off the buzzer and stood. “I need to check on the food.”
She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he took the food from the oven and retrieved the layered salad from the fridge.
“Okay, I thought of something else I don’t do,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Dishes.”
“Understandable,” she said as she washed her hands. “As long as you can cook well.”
“Not sure, judging from the review on your blog.”
She snagged a piece of lettuce from the bowl. “Don’t take it too personally. It was a review of the restaurant and the twenty-five dollar salad. No salad is that good. So what are we eating?”
“Beef fillets braised in red wine and tomatoes. It’s ready whenever you are.”
They ate on the balcony. The horizon looked as if someone had thrown a ball of paint and it landed against the end of the earth, bursting forth in orange and blue. It splattered across the water and reached out into the sand, where it drew lines up to Rayma’s condo.
“Oh, wow, this is good.”
“Thank you,” Camden said. She was talking about the food, but he couldn’t taste it. The air was too fresh, too salty, and too splendid. He wasn’t in that damn coffin of a house. Even if it did offer direct access to the beauty of the ocean, it couldn’t compare to this. Freedom. He hadn’t been free in a long time. He wasn’t in that damn restaurant, cooking and baking and smelling those spices that seemed to become part of him. Vin Doux was set against the shore, too, but it was a controlled beauty. This uninhibited and natural beauty was pure heaven. Birds flew, arched in the sky, dove, as if freefalling into the ocean, only to come back up again.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“School, I suppose. Where did you move from?”
“Austin.”
“No boyfriend?”
“Not at the moment,” she said. “Just my cat and me.”
“Is there a story about his name?”
She finished chewing and took a sip of wine before replying. “I found him almost dead in the sand when I first moved here. I had been feeling like I’d made a horrible and rash decision in relocating, but he was my beacon telling me I didn’t.”
Her closed expression didn’t invite further questions, so he left it at that. They continued their dinner with small talk and bouts of pleasurable silence. She was comfortable to be around, and he didn’t feel like they had to fill every empty space with chatter.
He liked that about her.
He didn’t ask many personal questions and neither did she. He didn’t like to ask when he couldn’t answer his own without lying. He wondered if it was the same with her.
When they finished eating, he helped her carry the dishes inside, and jumped at the sound of a loud mewl.
“Your cat sounds pissed.”
“Yes, I should let him out. Think you can watch where you’re stepping for the next few minutes?”
“Absolutely,” he said. Few minutes? Is that how long she thought he’d stay after dinner?
She opened the door and the cat emerged, his back arching when he spotted Camden studying Rayma’s vinyl record collection.
“He probably hates me now. Thinks it’s my fault he’s locked up.”
She swooped down to pick up the cat and nuzzled her face in his fur. “Come on, Beacon. Camden isn’t so bad. Maybe I’ll even give you a piece of his leftovers if you eat your dinner.”
As she busied herself in the kitchen, feeding the cat and loading the dishwasher, Camden asked, “You collect records?”
“Yes. There’s nothing better.”
“Hip-hop?” he asked. “Rock and jazz?”
“I like a little bit of everything.”
He put on a Miles Davis album and pulled her away from the sink.
They fit well together dancing. She was tall enough not to make him feel like a giant, but even with her heels he was able to rest his chin on the top of her head. He whipped her around the living room, and she laughed but kept up.
“You’re a good dancer,” she said when the song ended.
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