CHAPTER 10
Elena
“How do you like your steak?” Addler asks, setting a wok on the fire. Something I’ve never seen done while cooking out.
I stretch, peeking over from my spot at the end of the stone counter set beside the pool. “Medium, if you can.” He raises a brow, as if that last part is a given. Even with as much time as I spent with Addler all those years ago, how could I possibly know what he can and can’t do in front of a grill.
“They can rest for a bit while I finish.” He pulls the steaks off the fire, setting them aside.
“Oh, I don’t know if I can handle something that big.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve said. I drop my head back, knowing I set up a perfect “that’s what she said” moment.
The smirk is unmistakable. “You can take it a bit at a time.”
Trying my best to ignore the blush burning across my face, I tug on the label for the hard apple cider I’m drinking. My second one. Suddenly I’m glad to have moved to something stronger than diet soda. “How did you learn to cook?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
“Mostly I learned from my grandfather,” he says, dicing up more white onion. “There was always meat at hand, so I cut my teeth on cooking steaks and fajitas.” The quick, steady tap of the knife on the wooden cutting board is impressive. “What about you? Do you cook?” he asks, glancing over.
“My learning was more along the egg level.” Ugh. I can’t believe I blurted that out. I glare at the bottle for having loosened my tongue. Meat was expensive, so when we had enough to afford steak, Mom didn’t want to take the chance I’d ruin it. Eggs were a cheap option we could discard if I screwed up, something he wouldn’t understand.
“Most people start the same.” He chuckles. “Now, I could ruin an egg in a heartbeat.” As always, we’re at odds, even in the way we learned to cook. “My grandmother thought practice would help. My grandfather’s answer was to pull out a griddle and have me fix breakfast for the cowboys.”
“Oh, now that sounds like a fun challenge,” I say, perking up.
He shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Working a chuck wagon when you have a couple of dozen men who’ve been up since four in the morning is no easy task. They wanted scrambled, boiled, and over easy. Overdone and runny eggs would earn me a slap upside the head, at least from my grandfather.”
“Ouch.” I wince. I remember seeing Roman de Marco in town when I was a kid. A tall, powerful-looking man, much like Addler himself. He made enough of an impression that I still remember him. I can’t imagine him offering a light tap when disappointed.
“My mother saw how bad my biscuits were turning out. She has no talent in the kitchen, but she had enough good sense to have Mayela teach me how to cook.” He tosses butter in the wok, followed by a drizzle of oil, stirring them with a wooden spatula. “I think she was afraid I’d end up with a flat spot on the back of my head.”
I smile along with him. “She didn’t have a problem with your grandfather’s discipline?”
The cheer leaves his face. “Not that kind of family.” He tosses the onion in the wok, leaving me to wonder about his home life as a child. “Though the men were old school, she usually figured out how to get her way.”
“That’s good.” Mom isn’t what anyone would consider strong-willed. She struggled for a while after Dad died, but she eventually learned to shift gears. I don’t know how she would have done in this family.
“Once, when I was a kid, I wandered in during an all-female conversation. I remember my mom saying the men in the family had the balls, but the women had the brains.” He glances in my direction, as if gauging my reaction. “To me, she said the men had the brawn, but she wasn’t wrong on either count.” He takes a drink from the nearby beer bottle.
I can imagine them here, the ladies of the house, stretched out, enjoying the large pool. Maybe they were indulging in a glass of wine when little Addler came around, unnoticed.
I give him a quick peek, trying to picture him as a child. Maybe it’s because he’s so imposing, I can’t picture him as anything other than tall and strong. His biceps stretch the shirt’s sleeves more now than when we were sitting next to each other.
“Your family spent a lot of time together?”
“It’s isolated out here, so you have to maintain a good relationship with those around you or things can get lonely.”
“I can imagine.” I look out into the distance, knowing I won’t see the edge of the property, no matter how much I squint. Isolated seems like an understatement. Which was apparently the reason the original de Marcos wanted this property.
The story goes that the owner wouldn’t sell because the ranch had been in his family for generations. But Mr. de Marco fell for the man’s only daughter and ended up marrying her, thus keeping the ranch in the family, so they all had a happy ending.
“My grandfather got along well with the family. He even built that wing for them.” He points to the part of the house stretching out to our left. “That way they could be together without all living under one roof.”
“Smart man, your grandfather.”
“Once my dad came along, they planned the next addition.” He points to the side on the right. “My parents don’t spend a lot of time here, so I took over that wing, and they live in the main part of the house now.”
Another love story. A de Marco and a painter who ended up lost along the border. “Your mother still enjoys painting?”
“Mmm.” He nods. “They’re abroad at the moment, for some festival she wants to capture.” He grabs the wok, rocking it, then, to my delight, he tosses the onion, creating a perfect arc each time.