Nena peeked at his face. What she saw astonished her. Her fingers touched his face and came away with wetness on the tips. She looked down at them, confounded. Cort wept for her.
He passed his hand over his face. He looked at her sheepishly, unsure of what to do next.
“Ocean spray?” she asked with a knowing smile.
He laughed in spite of himself, a deep, rich laugh that elicited a genuine smile, small and rare as it was, from her.
He made a move to hug her and paused, asking permission. She stepped into his arms.
“Oui, mon amour. Damn ocean spray got the hell out of me.”
Nena luxuriated in Cort’s arms, knowing he was the first man, aside from either of her fathers, with whom she’d ever felt safe. It was a feeling that Nena knew once she had, she never wanted to be without again.
60
BEFORE
Elin knocks on the frame of my open door and finds me reading in bed, my second-favorite pastime after watching movies. What is quickly becoming my third-favorite thing to do is training, especially as the thrill of working with tools during training increases. I look up from the latest Stephen King novel.
“Mum wants us in the kitchen,” she says, looking annoyed at having to stop whatever she was up to, to do Mum’s bidding.
We enter the kitchen and are immediately assaulted by a chaotic scene. Mum is behind the stove, something we never see. Ishmael helicopters, a complete wreck at having to yield his beloved kitchen to the mistress of the house. He wrings his hands and tries to guide Mum while remaining at a respectful distance.
He pleads, “Madame, please, it’s best to use a wooden spoon on the pots so as not to scratch them. Perhaps I should take—” She shoots him a deadly look, making the words fall away from his lips. There is steam everywhere and a barrage of scents, making me wonder if I should be excited or fearful.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Elin eyes the explosion of sizzling stainless steel and bubbling cauldrons warily.
Mum shoots a quick glance over her shoulder. “I’m cooking supper.”
Elin pantomimes sticking a finger in her mouth to gag and elicits a small guilty smile out of me. It is something Elin discovered only she seems to be able to do.
“You never laugh, Nena,” my sister observed one day as we were looking through her favorite style magazines. “Not even a smile.”
I shrugged. I find things amusing. I laugh within.
Elin blurted, “I think Ishmael and Margot are fucking.”
I choked at the absurdity of her words. Margot is as old as a grandmother—no offense—and Ishmael is gay, although he has not made it publicly known.
“Fucking with you,” she said, turning the page of her magazine. “But wouldn’t it be a sight?”
I covered my mouth to hide the giggle that escaped. I find my older sister entirely inappropriate and wildly entertaining. “Aha,” Elin said without looking my way. “So you will laugh for me.”
“Ishmael, out!” Mum commands, fed up with his hovering. He falters in his hesitation to leave his blessed domain, but one more lethal stare cast in his direction reminds him whom he’s dealing with.
Elin and I move closer to Mum’s frenzy. There is cubed meat sizzling in a pot. Onions and tomatoes cut in various sizes, almost to a mashed pulp, litter the cutting board. On the countertops are open containers of peanut butter, palm nut, and other ingredients that I recognize. Mum wears a food-splattered apron, and her usually coiffed hair is in disarray. It doesn’t look like that even when she is fresh from the bed.
“What are you making?” Elin asks, huge eyes roving over all the mess. She may not want to know.
Mum turns to us, beaming. “I’m making peanut butter soup and fufu and fried kelewele. Nena’s favorites.” I look over the hurricane that used to be our kitchen. The kitchen back home never looked like this.
“Really, Mum? You couldn’t ask Ishmael to do it or have it brought in?”
Mum looks at me. “I wanted to bring a bit of home to Hammersmith for Nena.” She offers me a hopeful look, wanting my acceptance. She has stepped out of her comfort zone, done something she never does. For me.
My heart nearly bursts from her display. Elin slides her gaze to me, waiting.
The corners of my mouth eventually pull into a small smile. I nod. “Thank you, Mum. It will be delicious.”
Elin lets out a resigned sigh, and Mum hiccups as if she’s sucking in a cry. She spins around quickly, returning to her sautéing and boiling.
Behind Mum’s back, Elin leans toward me, whispering, “I’ll ready the Pepto Bismol. You’ll need it, love.”