How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [90]
“Oh, please, sir, do say more!”
“Exactly.” He indicates the picnic basket in his other hand. “In this case, I made way too much food, in the event we couldn’t think of anything to say.”
“That’s not ever a problem with me.” I smile then, and we seem to sway forward without moving, into a space only the two of us can occupy. He lets my hand go, sparing us the awkwardness of knowing when to clasp and when to release.
The park is only a few blocks away, and within a minute or two we join the flow of people headed for the outdoor concert. “You opened this morning for Sunday traffic, right?” he asks. “I saw the flyers.”
“Where did you find one?”
“At the organic grocer in Manitou.”
“Do you run, then?”
“There are hikers there, too.”
“Not that early.”
He inclines his head. “I do. Ran track in high school and never gave it up.”
“Are you one of those extreme people? Running the Ascent and marathons and all that stuff?”
“Not at all.” He grins down at me. “You sound as if you’d turn around and go home if I said yes.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a few encounters with runners of the extreme variety. Takes a particular kind of personality.”
“True. How about you? Everyone here seems to have a sport. Do you?”
“Who has time?” I shake my head. “I’m a small-business owner.”
“An extreme sport of another sort.”
We reach the park and find an open expanse of grass beneath a tree. From the hamper, Jonah produces a green-and-white-checked tablecloth and flings it up and into a parachute that falls wide on the grass. “After you,” he says, gesturing. We settle cross-legged on the cloth. He’s wearing sunglasses, and I take mine out of my purse, too, dazzled by all the light splashing into the park. Overhead, the elms and cottonwoods rustle in a breath of wind, and from where we sit, the mountains are huddled like a football team, burly and blue.
As Jonah begins to take things out of the hamper, the musicians are warming up on the stage, which is curved like a sea-shell for the acoustics. The crowd is a genteel sort—I see several Mother Bridget regulars, tidily attired in their SPF-50 hiking shirts and tear-resistant pants. The women sometimes don a skirt with their Tevas, but mostly the shop of choice is REI.
Twice, people stop to say hello to Jonah. One is a balding genial man who is a bassist with the symphony; another is a Celtic drummer with a long, graying ponytail and an embroidered shirt. They both nod to me politely. Jonah says, “This is my friend Ramona.”
Meanwhile, he lays out cheese and crackers; deviled eggs; chocolate cake with frosting; three kinds of sandwiches, cut into triangles; bananas and clementines; and two glasses for the bottle of wine he has tucked away. Seeing there is still more in the depths, I say, “Whoa there, Curly. I’m worried about the bottomless pit. Are you expecting the sixth brigade to join us?”
He chuckles. “I told you. I couldn’t stop.” With his long-fingered right hand, he picks up a deviled egg and offers it to me. “Start here. I have been told my recipe is the best.”
For a moment I’m tempted to lean over and let him feed it to me, but I open my hand and he puts it in my palm. It’s cold, and the filling has a good strong color. It is also artfully swirled into the bowl of white. “Mmm,” I say, as I bite into it. “That really is great.”
He has been waiting for me and now pops a whole one into his own mouth, and I find myself watching. Sun glances off his glasses, touches his long throat. I find myself rubbing a palm on my knee. He catches me looking. “Do I have egg on my face?” He wipes the corners with a cloth napkin.
“No,” I say quietly. “What else should I try?”
He smiles ever so slightly. “Everything.”
“See, there you go, teasing me.” I hold the egg in my hand. “You promised to tell me your story.