Part 12 (2/2)
”That old one you had to pa.s.s before you took the turn winding into the trout camp.
Two-story, big yard, lots of rose bushes. Those were Mom's.”
Marilyn settled back and listened, relis.h.i.+ng the warm currents the wine introduced to her body, enjoying the bittersweet depths Jack opened in her mind. She hadn't thought of her own mother in years. Much less of family meals.
”Want to hear something goofy? I've never had my own ap.r.o.n,” Jack told her. ”Throughout all of those books, I've never purchased an ap.r.o.n. The one I used in there?
Mimi's. That's why it barely fit.”
”Every chef needs an ap.r.o.n, Jack!”
”But I'm not a chef. At least, I've never considered myself one.”
Marilyn giggled. ”I'd have thought the chef's hat would've been the symbol, that one of those large, floppy white hats would've been your badge of honor. Not an ap.r.o.n.”
”Maybe in the past. Have you watched cooking shows lately? No hats. But ap.r.o.ns and the occasional towel tossed over one shoulder. I'm no Emeril Laga.s.se or Julia Child, but still. Would've been nice to at least feel like a chef now and then when I was writing.”
At that, Marilyn bit back another giggle.
One of his eyebrows lifted. ”Are you making fun of me?”
”Maybe a little. But I think it's sweet. I'm surprised you didn't fly around like a superhero with an ap.r.o.n on your back, if you were that interested in what went on in the kitchen.”
”Never thought of myself as a superhero. I always wanted to be like my dad or my grandfather. I wanted to be the man who made those women smile, the man who could understand them and why they enjoyed what they did. Women have always fascinated the h.e.l.l out of me.”
Marilyn laughed. ”So I gather.”
”Cracks like that will not get you invited back into my bed, woman.”
”Oh, I'll take my chances. You're pretty easy.”
”You could tell that?” he asked, a gleam in his eyes. ”After just one night?”
”And one delicious quickie.” She rose from her cradle in Jack's arms and set her empty gla.s.s on the coffee table. ”Jack, you don't need a cape or an ap.r.o.n to be a hero. You just need the right ingredients beneath the cape or ap.r.o.n.” She winked.
”Wanna see what's under my ap.r.o.n?”
She patted his chest. ”I was referring to a good heart, a kind disposition, a sense of humor, caring and understanding for other people.”
”Okay. You don't ask for much, do you?” He bent to kiss her. ”But would you like to see-”
Marilyn unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt slowly. ”You still don't get it. I know what's under your ap.r.o.n.”
”So why are you undressing me?” His voice held suspicion.
”Because I want-” She pressed her lips to one of his nipples. ”-to see it.” This time she nipped him, causing him to flinch. ”Again. Now, where's that bottle? And how about some fresh grapes? Let me show you what an East Coast woman knows about wine.”
”We need to talk before we make love again.”
”I say we talk later.”
”Marilyn, I need to know... why... why this and why with me?”
She was saved from answering by Chuck and Colette banging on the door.
Chapter Twelve.
Poor Boy (No Foil or Pans) Baked Potatoes Ingredients: As many large potatoes as desired.
Cake potatoes with mud if on riverbank, toss onto grill to cook, turning periodically. When ready to
serve, crack off the dried mud, cleanse the jackets with water and eat.
By mid-afternoon, the Ketchup King had backtracked his mistakes and discovered that he had indeed put in too much celery. After six tries, he even mastered a recipe that tasted like the family spaghetti sauce. But he never quite got the hang of homemade ketchup.
”So we'll serve spaghetti instead,” Marilyn said as the four friends sat on Jack's picnic table, polis.h.i.+ng off the last of the food.
”Spaghetti on the riverbank?” he asked. ”I don't think so.”
”Use the sauce over grilled steak,” Chuck suggested. ”Grill-baked potatoes in their skins, corn on the cob and steak.”
”That's not bad!” Jack said, taking hope.
He looked at the multiple bottles of ketchup and mustard scattered across the table and nodded. ”I never want to eat another hamburger or French fried potato.”
Marilyn picked up a fry and stabbed one of the small bowls of ketchup. ”It's quit raining. How about going canoeing?”
She could tell he was surprised.
”You sure?” Jack asked.
Marilyn nodded. ”All four of us. Chuck has quit sniffling since he picked up his medicine this morning, and Larabee won't be here for a couple more days after all.”
”Oh, I don't know,” Chuck said, his body language clearly indicating that he had no desire to float the Illinois amongst the damp greenery on either side of the bank.
”Me either,” Colette said. ”I'll keep Chuck company. He's teaching me how to play chess.”
Jack looked at Marilyn. ”Then I guess that leaves the two of us. Lots of local ranchers don't have fences up near the river-they've let their cattle and horses roam freely and drink from there. Mebbe we can catch us a wild horse or a cow. Put on your swimsuit and some shorts, and I'll meet you at your place as soon as I clean up my mess in the kitchen. Again.”
Chuck grinned. ”I'm not allergic to dishwater, Jack. I'll stick around for that.” He motioned towards the women. ”You're not the only one who'd like a little one-on-one with someone special. So go, before I change my mind.”
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