Page 47 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)
Molly
On Thursday morning, I try to pretend it’s not the second to last time I’ll ever wake up in the Hummingbird’s penthouse apartment.
I could get buried in all the lasts piling up around me.
But I think I may have finally learned what Gram tried to teach me all those years ago about living in the moment, not grieving everything I’m about to lose.
Of course, it’s harder to ignore what’s coming when I open my eyes to a stack of boxes and suitcases.
With most of our furniture deconstructed or moved, none of this room looks how I want to remember it.
Robin, sleeping peacefully, is the only mental image I’d like to keep.
I don’t want to disturb her, but I can’t resist running my fingers through her dirty-blond mop of hair.
I lightly drag my nails across her head, smoothing her bangs away from her forehead.
A slow, sleepy smile forms on Robin’s face as my fingers reach the back of her head. Her lashes part and she looks at me with those big golden-brown eyes that never stopped appearing in my dreams, even after all the years apart.
“G’morning,” Robin says, her voice hoarse.
“Hi,” I say with a sappy smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“?’S’my favorite way to wake up,” Robin says as I massage her scalp. “And we’ve got a lot to do.”
“Not so much that we can’t spend a few more minutes in bed.”
Robin pulls me closer so that we’re on our sides facing each other, nose to nose. We relish the warm nest of the bed, wordlessly absorbing every detail of this feeling in case it’s our last chance.
Our gaze builds in intensity, and our hands start roaming beneath the blankets. It starts gently, sweetly. There’s nothing like the fuzzy edges of morning sex, the haze sharpening into a vibrant rush of pleasure with aftereffects I can ride out all day.
But now this connection feels different than ever before.
Beneath our physical desire for each other, there’s a tangle of emotions: gratitude, nostalgia, yearning, anguish, elation, certainty, fear, hope, and so many other feelings I don’t think words can describe.
Our pace changes frequently, but we follow the shifts in tempo, rocking together with a swiftness before slowing to an agonizing waltz before racing to a crescendo but halting right on the edge and holding tight until neither of us can wait another second and start the dance all over again.
And then we get a call that the rental company is here with the chairs, tables, and firepits for tonight’s dinner, and we can no longer ignore the world outside our bed, beyond the sloped ceilings of our penthouse apartment. It’s time to get moving.
—
When Robin told me her plan to re-create the Kindling experience in the Hummingbird’s gardens for her dinner-series night, I was immediately on board. I knew the logistics would be tough. But I figured we’d build a campfire, set up some folding tables, and everything would work out.
It turned out to be a little more complicated than that.
Jesse’s special dinners have been limited to thirty people each month.
We’ve got more space than the restaurant, and our old friends and neighbors are treating the event as an unofficial goodbye party.
But when the RSVP list crossed sixty diners, I think all of us were a little shocked.
The rental company we used to work with for weddings set up all the tables and chairs, plus tablecloths and place settings.
Jesse, Robin, and the Counterculture crew have taken over the kitchen and dining-room area to prep vegan skewers, sides, and desserts to be cooked over the fires by guests.
My job is greeting everyone as they arrive and stoking the fires in the pits dotted around the gardens.
Robin taught me how to stack the logs and fan the flames for a nice, even heat source.
There are so many familiar faces here. Clint, who we’re meeting tomorrow to sign the closing documents, is here with a whole crowd of gay lawyers and assistants and boyfriends past and present.
Dorothy, the ghost-tour guide, and our old employee Eleanor are seated next to the owners of the hardware store, who offered us a friends-and-family discount on supplies for our renovation.
Key is here, of course, along with Thembi and Louis, and a handful of other folks from the Eureka Springs Black Business Bureau.
Local artisans, poets, shop owners, city council members, retired hippies.
Even the people I don’t know look thrilled to be here at our beautiful old inn for a once-in-a-lifetime dining experience.
I make the rounds, making sure everyone has a drink in hand and checking on the campfires, until Robin comes out for her opening remarks. We direct everyone who isn’t already seated near the gazebo to gather around, then pause the music so Robin can begin.
Robin looks, honestly, more stunning than ever. She never needed the professionally styled hair, the TV-ready makeup, the hyper-trendy clothes. Just put her in a white chef’s coat and a backward baseball hat and I’m a goner.
“Welcome, all!” Robin says into a microphone, her voice projecting through speakers around the yard. “I’m Robin Lasko, sous-chef at Counterculture and co-owner of the Hummingbird Inn. Well, for one more day.”
She has to pause for a thunderous round of applause, looking grateful for the support. Robin smiles toward Clint’s table, then waves down the noise and continues.
“Thank you all for coming out for tonight’s dinner series.
When Jesse—Jesse Montoya, owner and head chef of Counterculture, over there.
Wave, Jesse! When Jesse put me in charge of our November dinner, he probably knew I’d do something unexpected.
But I’m not sure he pictured uprooting his whole kitchen and bringing it here to the inn so y’all could cook your own dinners over open flames.
” The crowd laughs. “But of course, being the incredible culinary artist he is, Jesse jumped on board. Let’s hear it for Jesse. ”
The audience reacts immediately, clapping and cheering. I smile at Jesse, who grins back from across the porch where we’re both standing.
“Tonight’s meal is inspired by my old restaurant Kindling,” Robin continues.
“And Kindling was inspired by my childhood, when I fell in love with cooking. A lot of kids learn their first recipes from their parents or grandparents. That wasn’t my story.
I first discovered the magic of food at Girl Scout camp. ”
The audience, enraptured, titters with surprise.
“I know, you’re probably thinking hot dogs and s’mores.
Which are awesome, don’t get me wrong,” Robin says.
“But I was more fascinated by the unexpected things you could cook over a fire. I tried just about everything you could put on a stick: pineapple, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, granola bars. I experimented with flavor combinations and textures, fascinated by how soft marshmallows expanded and grew even squishier with heat, how soft bread turned dark and crusty. How you can take one thing, put it on the flames, and watch it emerge as something completely different.”
Robin’s got the whole audience on the edge of their seats. Even I, knowing this part of her story, am hanging on her every word.
“That’s the kind of creativity and joy I hope this experience sparks for y’all in tonight’s hands-on experience,” Robin says, shifting into instruction mode.
“Servers will come around with vegan skewers and sides in cast-iron pans. Each of your tables has a variety of sauces for brushing over your food as it cooks and for drizzling on top afterward. Your server can help if you need any guidance. I encourage you to get out of your comfort zone, try something new, and play. Oh, and remember to save room for dessert. Thank you.”
The audience applauds as Robin descends the steps of the gazebo, headed toward me. By the time she reaches the porch, servers are circling with large trays of food ready for the flames.
“How’d I do?” Robin asks, eyebrows tilted up.
“You were perfect,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I think everyone’s dying to dig in. Feels weird that you’re not running back to the kitchen, though.”
“That’s the fun part,” Robin says, watching people pick out their first courses. “My work happens up front. Now it’s up to them.”
We observe as the guests select skewers loaded with varying combinations of artichokes, squash, peppers, shallots, locally foraged mushrooms, seitan, tempeh, and more.
The first brave people take turns at the firepits, then their moans of delight once they start eating tempt everyone else to get cooking.
The servers make another loop with family-style sides in cast-iron dishes to be heated over the firepits.
Robin and I chat with friends and neighbors as they drop by, complimenting the food and telling us how much they’ll miss us.
My cynical side would normally roll her eyes and assume none of them really cared about us that much.
But the way they welcomed Robin and me back to town with open arms, even after so many years away, made me realize their kindness wasn’t just for show.
So instead I hug folks and tell them, truthfully, how much we’ll miss them too.
Once the guests have had their shot at the campfires, Robin runs to the kitchen and comes back with a couple skewers and a cast-iron pan for us.
We huddle around a firepit on the side of the inn, enjoying the warmth on this chilly November evening.
Robin instructs me to slowly rotate the skewer over the flames until the oyster mushrooms get dark and crispy at the edges and the scallions and shishito peppers are lightly charred.
Meanwhile, she sets a pan of baba ghanoush and a few slices of bread on the metal grate positioned over the heat.