Chapter Fourteen, Part I

Next Time

By the time they get back to the cottage, the light has begun to turn gold over the water.

They carry the day inside with them. Salt dried on their skin. Sand in their shoes. The paper bags from Main Street cutting into Adrian’s fingers because Jack has somehow ended up carrying only the new wrench he did not need and the bottle of wine.

“You realise I’m carrying all the food,” Adrian says as Jack unlocks the door.

“I’m carrying the important things.”

“You’re carrying a tool and alcohol.”

“Exactly.”

Adrian follows him inside and sets the bags on the kitchen counter. The cottage feels different from when they left that morning. Familiar now, as though the rooms have adjusted themselves around the fact that they are here together.

Jack puts the wine down and looks through one of the bags.

“What are we making?”

“Carbonara.”

Jack nods as though this explains something. “And what exactly is carbonara?”

Adrian pauses. “You’ve never had it?”

“Heard of it. Never ordered it.”

“You live in California.”

“I’m aware.”

“There are Italian restaurants everywhere.”

“I don’t order things I can’t pronounce.”

“It has four syllables.”

“Exactly.”

Adrian takes the packet of guanciale from the bag and places it on the counter.

Jack picks it up and studies it. “Bacon.”

“It is not bacon.”

“It looks like bacon.”

“It is guanciale.”

“What’s the difference?”

“About three hundred years of Italian civilisation.”

Jack turns the packet over. “Still looks like bacon.”

Adrian takes it from him. “You’re going to grate cheese.”

“I can do that.”

“You say that with a confidence I find troubling.”

“I fix engines.”

“You’re not fixing the cheese. You’re grating it.”

Jack opens a drawer and pulls out the box grater Sam has left behind. Adrian unwraps the Parmesan and Pecorino and places both in front of him.

“All of it?”

“Most of it.”

“That’s a lot of cheese.”

“It’s two kinds of cheese.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

Adrian hands him a bowl. “Parmesan first. Then Pecorino.”

Jack looks from one piece to the other. “Which is which?”

Adrian points, then turns towards the stove.

Behind him, Jack moves the cheeses around.

“Don’t.”

Jack grins. “You didn’t even look.”

“I know my cheese.”

“That’s possibly the most Italian thing you’ve ever said.”

Adrian takes the Pecorino from his hand and replaces it with the Parmesan. “Grate.”

Jack begins working the cheese against the grater while Adrian fills a pot with water. The scrape of metal settles into a steady rhythm behind him.

Adrian unpacks the rest of their purchases. Eggs. Tomatoes still warm from the afternoon. Mozzarella wrapped in paper. Basil, pine nuts and a small head of garlic. The olive oil from the delicatessen. The loaf of bread they bought from the bakery because Jack had torn off one corner outside the shop and declared it too good to survive until dinner.

Adrian opens the wine and pours them each a glass.

Jack stops grating long enough to accept his.

“What kind is it?”

“A local Pinot Noir.”

“Is it good?”

Adrian takes a sip. “It’s very good.”

“That means I can drink it?”

“That means you may try to appreciate it.”

Jack takes a mouthful and considers it with theatrical seriousness.

“I appreciate it.”

“You swallowed it immediately.”

“I appreciated it quickly.”

Adrian shakes his head and begins slicing the guanciale.

Jack goes back to the cheese.

There is something satisfying about the two of them moving around the small kitchen together. Jack has no idea what Adrian is making, but follows every instruction, offering only complaints clearly intended to entertain them both.

When the Parmesan is finished, Adrian checks the bowl.

“You’ve eaten some of it.”

“Quality control.”

Adrian slides the Pecorino towards him. “Try not to control all of that one.”

“No promises.”

While Jack grates, Adrian makes the pesto. Basil, pine nuts, garlic, Parmesan, olive oil and salt. The kitchen fills with the sharp green smell of crushed leaves and the warmer scent of the guanciale rendering in the pan.

Jack looks over. “That smells incredible.”

“That is because it is.”

“You’re very modest when you cook.”

Adrian tosses the pasta into the boiling water.

“So what’s the sauce?” Jack asks.

“Eggs, cheese, black pepper and the fat from the guanciale.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Jack looks at the pan, then at the eggs Adrian is cracking into a bowl.

“How does that become a sauce?”

“Trust me.”

“I do.”

Adrian’s hand stills over the bowl.

He looks up.

Jack has already returned to the Pecorino, apparently unaware that he has said anything significant. His forearms flex with the movement, his sleeves pushed up towards his elbows. A faint line of sun crosses the bridge of his nose from the day outside.

Adrian returns his attention to the eggs before Jack catches him staring.

Adrian beats the eggs with the cheeses and black pepper. When the pasta is ready, he moves quickly, transferring it into the pan, taking everything away from the heat and adding the egg mixture while steam rises around his hands.

Jack steps closer to watch.

“That’s going to scramble.”

“It is not going to scramble.”

“It looks like it’s going to scramble.”

“It will if you continue distracting me.”

Jack picks up his glass and moves back against the counter.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

Adrian tosses the pasta until the sauce turns glossy and clings to every strand.

Jack leans forward. “Well?”

Adrian tastes it, then adds another small handful of Pecorino.

“You were holding out on me,” Jack says.

“The person cooking is entitled to reserves.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It’s Italian law.”

Adrian plates the carbonara and carries it to the table by the window. Jack brings the bread, the caprese and both glasses of wine. Adrian has layered the tomatoes and mozzarella with spoonfuls of fresh pesto, leaving the juices and olive oil to gather at the bottom of the plate.