Find all the parts of this story here.
Cooking
Thursday was better. Cecilia had four clients, and one of them bought a whole bag of products, giving Cecilia a nice little boost in her commission. She changed her clothes promptly at 3, then left the spa and headed straight for the grocery store.
There were three grocery stores in New Albany: the outrageous organic one she would likely never visit, the big store from a small midwestern chain with slightly higher prices, and the small store from a big chain with slightly lower prices. She always went to the small store. They had everything she needed, and she’d never been a fancy cook. Even in Madison where she had access to all kinds of specialty stores, she had stuck with what she knew and could easily afford.
She started at the meat counter, quickly selecting a pork loin that she had the butcher cut down to a reasonable size. It would easily feed four men, and she assumed the farmer wanted leftovers.
Next, she visited the produce section. Green beans and bell peppers called her name. She could sauté or roast them to great appeal. She also found fresh herbs for the herbed butter, and fresh garlic for the potatoes. She chose Russets for the mashed potatoes, since they were the fluffiest (in her opinion). Then she grabbed a selection of salad fixings, hoping the farmer would have ingredients for a dressing. He had to have some kind of oil, right?
She rounded out her visit with the dairy aisle for butter, sour cream, and cheddar cheese to make the mashed potatoes truly delectable. As a bonus, she could use sour cream as a creamy salad dressing base if he didn’t have oil.
Her eyes bugged out a little at the total. She spent that much on 3-4 days worth of groceries for herself! But she had to remind herself that she was feeding hardworking farmers. They would appreciate a hearty meal.
Driving out to the address Mr. Brunn had given was so pleasant, she almost missed the turn. A long gravel driveway brought her up to a 2-story farmhouse that could have used a little love. Sure, the structure was in fine condition, the white paint pristine and bright. But it needed flowers in the garden beds, the yard needed mowing and weeding, and the scraggly corner bushes needed to be pruned. The front porch begged for some seating, maybe even a swing.
Cecilia reminded herself it wasn’t her house to make a home, then climbed the porch steps to knock on the front door. She knocked again when there was no answer after a minute or two. Still more time passed with nary a sound or response. A glance at her phone told her she was down to exactly 1 hour and 57 minutes before she needed to have dinner on the table.
Should she walk in the house? Try to find Mr. Brunn? She presumed he was still out working. Ugh, she should have figured this out on the phone with him.
She took a stroll around the house, leaving the bags of groceries on the porch. She rather hoped she’d find someone, but the only living things between her and the barn were a scruffy old dog and a handful of bugs and birds. The dog didn’t even move when she rounded the corner of the house. She had to stare at him to make sure he was still breathing.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself, before cupping her hands around the sides of her mouth.
“Mr. Brunn!” She shouted. “It’s Cecilia to make your dinner!”
“Let yerself in, girlie!” Came a yelled version of the gruff, old voice she had heard on the phone. Then a young man’s laughter followed. She couldn’t see them, so presumably they were behind the barn.
Ah, well. She’d do as he said.
Just inside the front door, a big rug to the side told her she should probably remove her shoes. She left her tennies on the plain rug, then meandered down the hall. The house was built in a shotgun style, with rooms branching left and right off a central hallway leading from the front door straight through to the back. She found the kitchen behind the last door on the left.
Oh, what a kitchen! Afternoon sunshine pummeled gently worn oak cabinetry until it fairly glowed. A simple white laminate countertop was scrubbed clean. Not a single ornament cluttered the counter. The stove – an older coil-burner model – had a canister of utensils where she might have placed a spoon rest.
Set inside the short end of the L-shaped cabinets was the most beautiful old farm table Cecilia had ever seen. The simple rectangle had a slit down the middle, probably for an extension. Four chairs filled in on two sides. The wood was scratched, dented, scarred from hot pots and pans, and stained in a few places, and Cecilia imagined the wood was whispering its stories of life, love, and loss.
How many family dinners had been eaten around this table? Had Mr. Brunn once had a family? Did he teach his children how to read here? Or was he a bachelor? Had he ever brought a lady here on a date? She longed to know the secrets the table held.
First things first, she had a job audition to get to. She dug through the cabinets and found pots and pans near the stove, cutting boards and knives near the sink, and dishes at the far end. Mixing bowls lived above the pots and pans. She had brought her own cast iron, knowing how it worked. She wasn’t prepared for the coil stove, though, and had to spend a little time on her phone’s very slow internet to ensure she could safely use the pan.
Then she set to work preparing the pork chops, boiling the potatoes, and baking the rolls. When she had a lull in her workflow, she washed up the dishes she had used so far – no dishwasher, unfortunately – and set the table for two. By 5:55, the side dishes were on the table, and the pork chops rested under a tent of foil.
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she turned toward the door. Her first glimpse of Mr. Brunn was the back of a head of shaggy white hair, in need of both washing and trimming. Broad shoulders rounded forward underneath a short-sleeved plaid cotton shirt, untucked from baggy jeans. He disappeared down the hallway, probably into the bathroom Cecilia had noticed in her brief self-guided tour.
Behind the white-haired man came a young man, probably only a little older than herself. He had what she used to call dirty blond hair, before she started working with Emory and was corrected. He had neatly trimmed dark blond hair, very tan skin, and a big, white-toothed, friendly smile.
“Hiya,” he greeted, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I’d shake your hand, but…” Letting the comment trail off, he showed her dirt-caked hands and fingernails. Not knowing what to say, she just gave a tight smile and nodded.
“I’m Ephraim,” he said. “You’re Cecilia, right?”
“Yeah,” she replied. Genius, Cici.
“We’ll wash up and be right there,” the young man smiled again, then moved down the hall.
Well, then. Here we go.