He diced the rest of the onions and had all but forgotten about the earlier misunderstanding when Liv hurried back in, tightening a dressing gown. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her post-shower skin was pink and moist. She had a lovely complexion, alabaster and luminous.
Liv saw him. Stopped dead. Choked in a panicked, guttural gasp.
Shit. “Oh,” he rushed, “I’m not actually—”
Her gaze flashed to his hand.
He was holding the knife he was using for the onions. “No, I’m not—”
Liv rocketed to the dining room table, scrambling for a weapon, which turned out to be… a banana. “Stay back or I’ll scream.”
He flung the knife in the sink. “No, I’m Sam, I’m Sam—”
“I don’t care who you are! I’ll put you in jail, motherfucker!”
“Liv, Liv, Liv, I’m Sam, Sam Woods—”
“How do you know my name?” Liv brandished the banana again, but the gesture had become a distracted inquiry, as if trying to pinpoint why he was wearing a flowery apron.
Sam spoke slowly and clearly. “Savannah Shipley, who I believe runs a wedding-planning business with you, organized for me to come do a test meal. I’m Sam. I’m a caterer.”
The banana thumped onto the table. “You’re Sam.”
“Yes! Yes, I’m Sam.” He gestured at the front door. “I think you thought I was from the grocery store, but then you went upstairs and—”
“Right, right. That explains the apron. God almighty, I almost lost my mind.”
“Me too,” said Sam.
Their fright went out of them in a huff of laughter.
Liv twisted the towel off her damp hair and dropped it over the back of a dining room chair. “Look, I appreciate you coming over and Jamie Oliver–ing my kitchen. But I don’t think this will work out.”
It felt like cutting open a perfectly ripe avocado to find it brown and smelly inside. “That’s a shame.”
The front door opened. “Mom?”
Liv’s entire face lit up. “In here!”
Oh, Sam realized. She’s really pretty.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. A young boy ran in and threw himself on Liv in a hug.
She hugged him back in the way only a mom did. “Hey, baby. How was school?”
“Good,” replied the boy. He looked to be about seven or eight.
Liv asked him something about how a carpool went: he must’ve been dropped off by one of the other parents. It didn’t feel like there was a father in the picture. The house, the boy, the woman, were all absent of a spouse, somehow. Divorce? Divorcing? Or maybe something worse. That would explain the kitchen.
The kid went on. “We did an experiment with eggshells to see how soda stains teeth and wears down enamel.”
“Whoa!” Liv poked him in the side. “Did it make you want to drink less soda?”
“Nope,” he said, before noticing Sam, and becoming shy.
“Ben, honey, this is Sam. A… friend.”
“Hey Ben.” Sam bent down to Ben’s level. “I like your backpack. Is that Spider-Man?”
Ben nodded, his eyes on the ground.
“I have a question,” Sam said. “Who would win in a battle between Superman and Spider-Man?”
“Superman.”
“Really?” Sam was intrigued. “Then why isn’t he on your backpack?”
“Well, Superman is stronger but Spider-Man’s funnier and more, um, relatable.” Now Ben was looking at Sam. “He was just a regular kid.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” Sam said.
“I’m intellectually curious,” replied Ben.
Sam grinned. Liv was smiling too, proud and pretending not to be.
Ben wandered into the kitchen, taking in the groceries. “What are you doing?”
Sam rose to his feet. “Well, you know how your mom plans weddings?”
Ben nodded.
“I’m a cook. I make food for weddings. And I’m here to audition for your mom. You know what an audition is?”
Ben shook his head. A small smile edged his mouth.
One of those kids who loved learning. Like Dottie. Dottie loved learning new things, too. “It’s like a test. A trial. If your mom likes what I cook, she might hire me.” Sam and Liv traded smiles, easy as an underarm lob.
Ben rocked back and forth on his toes. “What are you going to make?”
Sam looked to Liv. She shrugged, then nodded. Permission granted.
“Zucchini lasagna, fresh pea risotto, and a few appetizers,” Sam said. “Vegetarian, gluten-free, one hundred percent organic, and yummy. Wanna help me?”
“Can I, Mom?”
A micro expression of surprise flashed over her face before Liv replaced it with something more neutral. “As long as you don’t chop your fingers off.”
“Don’t worry, I am an expert in not chopping off fingers.” It’d been a while since Sam had met someone he found interesting. Liv was interesting. Her gaze brought a little flush to the back of his neck. Maybe she was in the same sort of situation he was in. “All right Big Ben, I am going to show you how to shuck peas.”
6
An hour or so later, Liv was tasting the best pea risotto of her life. One bite and she saw delicate young shoots and careening swallows and the gorgeous vermilion roses that burst forth along the back fence every May, unbidden and relentlessly alive. God, this winter had been long. Soon it’d be warm enough to eat dinner in the backyard under the old willow tree. If she could bring herself to pull out the one thousand weeds.
“Do you like it, Mom?” Ben was bouncing with excitement. “I shucked hundreds of peas.”
Ben’s interest in food prep was a surprise. His grief counselor said this would be a marathon, not a sprint. In some ways, Ben would never get over losing his father. The disruption to the family unit would play out his entire life: his attachment style, his choice of partners, maybe even the way he parented himself. The last three months had been fraught; Ben couldn’t sleep alone or with the lights off. He was prone to anxiety and tantrums. Pay attention to difference, said the counselor. To change.
Cooking wasn’t a Goldenhorn tradition. But it wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sight, the handsome caterer helping Ben stir a pot of simmering risotto.
“It’s delicious,” Liv told her son, accidentally looking at Sam instead of Ben as she added, “Well done, sweetie.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Sam replied, deadpan.
Liv laughed out loud. She honestly could not remember the last time she’d done that. She’d find out later that Savannah was currently stuck on a stalled L train with no reception, panicking. At that moment, Liv didn’t care where she was.
Sam put the last of the bowls in the dishwasher. There were some strands of silver in an otherwise full head of dark hair. He was over six feet tall, but his posture was as relaxed as the old T-shirt he was wearing. If height was power, Sam didn’t feel the need to dominate. Eliot, at five seven, had always carried himself with the straightest spine possible and wore shoes with risers.
“Right, the lasagna needs another thirty minutes in the oven. Apps are here”—Sam gestured to a platter of brightly colored dips and finger foods—“and you’ve got enough risotto for a week.”