Page 37 of The Client
“I love olives,” Izabela says.
“Okay,” Mom says with a smile. “Olives it is. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”
Her tone is too cheery for someone who walked in on her son trying to feel up the woman he brought to dinner. Then again, I think my mother has gotten used to a few of my shenanigans, though I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Wait. Your mother cooked dinner herself?” Izabela’s voice is panicked.
“Yeah, why? She always cooks.”
“I thought she had a personal chef like you.Och nie!This is terrible.”
She hands me her full glass of wine and smooths down her skirt, then heads to the door.
“What are you doing?” I call after her.
“I have to help her! Do you know how rude this is of me to stand here and do nothing while she cooks the meal?”
With that, she disappears through the sliding door into the kitchen. I set the drinks down and follow.
“Mrs. McConnell, what can I do to assist?” Izabela is saying. “I’m so sorry; I thought you had a chef like Rhys so I didn’t even think to offer…I apologize.” She actually looks ashamed.
One corner of my mother’s mouth goes up.
“Don’t be silly. You’re a guest, darling. I’d never expect you to help.”
“Yes, but I’m here as your son’s—” She looks at me, clearly not knowing how to define herself. “Um, as your son’s guest, and it’s only right that I lend a hand.”
Cardinal rule number one is never set foot in Delia McConnell’s kitchen unless it’s time to eat. Rule number two is never criticize her cooking, though I’ve never known anyone to do so. Ever.
After a beat, my mother slides a tray of garlic bread onto the island and hands Izabela a brush and a small bowl of melted butter.
“Brush them well. Use all the butter.” She watches to be sure her instructions are followed. “You have a lovely accent, Izabela. Where in Poland are you from?”
“Zamosc. It’s a small town in the southeast, near the Ukraine border. My family has a farm there.”
“How lovely. You helped your mother with the cooking when you lived at home?”
My stomach drops at the question, but Izabela just smiles as she carefully spreads the butter on each piece of bread.
“My aunt, yes. My sister and I learned to cook very young with her help.”
“Your sister? Do you just have the one?” Mom asks.
Izabela nods. “Eva. She’s fourteen. She’d rather read fashion magazines than chop an onion, but she knows her way around a kitchen regardless. My aunt made sure of that.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says. “I never learned to cook until I got divorced, but I’m so glad I took it up. There’s something so soothing about all the slicing and dicing and measuring and stirring, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” Izabela agrees.
Glancing at my mother, I realize she’s practically glowing. She’s pleased. Really pleased. So pleased that she passes Izabela the salad next and has her finish putting it together.
Moving back to the deck, I sip my wine and leave the women to it. Within minutes, they come out with the food and I set the table as they arrange all the dishes.
Pulling out Izabela’s chair for her, I can’t resist touching the bare skin at the back of her shoulder. After she’s seated, I pour her a fresh glass of wine, realizing that I’ve drank all of hers, and then shift my chair closer. She notices. So does my mother. Both of them smile at me.
But I don’t care. I can’t believe I was anxious about this dinner. Everything is going perfectly. The sun begins to set in pastel streaks of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the table. My mother makes small talk with Izabela, but I’m barely paying attention.
Under the table, I’ve got my hand on Izabela’s thigh. Running the tips of my fingers up her mid-thigh and back down to her knee again, making slow, lazy circles. I can feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and it takes all my willpower not to touch her there.
