Page 21 of Lessons in Lemonade

My mother hated cooking on holidays, which is why we always found ourselves at my grandmother’s. Well, I’m pretty sure most would say she hated cooking every day, but to her, holidays were a day off, a day to relax, and she didn’t think slaving in the kitchen for hours over food that would take ten minutes to eat followed by cleanup was any way to spend a day off. While I do see her point, I also think it’s the food that helps make holidays so memorable.

Just think about it . . .

For Thanksgiving, it’s turkey, stuffing, and all the pumpkin things. For Christmas, it’s prime rib, homemade eggnog, and all things peppermint. For Easter, it’s ham, sweet potato casserole, deviled eggs, and hummingbird cake. On Valentine’s, there’s chocolate fondue with strawberries and other sweets, and for the Fourth of July, there’s barbeque . . . My point is, with holidays come food, and even though I’m by myself, I can’t imagine not making any.

Next to me on the counter, Jack’s name flashes across my phone screen, and a smile splits my face. Since Thanksgiving, we’ve moved from just commenting on social media posts to texting daily. Conversations are always light and funny, and usually there’s a photo from something random that happened that day. Mostly his are related to football, food, and his dog Zeus—who, by the way, is the cutest thing ever—and mine are about the restaurant, holiday things around town, and food. The food ones drive him crazy, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t send them on purpose to taunt him a bit.

Swiping, I answer the call, put it on speaker, and say hello.

“Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas, Meg!” His voice booms through the phone, all loud and happy, and something inside my chest squeezes.

After pausing just to make him hesitate with confusion, I say, “Are you calling me a ho?”

“What? No!” He starts stammering, and I start laughing.

“I’m just kidding. Merry Christmas, Jack.” My smile is so big I’m certain he can feel it through my words.

“Funny, very funny,” he teases, and I can feel him grinning through his words, too. “What are you doing?” he asks. There’s no noise in the background, and his voice comes through loud and clear. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s still midmorning for him in Arizona.

“Perfecting my own beef Wellington recipe.” I look down at the plastic wrap where I’ve evenly spread the duxelles mixture on top of the prosciutto. The trick to making the perfect duxelles is to use fresh thyme and shallots instead of a regular onion. I sprinkle some salt, pepper, and a few more pieces of the chopped thyme.

He groans as I pick up the sheet pan and move it to the refrigerator. I can’t help the spark I feel at his blatant desire to eat my food.

“Who are you making that for?” he asks, subtle but also not at the same time.

“Myself.” I wonder if it bothers him, the thought of me cooking for someone else, but then again it shouldn’t—we’re just friends. “You’d think I would take the day off from cooking, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I could be there in a few hours to help you eat that.” There’s a hint of hopefulness in his voice.

“I thought you were visiting your parents.”

“I am, but . . . beef Wellington,” he says on a moan, as if that explains it all.

Happiness trickles through me, because deep down I think he’s serious. If I asked him to come here, he probably would. His picture from yesterday was of him boarding a Wheels Up private jet, which tells me he’s a member. That seems to be the new thing for athletes and such lately, getting them where they need to go quickly and without the hassle of commercial airlines.

“If you ever make it to Charleston, remind me and I’ll make it for you.” I pick up the room-temperature beef and move it to my work station.

“Really?”

“Sure, whatever you want.” Rolling it into a cylinder, I tie it in four places to help it hold its shape while I brown the outside, and then I drizzle olive oil over it.

“Where’s your aunt? She didn’t feel like driving up?”

I sprinkle the meat with salt and pepper then gently place it in the pan to begin searing all the sides.

“Actually, she decided to brave the cold and went to Denver to see my cousins Jayce and Ethan. Jayce has a new baby, and she’s been itching to head back out there to see her. She’s staying with each of them for a week before she heads back.”

“Well, that’s great for her, but I don’t like you being alone on Christmas.” His voice has dropped in tenor.

I look around my house and smile at the ambiance I’ve created. How can I be sad about being alone today when I’ve been blessed with all this? It’s my place, my space, and that makes it my perfect holiday.

“I don’t mind. Besides, it’s better than the alternative where I’m not here at all.” I meant this to come out light and chipper, but silence stretches between us as he doesn’t say anything. “How’s Phoenix?” I ask, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject.

“Pleasant. My dad and I played a round of golf this morning, stopped for brunch in the clubhouse, and now we’re back at their house. He’s taking a quick nap and I’m on the back porch staring out at the Phoenix Mountains. There’s a trail over on Camelback I’m thinking about hitting up later today.”

“That sounds nice. Is it a hard trail?” A picture of Jack hiking up a mountain fills my mind. Blue skies, clay colors, trails, a long-sleeved T-shirt, shorts, a small backpack that holds snacks and water, and a nice southwesterly breeze that sweeps through his hair. I know I shouldn’t imagine him this way, but he is gorgeous, and I can’t help but appreciate the vision.

“Yes and no. I’ve done it before, so I’m used to it. It’s only about three miles, but the view is gorgeous.”