Chapter Fifteen
Molly
Saturday morning, the day of the double date, that’s either fake or real depending on my mood, I wake up early to begin dinner preparations. This past week, I felt invincible, so invincible that I asked Sal out on a date (or is it?), and committed myself to cooking dinner for everyone. And I planned a complicated menu; coq au vin, homemade bread, and baked Alaska for dessert.
With a cup of coffee in hand, I survey the ingredients laid on the kitchen counter. My newly discovered confidence ebbs as my stomach tightens with anxiety. What was I thinking? Why did I think I could pull this off?
I take a few deep breaths to quiet the nagging voice of doubt. I don’t want to fall back into my old traps. I want to be like Sal, someone who never doubts his place in the world.
I’m going to nail this coq au vin, I think, pumping myself up. I’m going impress Sal.
It’s a relief to admit my true motivations. I want to impress Sal. I was cold and rude to him in the past, and I want to make it up to him. And it’s okay that I want these things.
I put on a classic Aretha Franklin album, tie an apron around my waist, and get to work mixing bread dough. Whenever I start to doubt myself, I focus on the task, on the sensation of soft, gooey dough between my fingers. Before I know it, I’m full of good spirits, singing my heart out with Aretha.
Is this what contentment feels like? If so, I’ll take more please.
I cover the bread dough in a damp towel, and place it in a sunny window to rise. My next task is to make the chicken stock. As I’m preparing my ingredients, there’s a knock on my door. It’s still early. I’m not expecting my guests for a few hours. There’s no sense in wondering who it is. It’s him.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I walk to the door with my chin up, and open it. Sal stands in the hallway, dressed in his suit, holding a bottle of wine. He gives me a dark smile, making my knees weaken. His effect on me used to scare me. I stay calm, embracing it. Glittering sensations run down my limbs, and I welcome them.
“Good morning, Sal,” I say, blowing a flour covered curl out of my eyes.
He stares at me for a moment. He doesn’t speak, but his pleased expression says it all. He looks me up and down, devouring me with his eyes. His gaze settles on my flour dusted apron. The feeling between us is so palpable, I wonder how I could ever doubt that he wanted me.
“You’ve been working hard,” he says.
I wipe my hands nervously on my apron. “I’m just getting everything together.”
He holds up the bottle of wine, showing me the expensive looking label. It’s a burgundy, straight from the French town that it’s named after. “How does this look for dinner?”
“Lovely,” I say, a flash of joy showing on my face. “This will go perfectly with my coq au vin.”
“French food, French wine,” Sal says, raising an eyebrow. “Great minds think alike.” He goes quiet, squinting as he listens to my music. “Aretha Franklin? Miss Molly, you have great taste in music too.”
“Oh? What else do I have great taste in?” I bite my lip, reveling in my own bravery.
Sal chuckles softly. I step to the side, wordlessly inviting him in. He takes me up on the invitation. As he brushes past me, I get a whiff of his clean, sharp scent. It’s utterly intoxicating.
“You should chill this,” he says, sweeping into the kitchen and placing the wine inside of the refrigerator. “Take it out thirty minutes before serving. It should be at the perfect temperature then.”
“Got it.” I lean against the counter, placing my hand behind my head in a sexy pose, but quickly think better of it.
Sal lingers in the kitchen. I stare at his elegant form clad in his dark suit. I want him, I think. And I don’t feel guilty about it. I’m not afraid.
He stares at the vegetables laid out next to my cutting board; onions, garlic, carrots, celery, aromatics that will flavor my homemade stock.
“You’re busy,” he says in his low voice.
I shrug. “I am. But I love spending all day cooking. It’s a lot of work, but when I look at the finished dish, I feel accomplished.”
“Hmm, maybe I should try that.” He rolls up the sleeves of his suit. “Mind if I help?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Sal picks up my kitchen knife, testing the weight in his hand. He retrieves an onion and starts chopping it up all wrong.
“This is for stock,” I tell him. “A rough chop is all you need.”
He gives me a puzzled look, making me laugh.
“Like this,” I say. I place my hand over his, and show him how to cut the onions into quarters. His hands are cold, but his skin feels so good against mine. I take the onion pieces and drop them into the pot of water. “Just like that. Nothing fancy.”
“I think I’ve got it,” he says, reaching for a carrot.
Sal works while I retrieve the whole chicken from the fridge, and set about breaking it down with my butcher knife. He looks vulnerable, chopping vegetables with his sleeves rolled up. Maybe even normal.
But these coy, flirtatious games aren’t enough for me. I want to know the man inside this dark, handsome shell. I tell myself to think of him as one of my clients. One of my favorite, and most effective, strategies is to ask broad questions to get them to talk.
“Did you grow up in LA?” I ask.
“Born and raised.” Sal drops carrot chunks into the pot, and moves on to the celery.
“Oh? Do your parents still live here?”
Sal is silent for a moment. I sense that I’ve ventured into sensitive territory. Just when I think he’s not going to answer me, he does.
“They’re both dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, quickly.
“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug. “Mom died when I was young. My father died a couple of years ago.”
Grief. Fresh grief. That explains a lot. I’m overwhelmed by compassion for him. I’d reach out and touch him if my hands weren’t currently covered in chicken juice.
“Were you close to your father?” I ask, carefully.
There’s silence again, punctuated by the rhythmic chopping of celery. “Yes,” he says, his throat tight. “We were in business together. And growing up, he taught me everything I know.”
I want to ask how his father died, but I don’t want to bring up negative emotions. Not yet.
“What did he teach you?” I ask.
Sal stops chopping, and looks at me with a mischievous smile. “It’s funny you ask that. I was just thinking of something the other day, one of Monty’s famous lessons. I was maybe eight years old at the time.” He gazes into the distance, lost in the world of this memory. “We were driving down the highway, when we spotted a dog that had just been hit. It wasn’t dead, but it was close. Now, I fucking loved dogs, like any other kid. Most dads, what would they do? Shield the kids’ eyes, tell them not to look. Not Monty.” He shakes his head, continuing to chop the celery. “Monty pulls over, right? He says, ‘Sal, look at that dog there.’ By now, I’m starting to cry, but he makes me look. He says, ‘What are you feeling right now?’ I say, ‘I feel sad.’ That’s when he grabs me by the shirt and yanks me towards him. He says, ‘That sadness. Kill it. Swallow it down. Make it go away. You have the power to do that.’ And you know what? It worked. He was always doing things like that. He taught me to be tough. To be a man.”
Sal keeps chopping vegetables, like he’s just told me a sweet childhood memory. I realize that I’m squeezing the life out of the chicken’s legs. I’m horrified. What he’s describing is clearly emotional abuse. But Sal’s unfazed. No wonder he’s distant and cold. I can’t help but feel for him now, and the little boy that he was. It makes me feel closer to him. I want to poke and prod at this memory, like I would during a session, but it’s not the time for that.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, quietly.
He shrugs. “No problem. What about you? What’s your deal?”
He stops talking and scrutinizes me with his eyes. He’s truly interested in my answer. We’ve never discussed our pasts before. This is a step in a new, and brighter direction. I only wish I had a happier story to tell him.
“I’m from Inverness. Heard of it?” Sal shakes his head. “Not many people have. It’s an hour north of San Francisco.”
He squares his body towards me, then gently pushes a piece of hair out of my face. “So that’s where you were hiding before I found you.”
I look away with a smile, blushing ferociously. “My dad worked for the post office. My mom was a teacher. I have one brother.”
“Where are they now?” Sal asks.
I carry the plate of cut up chicken to the pot and carefully slide the pieces into the hot water. “Spread out all over the place. My parents divorced right before I left home. Mom lives in Cincinnati with her boyfriend that she met on the internet. Dad moved further north like he always wanted to, to Washington state.” I stir the contents of the pot, then place the lid on to bring it to a boil.
“And your brother?”
My voice is stalled by a sudden rush of emotion. I rarely talk about Stephen when anyone else.
“Last I heard, he was in New Mexico. He said he had a fiancee, and that they’d both come visit me soon. That was five years ago, before I moved to LA. The number he gave me doesn’t work anymore. I can’t find him. He hasn’t spoken to my parents. And since he doesn’t know I moved, he won’t be able to find me.” I can’t hold it back anymore. Tears stream down my face. I wipe my face on an apron. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Sal wraps his arms my waist, and pulls me closer to him. He doesn’t seem to mind the flour that’s getting all over his suit. His close presence is a comfort, and helps to slow my tears.
“Stephen has mental health issues,” I say. “I suspect he’s bipolar, maybe with a few more co-occurring conditions. I can’t know for sure. He never saw a doctor.” I sigh, deeply. “Anyway, throw drug use into the mix, and you’ve got a self-destructive cocktail.”
Sal stares into my eyes. “It sounds like he destroyed more than just himself.”
I laugh, sardonically. “You’d be right. That’s why I’m here, actually. I studied psychology to understand my brother’s mind. I came here, started this center, to help people like him, and their families.” I roll my eyes. “Crazy, right? I couldn’t fix my brother, so I want to fix other people.”
Sal takes my chin in his hand, leaning in closer to me, and scanning my face with his eyes. But unlike usual, he doesn’t look like he wants fuck me or eat me. He’s trying to understand.
“You’re selfless, Molly. I’ve never met anyone like you.” This isn’t a compliment. He’s not trying to make me feel better. This is a simple observation that he delivers coldly, with a bit of amusement. In other words, he’s not full of shit.
I feel like the ground has sunken in beneath my feet, leaving me weightless and floating. With only a few words, Sal has wiped away the insecurities that have plagued me for years. With him, I feel whole. I feel okay.
Sal’s gaze grows more intense. He tightens his hands around my waist. I close my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me. The air between us shifts as he leans forwards. But just before our lips can meet, there’s splash and sizzle of the pot boiling over.
I open my eyes in a panic, and rush to cut the heat. After removing the lid, I get the stock under control. I grab a towel and start to wipe up the mess.
“This is dangerous business,” Sal observes.
“Yes,” I say, with a laugh, and point at the burner. “We’re literally playing with fire.”
Sal chuckles politely at my bad joke. Once I get the stock cleaned up, and the heat adjusted to a low simmer, I walk over to Sal, hoping to resume where we left off. But in just that short amount of time, something’s shifted in him. The warmth in his eyes is gone. He avoids looking at me. He steps away from me, back to the cutting board.
“Anything else you want me to do?” he asks.
My throat tightens. I want to cry. What happened? It felt like we’d closed the distance between us, if only for a few moments, but now, we’re back to where we started. I take out the eggs from the refrigerator, and a large metal bowl.
“Could you separate these egg whites for me? Like this.” I demonstrate by cracking an egg, then slowly transferring the yolk back and forth in the shell halves while the whites fall into the bowl. “Got it?”
Sal nods. He squares his body towards the bowl, then works quietly, cracking the eggs, one after another. While I stir the stock, the nagging doubt creeps back into my mind. Was it something I did? Something I said? Maybe he’s thinking about his father.
But whatever it is, he’s not leaving. I decide not to push him. His silence and coldness are frustrating, but if his dog anecdote is any indication of his childhood, it’s hard to blame him. This is a man who is virtually allergic to emotions. He’s shut them down for so long, he has no tolerance for them. I have an inkling of hope that I’ve unearthed something dormant inside of him. I have to keep in mind that he’ll need some time to process these feelings. I’ll need to be patient.
We work silently together, talking only with Sal asks me what task he can do next.