On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [57]
“My childhood dreams didn’t center around clearing dirty dishes and filling water glasses,” she agreed. “I was happy enough teaching drama at the local high school, while it lasted. If budget cuts hadn’t gutted the arts program in our school system, I might still be there.”
“That’s probably my cue to tell you how sorry I am, but I haven’t had enough coffee to be able to lie effectively,” Devon said. “I’m glad you got canned. Worked out great for me.”
He gave her a lazy smile that made Lilah grin back. “Don’t be sorry for me. It’s not like teaching was my childhood dream, either. I fell into it, because it was easy and seemed stable and secure. Which turned out to be a giant illusion.” Just like every other so-called “safe” choice she’d ever made.
“Anyway,” Lilah continued, “I don’t think I’ve done so badly in the career department. I get to hang out with my new pal, Tucker, for the next month. That sounds like a pretty great job anyone would love to have!”
Tucker didn’t say anything, but she thought he wanted to. Something perilously close to hope flickered across his sulky young face, and it made Lilah’s throat tighten.
Lilah went to the hidden fridge to search for buttermilk. There wasn’t any, but the fancy Greek yogurt would work as a substitute.
“What are you making, anyway?” Devon asked carelessly.
“Biscuits,” Lilah said, starting to mix them up on autopilot. She’d made them so many times, she didn’t need a recipe.
Devon smiled a smug sort of smile, as if his expectations had been fulfilled. Lilah didn’t mind. He’d change his tune once he tasted them.
“I thought you were going to get in the shower,” she said.
“Right.” He pushed off the counter and gave her a cocky eyebrow arch. “I’ll be back in a few to see how the biscuits turn out.”
Fifteen minutes later, Devon wasn’t back yet, but a quick peek in the oven revealed a cast-iron skillet—enameled, Lilah’d sniffed in disapproval, but that was the closest thing she could find to the ancient, well-seasoned skillet she’d learned to make biscuits in as a child younger than Tucker—full of small rounds of dough puffing and crisping to a pretty golden brown on top. They were about done, she decided, and hunted up a pair of oven mitts.
“These biscuits were my favorite when I was your age,” she told Tucker, who maintained his stoic silence. She was hoping if she kept up a sort of running commentary, eventually something she said would engage him enough to get him to talk back.
“My Aunt Bertie used to make a batch every morning. With as many kids as we had in the house, they were always gone before lunch.”
Tucker made a little motion, a jerk of his chin that made Lilah wonder if he was about to jump in. She paused for a second, but when he stayed quiet, she went on.
“My cousin Trudy likes biscuits with homemade strawberry jam, and her oldest brother, Walt, likes them with peanut butter. I know! Walt’s bonkers, he’d eat peanut butter on anything, he’s plum crazy for it. My favorite way to have biscuits is with red-eye gravy, this really thin, salty sauce you make by boiling country ham with strong coffee. Sounds funny to you, I bet, that a kid would like something with coffee—yuck! But it’s good, I promise you.”
Tucker rolled his eyes and made a puking face. The retching noises were rendered with the authenticity only a ten-year-old boy could produce. Lilah grinned.
Lilah found a cupboard stacked with meticulously matched sage-green china. Piling a couple of steaming hot biscuits on the plate, she set it in front of Tucker, saying, “But if we don’t have red-eye gravy—and I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a good hunk of country ham anywhere in Manhattan—the best way to eat fresh, hot biscuits is with butter and a little dab of something sweet.”
Praying the enormous walk-in pantry held something simple like molasses or maple syrup, Lilah crowed when she found a squat little jar of honey. It didn’t look like any honey she’d ever seen before; rather