“Sweet, as in sweet like my brother,” he laughs out, bringing my words back to haunt me. A lump of regret lodges in my throat at the realization that I might have actually hurt him with that comment.
I cradle his face with my palm, skimming his jaw. “No. Sweet like you.”
He settles into my touch. “Do you have any idea how amazing you look right now, standing under the moonlight?” he asks, and I know he asked a question but I don’t give him an answer, not with words anyway. Instead I kiss him, our tongues tangling briefly before we break apart and stroll hand in hand up to the house.
One ring of the bell and Caleb’s mom is at the door. She’s absolutely adorable, all of maybe five-foot-two with welcoming blue eyes and wearing an apron that says “Sexy Mom Cooking.” She has an aura of warmth about her and I like her instantly.
She engulfs Matt in a hug and the fact that he dwarfs her in size by almost a foot is incredibly endearing. “Hi, sweetie. Thank you so much for coming,” she says appreciatively, then moves over and surprises me with an embrace as well. When she releases me, she places a hand on my arm. “It’s so great to meet you, Fran. Come in, come in.” She ushers us in and winks at Matt, nodding her head toward the kitchen. “I have pie.”
We walk in further and I immediately notice the understated and lived-in feel of their house, a stark contrast to the exterior. I expected formal sofas and designated sitting rooms, but am pleasantly surprised to find overstuffed couches and comfy chairs in muted yellows and blues. Vibrant green plants add additional bursts of color and mementos sit atop several rustic side tables.
Family pictures spatter two entire walls and as I get closer, my heart is instantly warmed at the sight of Matt’s boyish face in so many of them: fishing, playing baseball, at the beach, and at various celebrations. This is not a house. This is a home. I’m hit with a longing, a heaviness in my chest of something that could never be, never was. There were no family dinners for me where everyone was laughing and talking about their day. While my mother was working, my father was too busy passed out on the couch in an alcohol-induced coma, and when she was home, he was demanding she bring him his food in front of the TV. He expected her to cater to his every whim when she wasn’t busting her ass to support us so we didn’t end up on the streets. My dad was worthless in the job department; he was worthless in all departments.
Matt’s voice is a welcome interruption to my unpleasant walk down memory lane. “You okay, baby?”
I know he’s called me that before, but for some reason when he says it now, it gives me a fuzzy feeling in my stomach and sprinkles over me like a sun shower. He loops his fingers through mine and a shiver zaps me, starting with my head and ending at my toes.
“Hey, old man,” Matt calls out, and we turn the corner to find Caleb’s dad stretched out on the couch in front of the television. He looks so young in his matching blue Duke University sweats, a pair of black wire-framed glasses, and hair slicked back from an apparent shower.
“Hey, son!” he shouts, “two visits in a week. I’m likin’ it.” He peeks around Matt’s tall frame, sizing me up in a single glance. “And this pretty little thing must be Fran.”
“Jim!” Mrs. Brody yells from the other room, “keep it in your pants!”
“Hush, woman, that’s not what you said last night!” he counters with a deep, rich laugh.
Matt puts his hand to his head and shakes it, a lame effort to hide a smile while I make a gurgling noise and snort. He looks over at me with raised eyebrows and shrugs as if to say ‘I warned you.’
“Pops, this is Fran. Fran this is Mr. Brody.”
“Jim, call me Jim…we’re not that formal here, as you can tell.” He winks and offers his hand. “I’d get up but I’ve got this hip thing I’m recovering from still. Limited activity if you know what I mean.”
I walk over and shake his hand with a broad smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Jim. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
“Eh”—he flaps his hand in a shooing motion—“never believe everything you hear.”
“Fran,” Mrs. Brody’s voice carries from the kitchen, “why don’t you help me put the cream on the pie.”
The smell of chocolate leads the way, tantalizing my nose, my belly stirring from hibernation, answering the call with a rumble.
The kitchen is tremendous, the size rivaling my entire living room and bedroom put together. With stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, a center island with seating for six, and glass cabinets, it looks a lot like something right out of a design magazine. What catches my attention though is the framed black and white print hanging above the table. Your opinion is not in the recipe. I think I love Mrs. Brody.
“Here, Fran.” She hands me a knife and a spoon. “Let’s get the whipped cream on this chocolate cream pie so we can dig in. It’s Matt’s favorite,” she says, and now she winks at me, too. There’s an awful lot of winking going on around here.
“So tell me how you know Matt?” We stand side by side at the center island, a silver bowl filled with freshly whipped cream ready to go. She lifts a finger in the air as if she’s about to say something of the utmost importance. “But first, we taste,” she instructs, and then both of us proceed to dip our spoons in and savor the cream swirling around on our tongues.
“Actually, it’s kind of funny. Brad’s fiancée is my best friend,” I say, still marveling at the irony of this whole situation.
“Ah, that’s right. Caleb mentioned that,” she recalls, before taking another spoonful of whipped cream and putting a finger to her lips. “Shhhh!”
Matt barges into the kitchen and plods straight to the cabinets, sticking his finger in the bowl of cream as he walks by, and Mrs. Brody lightly pinches his arm before he leans in, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. My throat goes thick with emotion at the affection they have for one another, showing me a whole different side of Matt, a glimpse into his world.
“Matthew James Dixon,” she says sternly with a hint of a smile, “fingers out of the whipped cream.”
He continues on his mission, rummaging through cabinets until he finally spins around holding a package of Red Vines. He rips open the bag and pulls a piece of licorice out, dangling it in front of me. “Red Vine?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.
“No thanks.” I giggle, shaking my head with amusement.
“All right, Matthew, we’re having some girl time in here, so out you go. The bookcases are upstairs in the guest room and I just need them moved over to Tracy’s room.”
“You got it, Ma,” he sings, giving me a little swat as he walks by and I wave my spoon at him, casting a sharp look his way.
We put the finishing touches on the chocolate cream pie and I can’t help but think how nice this feels. With the exception of a handful of moments with Mom, she wasn’t around a lot to bake with me or teach me how to cook. I stare down at the spoon in my hand as it loses focus and becomes one big blur, just like my childhood.
Mrs. Brody plunks the spoon into the empty bowl, the sound pulling me back to the here and now, a now that holds so much more promise, and I have to remind myself of that.
“Did you like to bake when you were little?” she asks, almost as if reading my thoughts.
“I liked it but my mom worked a lot and wasn’t around much,” I reply, trying to plaster a happy smile on my face, and she lays a hand on mine. It’s such a simple gesture yet it means so much. “I do remember this one time, though. My mom had the day off and we were going to make chocolate chip cookies. She had these two glass jars on the counter, one with sugar and the other with salt, and when we went to make the cookies she accidentally put salt in instead of sugar. It ended up being the cookie disaster of the century.”