The Secret Virgin Page 7

  Because, truth be told, I’m not as good a cook as Amanda. I’m great at grocery shopping and keeping the kitchen stocked, but meals for me have been kind of hit-and-miss since Mom and Dad went back to Florida after the holidays.

  At Nick’s building downtown, I take the elevator up and find their front door unlocked. I let myself in and the mouth-watering smells envelops me. Mmmm! I hang up my coat quickly and scoot down the hallway to the big eat-in kitchen.

  “Hey peeps,” I say, rounding the corner and shooting the room a wave. “Am I late?” I ask, a tad too breezily. They all laugh and offer greetings.

  Everyone is either sitting at, or standing by, the table. The bird’s on a platter and covered in foil. It’s huge! The surrounding table-space is taken up by covered dishes. I spot one dish so crammed with stuffing that the lid can’t quite keep it all in.

  If you ask me, too much stuffing is always a good omen.

  There’s a couple open bottles of wine on the centre island and everyone except Amanda has a glass in their hand.

  “Dude, when are you not late?” Amanda grins.

  “We were about to start without you,” Nick says. “Grab a glass of wine and come sit down.”

  “There’s a nice bottle of Zinfandel there, Bren,” Carol says. “The same kind we drank together on Amanda’s twenty-first.” She winks at me and takes her seat, glass in hand.

  “Oh, is that what you two were drinking that night,” Bernie says. “No wonder you were tipsy. Anything that tastes like sody-pop is bound to go down too easy.”

  “Oooh, yeah, that’s the good stuff,” I say. “I like it sweet and fizzy.” I pour myself a glass, grab the bottle, and take a seat next to Carol. She smiles and raises her glass so I can refill it.

  “Great! Okay, let’s get a gander at this bird,” Nick says.

  “Gander?” Bernie says. “I thought it was a chicken!”

  Everyone looks at him blankly.

  “Gander?” he says. “A gander is a male goose,” he explains. “This is a chicken. Get it? Ha…ha?”

  Everyone groans. Amanda says, “Oh ha ha, Dad,” and, then, with a flourish, she takes the foil off the bird.

  The groans turn to cries of awe. Amanda’s chicken is massive, beautifully browned and glistening with juices. And it’s full of stuffing!

  She made extra, God love her!

  “Oh my God,” Nick moans, and holds up the carving knife. “It’s almost a shame to do this,” he says.

  “Do it!!” Bernie and I yell it almost at the same time.

  “Okay, okay, call off the lynch mob,” Nick says, laughing. He carves, and somehow manages to divide the bird almost perfectly in half, like a surgical cross-section, showing how perfectly cooked it is.

  “Jesus, ‘Manda. What the hell? It’s spooky how good of a cook you are,” I say.

  “I know, right?” she says, proudly.

  Nick put slices of white meat neatly on the platter, then follows that with the legs and wings. Everyone helps themselves and starts passing side dishes around, until we all have heaping plates.

  “Okay, we ready?” Amanda says, looking around. “Dad, will you say grace and make a toast?”

  Everyone stays respectfully silent as Bernie asks the blessing and then, beaming, we all toast the delicious dinner we’re about to devour.

  I put a forkful of mashed potatoes dripping with gravy into my mouth, chew and swallow. “Oh my God, that’s so good!” I say. Amanda smiles, and devours a nice helping of mashed taters herself.

  We chat idly about Amanda’s pregnancy and this and that, with lulls in between as we focus on the delicious food.

  “Oh hey,” Amanda says, wiping her mouth and taking a sip of her juice, “Did you tell Doug and Beverly about the dog yet?”

  I grin and say “Yep. Dad really likes him,” before eating another dripping forkful of food.

  Momentary silence, then: “Get outta town!” Nick, who heard the whole story from Amanda, says. “He didn’t agree to let you keep that dog…did he?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be my dog, actually,” I say, and fill them in on what Dad said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Nick says. “He likes the dog enough to keep it? For himself? I never thought he’d want another dog after Sparky. That dog’s passing was so hard on him.”

  “Well, I guess he’s ready for another one. I bet you he’ll end up taking Diesel back to Florida with them.”

  “No way,” Nick says. “He told me himself he’s tired of responsibility. He just wants to chill. I’ll bet you fifty bucks he won’t.”

  “Done, Nicholas. And no welching!”

  “Yeah, you just worry about yourself, little sister,” he says, shaking his fork at me and giving me his Patented Big- Brother-Knows-All look.

  “We shall see,” I say, a bit on the smug side myself. I’m positive that I’ve got the winning bet.

  “So, um, why don’t you tell us a bit about Robert, your new, um, beau,” Nick says.

  “Ah, yeah, I guess Amanda mentioned that to you, didn’t she?” I give her the old stink-eye, and she crosses hers at me in return.

  I fill them in on events, including my first date with Robert and how we’ve been meeting in the dog park all week.

  “He sounds nice and all, Brenda, but, holy shit,” Nick says. “Move fast much? Don’t you need a little time between boyfriends?”

  Geez! “You sound exactly like Dad,” I say. “I already got this lecture from him.” I point my fork at Amanda. “I shall seriously have to re-consider letting you into my confidence, henceforth,” I say, tongue-in-cheek.

  She gives me a grin and mouths the word sorry.

  You’re gonna be, I mouth back, drawing my finger across my throat jokingly.

  Nick looks at Amanda and then back at me, shaking his head and smiling. “You two are really weird sometimes, you know that?”

  Carol laughs. “You think that’s bad? Didn’t you ever see them together when they were teenagers?”

  Amanda’s eyes gleam. She opens and closes her mouth really fast, showing me her mouthful of half-chewed food. I snort, almost choking.

  Nick looks at Bernie, who raises his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I lived in a house with two women for many years. Their ways are not our ways,” he says.

  “And that’s a good thing,” Carol says. “How boring would it be if men and women were the same.”

  Amanda raises her glass of cranberry juice. “To all the differences between men and women, the good, the bad, and the ugly!”

  “Hear, hear,” we all chime, and clink our glasses.

  “So…how old is the new boyfriend then?” Nick asks.

  “He’s thirty-three,” I answer.

  “Thirty-three?” Nick says. He looks at Bernie again.

  “Why do you keep looking at me?” Bernie says. “We’ve had this conversation before, and not that long ago. Remember?”

  Nick sighs. There’s nothing he can say, given that he’s seventeen years older than Amanda. And Bernie is ten years older than Carol.

  Which means, my twelve-year age difference with Robert is not a matter of debate. Yowza! I am so on a roll right now.

  I smile, and eat a huge forkful of chicken and stuffing, munching happily, secure in the Safe Zone of Not Being in Shit with the Family.

  “Okay. Well he sounds like an improvement over Colton, at least. We’ll have you two over for dinner sometime. If you’re still with him and haven’t met some other guy before long,” he teases. I roll my eyes at him and he drops me a wink.

  The conversation trails off into muffled grunts of appreciation as we all get down to the businesses of doing what we all came here to do…which is to stuff our faces with Amanda’s cooking like it’s our last meal on earth.

  It’s a good feast, and a good visit with family. And the best part is, the weekend’s not over yet.

  I still have tomorrow night with Robert to look forward to.

  Chapter Nine

  Br
enda

  The next night, I excitedly get the dogs ready and head over to Rob’s place for our date. I’m intrigued by the address, which is in Easterville, the same area as Ron’s Ristorante, where we went on our first date.

  It’s an older area, with an eclectic mix of homes and residents. Artists, young families, professionals and elderly, long-time residents live in everything from garden-style apartments to large, rambling old mansions. Many homes are renovated and some are crumbling and in need of repairs. But people love the area for the diversity and lifestyle it offers.

  Even in this crappy economy, the area is undergoing a kind of gentrification, much as other areas in the region have done. Easterville, as well as Merlington, where I live, are part of a handful of satellite suburbs surrounding the good-sized downtown core. The city proper has a huge international airport which is an important hub for points north and south. Our corner of the world is well-placed to weather just about any economy, so it’s just a matter of time before it recovers in earnest.

  I pull up to Rob’s house and take a good look at it in the lowering light. I checked it out on Google first, but in person it looks even better than I thought.

  It’s an older Craftsman-style bungalow boasting a full-length front porch, complete with a white picket railing. A mellow, welcoming light glows through a big bay window.

  I don’t even have to knock. Rob opens the front door as I approach, Princess’ carrier over one shoulder and Diesel by my side.

  “Hey, here’s my new favorite gang,” he says, holding the door open to let us in. He leans forward, puckering up, and takes Diesel’s leash from my hand. I kiss him, smiling. He looks great, wearing faded jeans and a tight Ohio State University t-shirt that clings to his meaty abs.

  Tiny pads out from the living area, where I can smell and hear a cozy fire burning. Rob unsnaps Diesel’s leash, hangs it on a coat-stand in the foyer, then heads into the living room with me following.

  It’s a large fieldstone fireplace with a big mantle and wide hearth. There’s a long, plush sectional couch, an overstuffed armchair and ottoman, a coffee table, and a big flatscreen TV standing on a low credenza, with drawers and shelves for electronics. Four or five moving cartons stand by, some opened and some still taped closed.

  Tiny’s ears go back and his stub tail wags as he greets me. Then he checks Diesel out with a thorough sniff before allowing him to pass by. Having passed this crucial test, Diesel begins exploring immediately, nosing along the floor curiously.

  “Stay close, Deez,” I say.

  “Naw, it’s okay,” Rob says. “The place is dog-proof. There are a lot of boxes around but there’s nothing bad to get into. They can have the run of the place. Let Princess out and she can explore too, if you want. She’ll be fine.”

  I can feel Princess quivering in her carrier. I take her out and put her on the floor where she goes into an ecstatic dance, jumping back and forth between Rob and Tiny, making cute grunting noises with her ears back and eyes full of love.

  We perch on the couch for a few minutes, chatting and watching the fire. Tiny puts up with Princess’ silliness, sniffing and watching her with ears cocked, tolerating her restless energy, until she calms down and begins her own exploration.

  The big Rottie takes it all in for another moment, and then flops down on an huge dog bed to the side of the hearth. Diesel comes back from where ever he went, and watches Princess walk through to the dining room, sniffing and examining everything within reach. He looks at me and then Rob. Rob lifts his chin and Diesel turns to follow her.

  I just smile and shake my head, already getting used to Rob’s way with dogs.

  “Alright, they’re gonna settle in just fine. C’mon, let me show you around,” Rob says.

  The house turns out to have four bedrooms with two full baths and a powder room on the main floor. The eat-in kitchen has been modernized and recently renovated, with gleaming granite counters and shiny, newer appliances.

  The basement has a large recreation room, an extra bedroom, a bathroom and kitchenette, fully finished, all with a separate entrance and the potential to rent out for extra income.

  There’s also a generous-sized furnace and work room, kitted out as a workshop, with a long, built-in bench and peg boards for tools.

  The house is in great shape, and except for the many boxes and cartons everywhere, it’s neat, clean and well-maintained.

  “Is it just me or is this place bigger than it looks from the street?” Back in the kitchen, Rob has opened two bottles of beer. He offers me a glass, but I shake my head. “No thanks, I’m still on the bottle,” I say, grinning.

  “My kind of girl,” he says, giving me another kiss. “Yes, it’s actually longer than it is wide. It’s a very deep lot, too. Two hundred and fifty feet, ending in a little stream at the back. Nice and private.”

  “It’s a great place, and a great area.” I say. “I love it. And all this house needs is to be unpacked. Now, I may not be the greatest cook but I am a great organizer. If you want, I can unpack the kitchen for you while you do another room.”

  “Oh, you wanna get right down to work, huh?” He smiles. “Actually I’d appreciate that a lot. I’ve been here, what, two weeks now I think. Living out of boxes is getting old.”

  “Well, you got your bedroom done, so there’s that,” I say, encouragingly.

  “True, but I need work clothes and a place to sleep worse than I need to cook. Between work, the gym, and Tiny, I’ve hardly been home. Plus, there are so many restaurant and food choices in this town, I bet I could do without having a functional kitchen for months.”

  “You don’t look like you eat out a lot,” I say, glancing at his trim waist.

  “I have been, over the last couple weeks. Dinner at mom’s last night was one of the few exceptions. I’ve been hitting the gym extra hard, too, which helps. But you can’t get away with neglecting diet forever. Nutrition’s too important.” He looks around, chewing on his lip. “You sure you can handle all this?” He waves at the stack of boxes piled in the kitchen.

  “Sure. I think so,” I say, glancing around at the spacious cupboards and walk-in pantry.

  “Alright! Well, don’t worry if you don’t get to it all tonight. It’s not going anywhere.” He smiles. “Thanks again, sweetie!” Another kiss, and he goes downstairs to tackle the basement, leaving me to get to work in the kitchen.

  His remark about nutrition makes me think about my own lack of basic culinary skills. I don’t know why I haven’t learned yet, really, unless it’s just because I haven’t really needed to.

  Haven’t really needed to…and why’s that? Could it be…maybe…one might say…I’ve been a wee bit spoiled?

  Super-teeny, tiny, wee little bit?

  Maybe.

  Ugh!

  I think about all the years of food prep and meals made by my mother, and, yes, both my grandmothers.

  Sigh.

  And of course, Amanda and her mother cook, and so do many of my friends. Then I think about women everywhere, matter-of-factly showing their love for their families, by the simple effort of feeding them properly.

  In my heart, I decide to make a serious effort to master the basics. Baby steps first, and then…who knows. Maybe it’ll be me serving up a perfect roast chicken one day soon.

  Looking over the piles of cartons, I pick one, and get to work.

  It takes me over two hours to unpack the thirty cartons––thirty––of kitchen stuff. There’s more kitchen stuff than you can shake a stick at! Items large and small, modern and retro, useful and bizarre.

  I quickly realize why Rob’s so overwhelmed by this task. As I busy myself deciding on what goes where, I’m in a kind of shocked, bemused awe.

  What on earth is a guy who doesn’t cook gonna do with all this stuff?

  There’s a full set of plain, white, thick and robust dishes. They look like restaurant quality, obviously expensive and in very good shape. It turns out to be a complete service for twelv
e!

  There are numerous pots and pans, sauce and soup pots, a double-boiler and two woks. There are loaf pans and cake pans; assorted mixing and serving bowls; myriad storage containers and tupperware, a generous mishmash of single or orphaned crystal and china pieces, like a creamer, a salt and pepper shaker and a butter dish. All made by different companies but all very high-quality in themselves.

  There are carafes and vases in crazy colors; a dozen big, chunky coffee mugs, in varying pastel shades; and six delicate china tea cups with plates, all in different floral patterns.

  There’s a fondue set and nesting wooden salad bowls; a stone mortar and pestle; a wooden and a marble cutting board; a cheese platter set with an exotic sounding Swiss name; a French coffee maker, a German food processor, a British tea pot; two brand-name blenders, and an assortment of utensils and serving ware that has to rival what you’d find at a freaking State dinner!

  There’s a truly overwhelming and bewildering variety of stuff here.

  Rob drifts in and out of the kitchen as I unpack, grabbing another beer, taking away the empty cartons, chatting about this and that. On one trip up from the basement, he brings up a hammer and some nails so he can hang up a retro, art deco clock and varied pieces of kitchen artwork as I unpack them.

  The dogs are not allowed in the kitchen but they wander around the rest of the house at will, the clicking sound of their nails on the hardwood floors giving their locations away. Soon, their sounds cease, and I take a quick break to look in on them. Diesel and Tiny are flopped on the rug in front of the fire, laying almost back to back.

  Right in the middle of Tiny’s big bed is Princess, curled up into a tight orange ball of fur. They all watch me put another log on the fire, but none of them bestir themselves as I get back to work.

  On another trip up from the basement, Rob admonishes me when he catches me standing on the counter to reach the void above the cabinets, where I’m arranging some large, colorful old cookie jars as a display. He stands behind me, spotting me like a gymnast until I’m finished, when he grabs me by the waist with both hands and lifts me down as if I weigh nothing.