All That Really Matters Nicole Deese (best ereader for pdf and epub .TXT) 📖

been deliberating that since the moment you drove out of my driveway last night.”

She laughed lightly. “I’m guessing there aren’t many loopholes to The Bridge’s no-touch conduct agreement I signed?”

“Believe me, Molly, if there were, I wouldn’t be standing three feet away from you.”

Her smiling face rivaled the sunshine. “Good to know.”

27

Molly

By the following Friday, I felt as if I’d lived a month in the span of a single week. The house had been extra busy, and Clara had been off for the week, working overtime at the bank to ensure she had enough vacation days for her honeymoon in late September. I’d encouraged her to do it, of course, pushing her to believe I was more than capable of taking over the group, closing prayer and all.

I was wrong. She should have been worried.

“That you, Kitten Heels?” Glo called over her shoulder as she filled a giant pot in the undermount sink of Fir Crest’s main kitchen. There were several rooms in the manor that registered less than their full potential, but the kitchen was not among them. Bright, open, cheery, and resembling what I pictured as every chef’s dream, I understood why Glo spent so much time in here instructing the residents on the basics of cooking and baking. Although today, she’d graciously offered to make me a recipient of her reputable skills.

“You might want to throw the lock on that door so we don’t ruin the surprise before it’s time, though by the sounds of it, Silas is up to his eyeballs dealing with Devon’s run-in with the parking meter.”

I cringed as I latched the door behind me. “I know, poor Devon. He seems really upset. I saw him when he first got back from school.” And I’d also seen Silas—that look of fatherly compassion in his eyes as he led the shaken young man upstairs to his office. I almost hadn’t recognized Devon at first. There had been no trace of his usual humor, which, for a kid who always had a joke to tell, was heartbreaking in and of itself.

“Poor Silas is more like it,” Glo chided. “He’ll be the one cleaning up the mess with the college, not to mention paying whatever fines are involved in mowing a parking meter over. I hope that boy’s thanking Jesus he only dented a metal pole and not a human being with that scooter of his.”

I opened my mouth to respond—because how many times had I been guilty of the exact same offense, checking my phone instead of keeping my eyes on the road—but suddenly I was too stunned to speak as I took in all the ingredients strewn along the counter. The supplies we needed for today’s special cooking lesson.

“Wow, Glo. I didn’t realize just how involved this recipe was. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”

“Nonsense. There are few people in this world I’d do just about anything for, and Silas is right near the top. He’s like a son to me.” Her eyes reflected admiration, and yet her statement had to be connected to a deeper grief than I could ever grasp. Silas had mentioned the son she’d lost many years ago, and though I didn’t know the details, I did know that Glo’s past had been anything but easy. Somehow she’d found a new life for herself here, with people who adored her as much as she adored them. “Besides,” she continued, “it’s about time I taught someone else how to make Silas’s favorite meal. Judy, his mother? Bless her.” She shook her head and laughed a little. “There’s not a more lovely woman in all the world, but she’s no cook. And she’d be the first to tell you that, too. At least you already have some skills in the kitchen.”

Scanning several unrecognizable ingredients, I questioned her assessment. I enjoyed cooking and experimenting with new flavors and techniques, but I was beginning to think taking on such an authentic meal from scratch might have been above my pay grade. Especially since tonight was technically only our second date.

“Don’t fret,” Glo assured, as if she could hear my doubts. Maybe she could. Silas seemed to think she had some sort of sixth sense about people. “I’ll teach you how to make a mean Mexican tamale dish. I may be Nez Perce by blood, but you’ll be hard-pressed to find someone who can make authentic masa as good as mine.”

Glo’s laugh loosened one of my own, and I quickly washed up, ready for her expert instruction on how to begin making Silas’s favorite meal. He told me he hadn’t eaten many tamales growing up, but when he traveled with his dad to Mexico the summer after he graduated from high school, they’d quickly become his favorite. His retelling of that trip on one of our recent late-night phone calls had made every one of my senses come alive. I wanted to taste what he’d tasted that first time in Mexico City, drinking Coke from a cold glass bottle. What I wouldn’t give to smell the spicy chicken and hand-pressed masa, swaddled in silky corn husks the way he’d described it. That thought had led to a craving, and that craving to an idea. Thankfully, Glo was more than willing to humor me.

Not only did she show me the proper way to prepare and soak the husks, but I also learned the techniques that “made her masa dough second to none,” as she put it.

“Don’t be afraid of lard. That’s the first rule. Young people are too afraid of lard, but there’s just no good substitute for it.”

“Right. Got it.” I listened, mixed, and poured tablespoon after tablespoon of chicken stock into the masa flour mixture as she watched my every movement and instructed. And then came the float test. According to Glo, the masa dough was only ready when it could be balled up, placed into a glass of water, and float to the top. If it sank to