Page 15 of A Recipe Called Home
She stopped to shake her head at the word “cafeteria,” as if it was the worst thing in the world. “So, Val suggested we take our leftovers there some nights so a handful of them can enjoy a delicious, home-cooked meal. She hopes it might shut up the old biddies. What’d you think? They’ll pay for the ingredients and your time.”
“Well, first, Valisan old person, so I’m not quite sure she should be calling other people old like it’s a bad thing. Second, I’m in. I’d love to help."
With that, they got to work deciding on that evening’s menu for the three of them, plus about a dozen or so women with discerning palates. Jules still needed to go to the grocery store before Miles showed up around four o’clock, not to mention take a shower and make herself presentable. With the decision for dinner made, she threw on some jeans and an old band t-shirt before making her way into town.
Scanning the aisles at John’s Shoppe for the ingredients to make the pesto gnocchi and fresh focaccia they'd decided on earlier, Jules heard her phone ding from her purse. She’d hadn't looked at it since she left the bar. Not even her usual laps around social media, email, and texts. What was wrong with her?
On the home screen, a text appeared:
Hi honey. Would you want to grab lunch tomorrow? I’ll drive into town to meet you. We could do Mexican? Xo -Mom
It used to annoy Jules how her mom would always end her texts with a sign off, like she didn’t already know who sent the message, but today she found it was slightly endearing. No one could say Barb wasn’t predictable. She punched out a quick response, telling her she could meet around one tomorrow for lunch at Los Ponchos, their favorite (and only) Mexican spot in town.
After hauling the grocery bags into the house and organizing her supplies, Jules got to work mixing the focaccia dough right away. It needed enough time to rise before baking later today. Jules had never made bread from scratch, but she wanted to learn, although her teacher didn’t go easy on her. Rosa watched her like a hawk the entire time, insisting she use a spoon to measure out the flour into the measuring cup to ensure she didn’t “over pack it,” and criticizing the way Jules kneaded the dough. In the end, though, they were both satisfied and left the bowl of dough on the counter to do its thing until they were ready for it later.
The afternoon passed quickly as she showered and tried not to focus on the nerves fluttering in her stomach. She reminded herself that Miles was only coming over to help fix a few things around the house and nothing more. Her grandma would be there, too, which would help ease some of the awkward tension.
Jules also made a mental plan to help keep her busy: she would start cooking dinner while he fixed the ceiling fans upstairs. That way, she wouldn’t stare at him like a piece of perfectly cooked meat she wanted to devour, like last time.
Hoping to hide the fact that she was nursing a hangover, Jules curled her hair and applied subtle makeup to cover up the dark circles under her eyes. She wanted it to say, “I tried, but not too hard, and definitely not for you.”
Once back downstairs and feeling more alive, Jules tidied up a few things before Miles arrived. Soon, the big grandfather clock in the foyer dinged four, and the doorbell rang right on cue.
“Always on time, always a gentleman,” Grandma Rosa quipped, rising out of her seat at the same time Jules dramatically rolled her eyes.
“You better be careful or those might get stuck in the back of your head,” she teased.
They both made their way through the dining room and into the foyer, where they welcomed Miles at the door with wide smiles. Jules didn’t say anything at first, distracted by how his dark V-neck t-shirt hugged his body in all the right places. His hair was combed back, clearly styled, but not fussy. He looked like he just stepped out of a Carhart catalog with a large toolbox dangling from his hand and a hammer snug in his belt. Their eyes met for a brief second and her body pulsed with a warm, tingling feeling.
Tools and hammer, Jules. He came to work, not be ogled at, she silently chastised herself.
“Miles! It’s so nice to see you again. Please, come in,” her grandma welcomed, shooting Jules a quick side glance.
Picking up on the warning, Jules added, “Yes, hi. Come in and I’ll show you which fans are broken.”
Leading him upstairs, she took a moment to collect herself. Miles was only here to fix the fans because he was a nice guy. Not because he still had feelings for her.
He took one look at the ceiling fans and immediately knew what to do. Apparently, he’d just installed a similar fan in his own bedroom. Which was great, except the mention of his bedroom sent her thoughts to his bed, and her in it. Jules promptly excused herself.
Making her way downstairs, Jules caught her grandma standing wobbly in front of the counter with her weight on her good hip, prepping the pesto sauce.
“Excuse me, you’re supposed to be seated comfortably in the passenger seat of this kitchen while I drive,” Jules called from the doorway. Putting her hands up in mock surrender, Grandma Rosa put down the knife and hobbled over to a chair.
“You know I can’t help myself,” she said before adding, “Just like you can’t help but act a fool around that boy upstairs. You know I can read you like a book, right?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, old lady,” said Jules.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to find your way back to him. Could do you some good, you know.”
Slowly turning to face her grandma, Jules said in a low voice, “You know why that can’t happen. He has a good life here. He doesn’t need me breaking his heart all over again with the truth.”
“If I remember correctly, he wasn’t the only one with a broken heart.”
“No, he wasn’t, which is just another reason I can’t go there.”
“Fair enough,” was all Rosa said before dropping the subject. It never did any good to argue with Jules. Plus, her grandma knew everything Jules went through after prom and understood that bringing it up could open old wounds.
The sauce didn’t take long to come together in the large pot on the stove while the focaccia baked in the oven, filling the house with the smells of yeasty bread as Jules rolled out the gnocchi and cut them into one-inch pieces for boiling.
