Swing (Landry Family 2)

Massaging my temples, I try to release the work day and welcome in the evening with deep breathing. It’s a trick I learned when I was younger from the music teacher at my private school—not because I was some kind of vocalist. I can’t carry a tune. Mrs. Stevenson picked up on the anxiety I carried around like a weight around my neck, something no one else ever noticed or cared enough to help me with, and taught me the steadiness of controlling the air in my body.

Within a few breaths, a steaming mug of cappuccino is in front of me, a bowl of soup next to it, and Pepper across from me. She removes her blue and white checkered apron and tosses it on the booth beside her. “How was your day?”

“Good,” I say, sprinkling some salt in my soup.

“You didn’t even taste it.”

“I like salt.”

“It’s a knock on the cook to season your food without tasting it first.”

Shaker in hand, paused midair, I look at her through the steam.

“Go ahead and salt the shit out of it,” she sighs, flipping her long, dark locks behind her. “I just spent two hours concocting that dish to perfection. Go on and fuck it up.”

“Pepper!” I laugh, sitting the shaker down. “Geez, settle down. What has you all fired up today?”

Her dark eyes roll around in one of the most dramatic displays I’ve seen from her since I started coming to this little bakery near the hospital.

“My husband, if you must know,” she snorts. “He wants me to take on an extra pair of hands so I can spend more time with him at home. I mean, I love the man. I do. I’d love to see him more. But I can’t afford another person on payroll! We’d be in the red within two months.”

“Yikes,” I say, lifting a spoonful of the creamy soup to my lips. “Sounds like trouble.”

“It is.” She watches me like a hawk as I sample the latest Smitten Kitten creation. “So?”

“So what?”

“Is it good?” she laughs. “Damn it. I need feedback, you know that. Don’t hold out on me. You’re the first person to try it.”

“What are we calling it?” I ask, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

“Kitten Cup.”

“Sounds like cat food,” I giggle.

“But is it good?’

“No,” I say, keeping my face as blank as possible. She holds her breath and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. “It’s probably, um,” I say, tilting my head back and forth, prolonging her anguish, “probably my favorite soup yet.”

“Score!” she says, standing and pumping a fist. “I knew it! I knew this would be the one! I’m going to enter it in the city cook-off next month. It’s a winner, right? I mean, if it’s not, tell me. I have time to tweak it.”

“It’s an absolute winner,” I grin, knowing she’ll create something else in a few days and will forget all about the Kitten Cup. This is a process that’s never ending, and it certainly won’t end with this dish.

She starts to reply, but stops. Narrowing her eyes, she wags a finger in my face. “What are you not telling me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. You’re hiding something from me.”

Rolling my eyes, I start to lie to her, but know it’s useless. “I had a visitor today.” I proceed to give her all the details about my afternoon and find myself getting wrapped up in the dropping of her jaw, the way she hangs on every word. When I finish, she falls back like she’s run a mile.

“Did you at least give him your number?” she asks.

“No.” I shrug, like it’s a silly question, but my shoulders don’t fall before she’s squawking at me.

“Why? Why would you not give him your card or something? Danielle, sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you. You refused Weston Brinkmann—”

My hand flies up, silencing her. “Stop. You know why I turned Weston down.”