The Door

Chapter Seven

"Can you cook?" Carey asked me the next day.

I let the axe handle rest on my shoulder. Chest heaving from effort, I squinted at him. He stood a few feet away, observing. In a tank top and leggings, I was soaked through with sweat from hacking at the tree trunks in the hundred-and-ten degree afternoon sun. "Why?"

"The Caretaker was up all night. She made breakfast but is too exhausted to cook dinner. I can't cook anything at all. My visitors end up with pizza and bagels."

I snorted. "My grandparents on both sides are Italian. I spent the weekends with my grandma. Yeah, I can cook," I said. "Will it get me out of tree chopping duty?"

"Today. Why are you chopping trees anyway?"

"Because the Caretaker hates me." I straightened from my stance and started toward the shed. "How many visitors is she expecting for dinner?"

"Same number as last night. Thirty three, plus us three," he replied and followed.

"That's a lot of food."

"We can order pizza."

"No way. I'm sick of frying my ass off in the sun." Putting my equipment away, I closed the shed and joined him on the porch. "Any requests?"

"Anything. I never complain when someone takes pity enough to cook for me."

I smiled. Carey was a nice guy and a much needed friendly face to the Caretaker family. Entering the air-conditioned kitchen, I sighed and drank a bottle of chilled water as I considered the contents of the pantry. The Caretaker really did make everything from scratch; she had nothing readymade at all, just an abundance of raw material. The pantry was the size of my bathroom and much of its contents bulk sized.

Pulling out my phone, I checked my email to see if I still had my personal favorite of my grandmother's recipes. Pleased to see it there, I tucked the phone away.

"Definitely beats chopping wood," I said and began gathering the items I'd need.

I spent four hours in the kitchen, working up another sweat over the oven and stovetop. Cooking reminded me of all the weekends I spent with my grandparents and of life before the incident. It made me happy, and time passed quickly. I made handmade pasta and spent twenty minutes in my garden to pluck the best vegetables for the filling. Once the chopped veggies were flavored, soft and fragrant, I tucked spoon-fulls into small pockets and then placed the large raviolis in the oven to bake. The sauce was a little harder. My grandmother swore a good sauce took at least a day to cook and a ham bone or two. I didn't have the time or pork bones, so I made red sauce with sausage in the largest pot I could find then shoved it in the deep freezer while the raviolis cooked. I was hoping a quick chill would help it thicken for when I reheated it.

Salad with vinaigrette and steamed vegetables were quick, easy sides. And then there was dessert. I used my mother's red velvet cake recipe to create sheet cakes large enough to feed close to forty people.

People began arriving before I'd finished. Carey was quick to answer the door and situate people in the parlors and office according to what clan they were in, leaving me to work the meal issue. Rather than a buffet, I created separate dinner plates for everyone, partially to keep people out of the kitchen, and out of my way, and partially because ... well, we didn't eat off paper plates for dinner. My mother had few rules, but this was one she had gotten from her parents and refused to bend on. Dinner was a sacred time for family, never to be rushed or cheated of importance by paper plates.

I missed her. I never knew how much I loved our dinners together until I was sentenced to eating alone in my room every night here.

When everything was ready, I prepared the individual plates and Carey delivered them. We were a good team, and neither of us got a break until everyone had dinner. Carey joined me in the kitchen where we ate our own servings quickly, before the others were ready for the cake I'd just frosted.