Page 89 of Single Malt Drama
Nicolina
Smoke pouredout every window of the fishing cabin. The stench of burning plastic, mingled with the night blooming jasmine, made my stomach turn. I placed my hands on my thighs and leaned forward to stop the nausea.
Cyril hadn’t stopped laughing since we’d fled to the dock. “Cher, you sure know how to do it up right.”
I glared, which would have been more effective had I not been bent in half. “I told you I don’t know how to cook.”
He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Easy now. We’ll try again, but next time we won’t be leaving the spoon and dishrag so close to the fire.”
I righted myself and glanced toward the moss-draped trees on the far edge of the water. “How soon can we go back inside?”
In the months Marco and I had spent at the cabin, I hadn’t once looked over my shoulder for my brothers. Now that I knew they were in New Orleans, I couldn’t stop.
Stroking his beard, he glanced up at the windows. “I reckon it’s aired out by now.”
“Saint, come.” I patted my leg, but the old hound dog didn’t as much as lift his head from the wood planks.
Cyril whistled and pointed up the stairs.
The dog let out a braying bark and bolted for the door.
The Cajun caught me staring and laughed. “Don’t take it personally. He’s stubborn as an ox and deaf as an adder.”
“Snakes are deaf?” I followed Saint.
“Hell if I know, and I don’t intend to ask one.” He nudged my side. “Get it. Ask one? If they’re deaf, they won’t hear me anyway.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “I can’t decide if you’re really funny or if it’s because I don’t understand what you’re saying. English isn’t my native language.”
He winked. “Some say it ain’t mine either.”
In the kitchen, I rinsed out the pan while Cyril picked bits of burned plastic spoon from the stove and cleared away the charred rag.
Once we’d cleaned the mess, he pulled the bacon grease from the fridge. “Remember how I taught you?”
Nodding, I set the pan on the burner. “Would you mind if we don’t tell Marco I melted a spoon and ruined three pans of roux?”
He arched a brow. “I hate to tell you, but I think he’s gonna figure it out. The smell’s lingerin’ more than a fart in church.”
“Now, that was funny.” I melted the grease and added the flour in small increments.
Cyril handed me a wood spoon. “This one won’t smell quite so bad if you torch it.”
I smacked his arm with it and stirred and stirred and stirred until the roux turned peanut butter brown.
“Perfect, cher. Now add the holy trinity.”
I dumped the diced onions, celery, and bell peppers into the pan, and continued to stir.
Cyril leaned close and drew a deep breath. “That smell always reminds me of my Babette.”
“Your wife?” I glanced at him, but he pointed back to the pan.
“Never take your eyes off the roux.” He folded his arms. “Babette and I were married forty years. Cancer took her last spring.”
“I can’t imagine losing someone after spending so long with them. Do you have children?”
Cyril and I had spent quite a bit of time together. He’d loved to talk about other people’s families but never said anything about his own. I’d assumed he’d been single his entire life.