“What’s that?” she asks.
“Garlic-infused olive oil.”
“And that?”
“Panko.”
“Pank-what?”
“PANK-OH. Breadcrumbs to you. I like it on salmon.”
“Jack isn’t a big fan of fish.”
I purse my lips. “You don’t say.”
“Yeah, we’re more a meat-and-potatoes kind of family.”
Just then, Jack’s booming voice carries down from the top floor. “Is Meredith back from the store yet? I just got a call from Marty, said he saw a brunette stalled out on the side of the road in one of our trucks.”
“Yes I’m back!” I shout back, annoyed with this Marty person for being such a narc. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about! I got to the store and back just fine, no thanks to that rust bucket your ranch hands lent me!”
“That truck runs just fine when I drive it!”
“Yeah, the engine’s probably running from you like everyone else around here!”
Edith throws her hands in the air. “That’s enough shouting! Jack either come down here and talk to Meredith like a normal human being or get back to work. Lunch won’t be ready for another thirty minutes!”
“Forty,” I whisper.
“Forty minutes!” she corrects.
Jack’s footsteps clomp back into his office, and Edith and I exchange a conspiratorial smile.
Forty minutes later on the dot, Jack and his grandmother sit down for a lunch of summer kale salad, cauliflower rice, and baked salmon.
I stand at the end of the table, twisting a towel in my hand and waiting for them to take their first bites. They both stare at the food like it’s some kind of alien sustenance.
“There’s not a potato on this plate,” Jack points out.
“I think you’ll like the cauliflower. It’s rich and garlicky.”
“Is this the first course?” he asks, peering up at me from beneath his dark brows.
“Jack, don’t be so rude,” Edith scolds. “Meredith, sit down and eat with us.”
“Oh, I’ve been eating this whole time—y’know, checking the seasoning levels.”
“Eat s’more then,” she demands. “You’re too skinny.”
I laugh. “Where I come from, that’s a compliment.”
Truthfully, I could eat. I’m starving, but I’m aware of the fact that Jack hasn’t asked me to join them. In fact, his body language sends the exact opposite message. If we were in elementary school, he’d drop his backpack on the empty seat beside him and proclaim loudly, Seat’s taken.
I take the hint and leave them to it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish organizing the groceries.”
“Thank you for lunch,” Edith says. “It looks very…exotic.”
I shake my head as I walk back into the kitchen.
There’s silence for a few minutes as forks and knives meet plates. I start to organize the groceries in the pantry, but my ears are trained on the dining room, listening for feedback.
“The salmon’s really good,” Edith says.
Jack grunts.
“I notice you’ve nearly cleared your plate there,” she points out.
“A man’s gotta eat.”
“Uh-huh. You’ve about licked it clean—I’m sure Meredith would give you seconds if you asked.”
I can’t hear any conversation after that, and then a few minutes later, Jack walks into the kitchen with both of their plates. There’s not a speck of food left on either.
I hold out my hands to take them from him, but he steps around me.
My brows jump to my hairline, but I keep my lips zipped.
He opens the dishwasher and bends down to load their plates and silverware. I don’t stare at his butt in his worn Wranglers, and I definitely don’t snap my gaze away before he stands and turns to face me. He drops his hands onto the counter and leans forward. I busy myself by folding a towel and hanging it over the side of the sink. I pick at a speck of dirt on the counter. I open a cabinet, look inside, and then close it again. It’s clear he wants me to stop what I’m doing and give him my attention, but I can’t do it. Everything inside of me wants to fight him tooth and nail, even for something as simple as this.
“So the truck gave you some trouble?”
His tone is the same one my parents used when they knew I’d done something wrong but they wanted me to fess up to it myself. Meredith, do you know what could’ve happened to the entire sleeve of Oreos?
No clue, I’d mumble through pursed lips, cheeks bursting at the seams, teeth looking like an active coal mine.
“Nope. No trouble at all.”
“That’s strange, because Marty—a trusted friend—asked me if I’d had any trucks stolen by a raven-haired woman.”
I suppose Marty, with his level of observational detail, must be the sketch artist at the local police department. I have no choice but to adjust my current strategy of denial.
“Ohhh, he must’ve seen me when I pulled over to admire the wildflowers.”
“What kind?”
“Sunflowers.”
“I haven’t seen any yet this year.”
“They were massive, big as your head.” I spot the obvious flaw in my plan and sidestep it masterfully. “Somebody was out mowing though, so they’re probably all gone now.”
“Y’know, it’s an old truck. It could have given anyone a hard time.”
He’s playing good cop, trying to bait me into an easy confession. I turn and give him a blank, innocent stare.
He tips his head to the side.
I mimic him.
He puts his hands on his hips, and so do I.
He narrows his eyes, and I mirror the gesture.
Finally, he cracks. When he’s gone, I’ll pump my fist in the air in victory.
“Next time come get the keys for my truck.”
His truck?
“Is it from the Stone Age or the Bronze Age?”
He heaves a heavy sigh like he’s lost all his patience with me—that, or he’s trying not to laugh.
“It’s brand new.”
“And you’d trust me with it?”
“Do I have a reason not to?”
His gaze is so warm, and yet so cold all at once. Meeting it makes me feel like a tiny fist is punching me repeatedly in the gut. I’m surprised I still sound normal as I ask, “What’d you think of lunch?”
He shrugs, glancing down at the shirt I have knotted off at my waist, yet another of his hand-me-downs. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before his gaze finds mine again. “I don’t usually like salmon.”
There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I’d have to use a pickaxe to find it.
“Right, well, I saved the skin. It’s good for dogs.”
His brows rise as if he’s impressed. “Going to give it to Alfred?”
“Give it, drop it out back through the cracked door—tomato-tomahto.”
He shakes his head and pushes off the counter. “We really gotta work on that fear of yours.”
“Total avoidance is working out pretty well,” I quip. “I’ll just continue that forever.”
“Forever, huh? Strong words for someone on their second day.”
I try not to smile. “That’s how long I plan to stay—either that or until we’re so sick of each other that you fire me.”
“That’s how you think this is gonna end?”
Now we’re both fighting smiles. “I won’t be quitting, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He rubs the back of his neck as he turns for the back door. “We’ll see.”
It’s a cheeky little sendoff, and just like with everything else concerning Jack, it digs under my skin. We’ll see, I mouth snarkily to his back like a snotty grade-schooler, all the while watching him walk away. He reaches for his baseball cap on the hook by the door, slips it on over his chestnut brown hair, and then he’s gone.
Later that evening, after I’m done working for the day, I find an envelope tucked halfway underneath the door of the shack. Inside, there’s a small advance: $500 in cash.