Page 35 of Love Always

In a few minutes I hear her turn on the water again. I scan the kitchen and note plates and cups in the sink. When the water shuts off, I roll up my sleeves and do the few dishes, wipe down the counters, and search the fridge for dinner ideas.

My abuela taught me to cook and to “cook well” and “cook long.” The “well” meant making authentic foods and recipes. The “long” meant learning to cook outside Tex-Mex or Latin palates. I decided to make a frittata. She could eat it at any temperature and whatever Cory didn’t like, he could pick out.

In thirty minutes, Claire knocks on the door and then steps inside holding Cory’s hand tightly.

Her face is pale and her blonde hair falls over her eyes as if shielding her. “Where is she?”

“Taking a bath. She just let the water out a few minutes ago.”

“You stay here with Mateus? Okay? I’m going to say hi to Mommy.”

The door to the bathroom opens and closes. Cory stares at me, but I make no immediate overture. After several seconds he says, “You making dinner.”

“Yes I am.”

Without walking over, he moves to the next observation. “What is it?”

“A frittata,” I say enunciating frittata very clearly with all the “Ts”.

“I don’t like that.”

“Do you like eggs?”

“Yes, jumbled.”

I keep stirring. “Do you like potatoes?

“Yes, but only mashed.”

“Do you like onion?”

“If it’s burny.”

“Well a frittata has all those things in it.”

He screws up his little face and I shoot a glance at him.

“You didn’t say hello.”

His observation is correct. “Well hello, Cory, how are you?”

This makes him relax and I realize it’s a pattern of behavior that he’s been taught and he’s more comfortable if allowed to perform within the pattern.

“I’m fine.” With that, he marches over to a series of cloth bins and pulls one out as well as a rolled-up placemat. Folding himself to the floor he drops a set of miniature blocks onto the mat.

The bathroom door opens and closes again. Claire’s eyes look a little red.

“I have to go treat a horse inland about half an hour from here. It’s a breech birth. The guy’s an—” she mouths “ass,” “—one of his top brood mares. Devon’s at work, out on a call, and Chloe’s getting dinner on for Inn guests. I don’t know how long this birth is going to be but I don’t think,” and she takes a step closer and leans towards me to whisper, “I don’t think she should be alone.”

I nod. “Have you heard anything from Finn about Chris Proctor?”

She pauses for a second before answering, clearly waiving an earlier rule about not mixing family with work and shakes her head. “No, nothing. I did hear from Bryce though and he said that he can drop some stuff off that you might need. I mean if you don’t mind staying with her.”

I nod. “No worries, got it.” I point to the pan with the frittata. “I wish it was cooked. I’d offer you a slice to go.”

“It’s okay. I got a hand pie from Chloe.”

With a glance to Cory she lowers her voice again. “I haven’t seen her like this since Mom and Dad were killed. This is not good. I wish to God I didn’t have to go to that ranch.”