How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [27]
“Okay,” I say as I inhale. “Why don’t y’all go outside?”
This is just what they have been waiting for. They race outdoors, and I feel my frustration mount. I should have gone really basic and taught them how to boil an egg. Regret fills me, and to try to shake it off, I begin to wash out the saucepan in the large sink. Flinging open cabinets, I finally find the dish soap—Palmolive, the same kind we use at the restaurant. I squeeze drops onto a scouring pad.
The door swings open, and I glance over my shoulder to see the tall basketball-playing guy from the other day. He gets a drink of water from a plastic container in the fridge.
“You’re Deena Livingston, aren’t you?”
With the scouring pad still in my hand, I smile. “And you’re Zack.”
He nods. “Zack Anderson.” Placing the water container back into the fridge, he asks, “How did it go?”
“What?” I turn off the water.
“Aren’t you the cooking teacher? Didn’t you have a class just now?”
I sigh and sink my hands deeper into the suds.
He comes over to the counter where the Tupperware container of white sauce sits. He sniffs. “Butter?”
“White sauce.” Don’t these mountain folk know anything?
“White sauce?” The way he says it, I am so aware that this was not the item to prepare today. I have made a big mistake. What was I thinking?
He uses one hand to brush back his curly hair. I’ve always wished my straight hair would one day turn into a head of curls. Sally says for me not to be fooled, that curly-haired people have plenty of coiffure-related troubles. When I see her thick, red hair, full of lively curls, I can never think of one.
Zack asks, “So, did the kids do okay?”
I know we are in church, and I know that telling the truth is important. Even so, I lie. “They were great.” My smile is as plastic as the Tupperware.
“Terrific!” He produces dimples in both cheeks and light in his hazel eyes. Yes, some people are way too blessed in the appearance department. I bet he has no scars or moles or flaws whatsoever. I’m certain he models regularly for GQ.
“Yeah.” I sigh.
“Sorry I missed it.” He stands beside me as my fingers work to scrub the last of the white sauce out of the pan. “I wanted to be here to make sure everything went well on your first day, but I got a phone call from social services about another kid, and that took a lot of time.”
“Well, thanks for your concern.”
“Yep.” He grins at me, then leaves the kitchen.
What on earth am I doing? What was I thinking, quitting my job to come here? Why did I leave Atlanta? I left a place where I was wanted and needed and where no one yelled at me.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in, trying to smell the aroma from the kitchen at Palacio del Rey. I see a leg of lamb marinating in basil and mint and a plate of fresh asparagus cooked in butter, garnished with slivered almonds. Next, I conjure the aroma of the light buttercream frosting of my velvet white cake and just the idea of it sends a pang of yearning to my heart. I see each uniformed employee in my mind; all the dishes they will make for dinner tonight whirl before me—perfect and ready to be enjoyed. I try hard to get a whiff of one of them, but all I smell is lemon-scented cleaner and yesterday’s popcorn.
I take in another breath. There is one more scent— nostalgia.
fourteen
Lucas was seated in the pew in front of Sally and me. I sat through the whole church service staring at his wavy black hair. The sermon was on David and Bathsheba. That should have been my first clue that he was bad news. If you are seated in a sanctuary and the pastor preaches on sin and greed, do not greedily hope that the cute new guy in front of you will ask you out and not at all be interested in the dozens of other attractive single women in the other pews. Women with four-year degrees, wearing Liz Taylor perfume. Women with 401(k)s and matching leather luggage.
I stuck out my hand, told him my name, was too nervous to remember his, and invited him to the singles Sunday school class. I hoped that the way I said singles didn’t make it sound