done soon, but it’s not going to be as fast as you want. House renovations take time. You know that.” I force myself to take a deep breath before I say what I do. “I think I’ll need to be here through the summer.” And that’s only a partial truth, but it’s all that I can admit to myself right now.

  To my surprise, she reacts more calmly than I would have expected. “That’s okay. I understand. Through the summer seems reasonable. It’s an old house; it needs much more work than I wanted to admit, but it sounds as though you’re handling it all.”

  “It’s not as though there’s any reason to rush back. I haven’t left anything behind.”

  I immediately regret my words, but my mother hides any hurt when she finally replies, “Please come home when you’re ready.”

  She might think of Los Angeles as my home, but it feels less and less so, if it ever was.

  twenty-one

  The taste of coffee shouldn’t be affected by where you drink it, but I suspect it is. Docks, even broken ones, probably infuse flavor. My morning ritual of drinking coffee and obsessing over recipe videos on my dock is a much-needed new normal. I watch tutorials that teach me how to chop, mince, sauté, steam, blanch, broil, puree, and on and on, and then I whip out pans and challenge myself over and over until I nail all of these. Granted, I toss lots of unused veggies, but it’s impossible to deny that I’m becoming a good cook, and I want to continue to improve.

  Even with a larger group, last Sunday’s brunch was another success.

  Once I’d realized that doing some things the day before would make things easier, I’d baked up a large batch of raspberry scones on Saturday to go with the deep-dish quiche—filled with bacon, shallots, Swiss chard, and tons of various cheeses—that I made Sunday morning. Yes, I cheated and used premade phyllo for the crust, but I was still happy with it.

  Alex was in charge of making smoothies, and as he blended bananas, blackberries, blueberries, honey, and more, he announced numerous times, “I do like this! This is satisfying!”

  I agreed with him.

  So much is now satisfying. And coffee in the morning has never tasted so damn perfect. It’s very different to wake up full of hope for what the day might bring and not full of dread for what might knock me over.

  When I’m high on caffeine and emotion, I take a quick shower and jump into sweats and a tank top before bounding out to the car. The Pathfinder starts up instantly, and I smile. Danny made this happen. I put the SUV into reverse when I notice that my BMW rental is gone at last.

  I call Danny, and he answers groggily, “Oh, hello, lake girl.”

  “Oh, hello, Schroeder.” I let him yawn before I say anything else. “Did ya perchance arrange to get rid of the hated BMW rental because I kept forgetting?”

  “Is perchance still a word we say?”

  “It is not. But I’m here for it today.”

  “Then, okay, I did. A few calls went a long way.”

  “I should have done it days ago.”

  I shift into drive and barrel onto the dirt road.

  “I’m driving! I’m driving his car!” I exclaim stupidly, but I want to share this moment with him after all he selflessly did to make it happen. And then a few moments later, I nearly lose my voice. “I’m driving my dad’s car, Danny.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledges in the warmest way. “You are.”

  There has to be music to accompany my joy, so I stab madly at the panel, wanting anything to play. When a song starts blasting, I laugh and feel better.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask.

  “Is that Rick Springfield?”

  “You know it. Don’t talk to strangers, Danny,” I warn.

  “I should have been an ’80s kid,” he says in his morning voice. “I dig it all.”

  My aimless drive is feeling comfortable, and I take an unfamiliar turn and amble this SUV over some fun bumps and under low-hanging foliage.

  “Where are you going on this drive?” he asks.

  “Anywhere. I’m not sure,” I admit. “It wouldn’t hurt to pick up sandwich stuff at the market. I had a lunch idea for something to make for you guys.”

  “You know, you don’t have to feed us every day. I mean, we love it, and you’re crazy talented, but none of us wants you to feel as though it’s an obligation.” His voice is very sweet, and his words are really kind.

  I press down harder on the gas pedal. “I’m only learning. It’s nothing. So, would you want to come with me? How do I get to you? Even if I had your actual address, it turns out that Google maps and Waze aren’t up on Wake.”

  “Of course I want you to pick me up.” Danny laughs as he keeps me on the phone and talks me through the drive to reach him.

  “I like c
ooking for all of you,” I whisper as I take a turn closer to his house.

  “Then, we’ll keep eating. I’m going to get ready, so let yourself in.”

  We hang up when I’m close, and I pull onto the obscure road that leads to his house. I park when I see the sun reflecting off of a window and get out of the car. But as I walk through the tall grass, I realize this is not his house. It’s a greenhouse. A stunning, spacious greenhouse. Yet I don’t see plants, just color. Intrigued, I open the door.

  And I am presented with the most magical, intoxicating experience I’ve ever had. Hundreds of small glass pieces hang from this greenhouse, up the sides of the wall, over the rafters. Globes, triangles, squares, bulbs, open pieces that house air plants, and on and on. Each hanging piece of art is composed of unique colors and patterns, all so exquisite and beautiful. The early morning sun throws around beams of colored light, and I am entranced and nearly frozen by the beauty of this collection. I wish I could dance and spin in this extraordinary environment without shattering glass and the charm of this space. When I realize that I’ve spent too long strolling languidly through this haven, I rush back to the car.

  These must be his mom’s work, I realize. Her glassblowing displayed in the most incredible testimony to her talent. Maybe she hasn’t been around recently, but Danny’s love and admiration show. This is his tribute to her, I suspect. But I also feel like I wasn’t supposed to see this. I’m not sure why, but Danny directed me to his house and his house only, and I stopped too early. So, reluctantly, I retreat and drive farther down the road until I reach what clearly is his house.

  And it’s a damn cute place. A most quintessential shingled Vermont cabin with a small porch out front, a peaked roof, and all the charm in the world. I cannot wait to see inside. After a few unanswered knocks, I let myself in.

  It takes a minute for me to appreciate what I’m looking at.

  The kitchen on my right is flawless. It’s a narrow layout, a fifteen-by-five-foot space, but windows are pouring in light over a huge farmer’s sink, a granite countertop with sharp veining, a blue-patterned backsplash, and rich wood flooring. When I look to my left, I see that this kitchen is essentially a loft that overlooks a huge living area below with a short flight of stairs that leads down to that main floor. I about caress the iron railing as I walk down.

  “Danny?”

  He emerges from a room to the left in a towel. “Sorry, I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  Seeing him post-shower for the second time doesn’t make me any less flustered than the first, but I say sincerely, “Danny, your house is perfect.”

  “Yeah? You like it?”

  “Did you do all of this?”

  Two walls are packed with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the cozy living room makes me want to throw myself onto the couch and never leave.

  I look up. “God, the light fixtures in here are divine.” One over the small dining table and another over the coffee table. “You are going to have to help me pick out stuff for my house.” I am nearly breathless. “I want some of those sexy floating shelves like yours in my kitchen too. And that sink!”

  He laughs. “It’d be my honor. Back in a sec.”

  While he’s getting dressed, I marvel at the design of this place, the feel of this place. The perfect use of color that’s not too subtle and also not too loud. A rust-toned pillow on the stylish armchair, a small planter in a shade that reminds me of honey, and even whites that are not solely white. They are coconut and parchment and frost. He’s made a magical home for himself.

  “Ready?”

  Jesus, even in such a simple outfit as his navy T-shirt and no-name jeans, this guy is beyond handsome. Again, I am struck by how natural his looks are, his build, and the way he carries himself. He’s just … Danny. And, man, that is more than enough.

  “Okay if Shallots tags along?”

  “He’d better.”

  The three of us drive away from that piece of paradise, and I head to the store while an old Bryan Adams song plays. It’s so dumb, but I can’t even look at Danny. Because it’s only love. He wants to come into the market with me, but I’d rather he stay in the air-conditioned car with Shallots. It’s likely the fastest shopping trip in the history of shopping trips because I don’t want to keep them waiting and because while I’m picking up lunch supplies, a realization washes over me. One I’ve toyed with and pushed away.

  I slam the door with noticeable force when I get back in.

  “Um, things go okay in there?” Danny asks skeptically.

  “Yeah, I’m good. They had mortadella, so that’s cool.”

  I’m totally silent as I drive. Until I’m not.

  “I keep pretending that it is my house. And it’s not.” My hands white-knuckle the wheel.

  “Maybe it is your house,” he suggests.

  “But it’s not. It’s my mother’s,” I protest weakly. And my father’s.

  Danny’s hand touches the back of my neck, and I shiver.

  There’s nothing definitive to say right now, so I crank up the music and drive, but his touch never leaves.

  When I pull by the front door, Danny helps Shallots down and runs after him when he heads toward the dock. Both of us flinch when the dog stumbles.

  “Oh crap,” he says. “The dock. I forgot. I’m fixing this now. How many times are the three of us gonna trip over this shit? I need to hit up the store though. Can I take the Pathfinder?”

  “Of course.”

  My ability to form more real words right now isn’t perfect, so I throw my keys and manage not to send them sailing ten feet over his head. He catches them easily, and we hold the most beautiful eye contact that I’ve ever had.

  “Shallots is gonna love you for repairing the broken dock”

  I might too.

  twenty-two

  My mood is rather melancholy as I wash produce in the kitchen sink, but I do like watching Danny give the broken dock some much-needed love. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

  Shallots doesn’t have much of a response, but he likely agrees, and I appreciate his loving look and the way he follows my every move.

  “We’re making muffuletta sandwiches for lunch, okay?” When I have all of my ingredients out, I start the process of chopping up the olive spread. “I know, it’s not an appealing word. Muffuletta. I get it. But I’m putting my money on the idea that it’ll taste better than it sounds. Two kinds of olives, roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, garlic, celery, red wine vinegar, all chopped up and combined with this luscious olive oil that I found? Plus, three kinds of fresh herbs? Italian meat slices? C’mon, Shally. That’s a spread that’s gotta slay.”

  The dog’s nonplussed reaction is not reassuring, but after I’ve mixed all of these ingredients together, I take a sniff.

  Oh man, the aroma is perfect.

  Spreading that on bread and hitting it with rich salami, coppa, ham, and mortadella? And Provolone and fresh mozzarella?

  “There’s no way this is gonna suck, you judgmental pooch. We got this. Hang on.”

  My timer goes off, and I pull the overnight no-knead bread from the oven. This is a big hit-or-miss situation, as it’s the first loaf I’ve ever made, but from everything I’ve read, it sounds fail-proof. Still, I examine it with a furrowed brow, tap the bottom with my fingers to listen for some kind of supposed hollow sound that I’ve seen on The Great British Bake Off, and finally decide that it’s going to be what it is. At least I tried. And the sandwich ingredients can probably cover up any faults. I hope.

  The sound of the front door opening and closing makes me smile. It’s so funny that there’s never any need to lock it. There’s no danger here, and I love that.

  “What are you up to now?” Paul’s booming voice echoes in this tiny kitchen.

  “Just prepping lunch.”

  “Smells like heaven.”

  I spin around and grin. “Well, that is what bread smells like, isn’t it?”

  He laughs. “Pretty m
uch.”

  “What’s up?”

  Paul leans back against the counter and gives me a look that I can’t figure out. “Callie?”

  “Paul?”

  “A rather large pile of boxes has been delivered and left out front. It seems you’ve ordered a thing or two.”

  Shit. He’s giving me a disapproving-dad look, I realize.

  “Sure. A thing or two.” I go back to furiously and needlessly chopping my already-chopped sandwich spread. “What’s the problem?”

  “I sliced into a number of your shipments.” There’s a long silence before he continues. “Baking dishes, two electric griddles, trivets, a new cookware set—”

  It’s impossible not to tense up. “Basic stuff. Nothing crazy.”

  “Slotted spoons, a food processor?” He sighs. “Callie, there are cloth napkins and ceramic storage canisters.”

  “So, you opened all of the boxes? That’s a federal crime, you know? Opening someone else’s mail?”

  “File charges then.” He carries on with his list. “Reusable shopping bags, a giant thermal coffee carafe, and a small composter.”

  “All useful items,” I point out.

  Fine, he’s got me.

  Paul paces the small kitchen. “I’m concerned. What’s going on? You’re buying a lot of stuff. Are you feeling pressure because of these brunches? You don’t have to host those. I know you got pulled into them. That Alex sort of started these. We can call them off anytime.”

  “What? No!” My knife hits the cutting board harder than I intended. “Don’t even say that.” I grip the counter and inadvertently raise my tone. “These brunches are everything. They have given me life again, Paul, so don’t you dare take those away,” I plead. “And don’t you dare fault Alex. He’s my partner now. I need him.”

  He can hear both the force of my words and the waver in my voice I’m sure.

  “Okay, okay.” Paul is gentle in his response. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  It’s hard to keep from crying when I unload. “I want a bigger kitchen. I want to tear this shitty thing apart and make it bigger. Let’s add on an addition. A huge oven, as many cabinets as possible, larger windows, especially this one that overlooks the lake. The black iron frames, like the ones that are going into the living room. A gorgeous backsplash and counters. Appliances that are not for shit. Is that too much to ask?” I spin about and lift up my arms while my words tumble out. “I want to be able to cook in here. Cook for groups. And lighting? There could be some kind of perfect lighting here. Not that I know what it is yet, but I could figure it out. Or Danny could. I saw his place, and he knows about lighting. And I can’t stop thinking about the flooring in here. What do you think we should put in? It should be a durable tile, right? Not a luxury vinyl wood. I know that’s a big trend, but tile is tile. It’s forever. That’s what I want. I want forever.”