Page 40 of Coffin Up Love
She gives me a somewhat incredulous stare. “You mean a charcuterie board?”
“Is that what that assortment is?” Now it’s my turn to scratch my head.
“That depends. Are there any cold cuts?”
“Possibly, come take a look,” I reply, motioning her over.
She chuckles as she jogs around. Just as before, we’re friends again with no awkwardness between us. At least, that’s what I hope, even as I notice the way her hair catches in the early sunlight.
We chat casually on the way to the marina and use decent teamwork to load the boat into the water. Even if she lacks the seasoned experience of Marcel, Clarissa is a quick study and has managed to remember most of what I showed her the other day. If there is one thing I have no issue discussing, it’s my boat.
Swift and breezy, we’re out on the water in no time at all. I steer and navigate the waters while Clarissa carefully maneuvers around me, and we continue to act as if nothing happened between us at all.
Our conversations flow regularly, with only a few bouts of awkward silence between us. There are small moments where we stare at each other a few seconds too long that I have to pretend not to notice. If my gaze lingers, or hers does, we’re both equally careful not to call the other out on it.
It is an afternoon that is exhausting, for all the effort required to keep it as close to comfortable as possible. Luckily, Clarissa seems to enjoy the view as much as I do and eventually, we leave conversation behind to simply enjoy the tranquility of nature.
The blue of the Carolina coastline is entirely unique. A strange clash of cerulean and pewter, with the deeper notes of the Atlantic shelf sinking in. When the sunlight hits the shoreline, it turns the sand into shimmering gold and the surf sparkles silver.
Such a view makes it easy to believe why sailors and natives alike once thought mermaids lived in these waters. As we glide along those glittering waves though, I find myself looking back again at Clarissa. For the first time, I feel an affinity with those long-forgotten sailors, chasing and longing for something that it appears was never real after all.
22
CLARISSA
The sweet and slightly sour wine hits my tongue and electrifies my already overwhelmed senses. Marcel’s home is filled with the aroma of caramelized onion and fried bacon. No garlic this time. I still don’t know how to ask if they can eat it without sounding insensitive. Teaching two vampires to cook pierogies wasn’t on my list of things to do someday, but since I’m doing it now, I may as well have fun with it!
It was a little awkward reconnecting with Emile in a platonic sense. I know breaking off any possibility of romantic entanglements was the right thing to do. But damn, it still stings. I really like Emile. I think, had we met under different circumstances, we could have been pretty good together.
But my affection for him is the exact reason I can’t be with him. I refuse to be yet another ex-lover, and I can’t imagine making this relationship work considering I have to lie about who I am. So, at least for now, I’ll happily sit by as his friend and neighbor. Enjoying his company is enough.
I don’t really have any other choice.
“Okay, The potatoes are super tender and cooled off enough now. Marcel, you take this potato ricer and start mashing,” I say, handing him the device.
“Oh, is that what it’s called? I always assumed it had some fancy French name. Like,la pomme effacer. Potato ricer sounds so normal.” Marcel accepts the masher and gets to work, using it as intended.
I check the dough. It’s been sitting covered for about an hour, and sure enough, it’s risen quite nicely. I lightly flour the cleaned and sanitized countertop and roll the dough out onto it.
This is my favorite part of baking – just getting to look at the beautiful ball of flour, oil, and eggs. It must be what a sculptor feels looking at untouched clay, or Emile when he has freshly cut pieces of wood. It’s a blank canvas waiting to be molded into something delicious.
“What can I do?” Emile asks excitedly.
“You can top me off,” I suggest, pointing at my wine glass. Emile smiles and grabs the pinot grigio. He takes his time pouring it just right, and I allow myself a moment to admire the tension in his muscles as he does.
But then I look back up and see Marcel giving me a knowing look. He’s broadcasting a very obvious ‘stand back’ message directly to me. I clear my throat, thank Emile for the wine, and suggest he make sure the onions aren’t burning. And I do it with the least motion possible. Marcel seems a little less hostile now.
I don’t blame him for being protective of his friend. In fact, I think Emile is lucky to have someone looking out for him as well as Marcel does. I just wish it wasn’t me who was the center of his hostility.
I put my attention into rolling out the dough, making sure it isn’t too thin or thick. Pleased with the result, I take the round dough cutter and start making little circle cutouts.
“Ooh, can I try?” Emile asks. His hand is on mine before I have a chance to reply. I quickly relinquish the biscuit cutter, not wanting to draw any more judgment from Marcel if I can help it.
Emile carefully cuts out more dough circles, a wide smile on his face while he does so. It’s cute, and I hope to high heaven I’m not visibly blushing right now.
“Now what?” Marcel asks. I’m about to be defensive before I realize he’s asking about the next step in the cooking process.
“Now, we fill and fold,” I explain. I place a little bit of the mashed potato mixed with the bacon and some shredded cheese and fold the dough over in half to make a little dumpling. Emile and Marcel happily get to work on the rest, and by the end, we have way too many pierogies. What a wonderful problem to have.