Page 104 of Wish Upon A Star
The clatter of the chefs and their low conversation has quieted, and Wes turns to look over his shoulder—they’re standing side by side, now, just outside the shelter.
“I think dinner is ready,” he says.
I smile and roll my shoulders. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
He holds my chair for me, sliding it under me as I sit, and then takes his own seat. With a flourish, the male chef deposits a dish before me—it’s not quite a bowl, but neither is it exactly a plate.
“Gnocchi Pomodoro,” he says, with a distinct Italian accent. “The gnocchis I make myself, this morning, and the sauce we make from scratch as well.”
There are balls of fresh mozzarella floating in the sauce with the gnocchi, and hints of basil and rosemary. The female chef presents Wes with an identical dish, and in the center of the table is a wicker basket lined with a white linen napkin, containing garlic bread. No store-bought, oven-warmed, freezer section bread, this—it’s got a thick crumbly crust and cloud-soft interior, flecked with herbs and dripping with butter and redolent with fresh garlic.
There are goblets containing sparkling water with wedges of lime, and a bottle in a silver stand, surrounded by ice, as if it were a top dollar bottle of champagne.
“How did you know Italian food is my favorite?” I ask, my voice low.
He grins. “Who doesn’t love pasta? But also, you mentioned pizza was your favorite, and it’s not a far stretch from pizza to pasta. Plus, I know you well enough to know you’d enjoy good simple food more than something fancy and ridiculous. And what could be better than this?” He grins at the chefs. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
They bow at the waist, return to the shelter.
“So Italian is your favorite?” he asks.
I nod as I scoop gnocchi into my mouth—the sauce explodes with flavor, and the dumplings are soft, slightly chewy, and perfect. “Our longest trip was to Italy, and of all the places we’ve been, it was by far my favorite.” I grin. “Mostly because of the food.”
We talk as we eat, discussing favorite places we’ve been—for me, it’s Venice, for him, Dublin. We talk traveling by train, how much we hate airport security.
Talking to him has always been easy, and now it’s easier than ever. The candle flickers, and as the sun sets to my left and his right, the candle provides more and more illumination, bathing our faces in soft yellow dancing light. Evening falls, turns to night. Conversation shifts, and the topic matters less than the experience. It’s cool, but not cold. The air still holds a hint of warmth. There’s Wes, and his kind, warm, attentive eyes, and his way of listening to me as if I’m the only thing that has ever existed for him.
We finish the entree and chat more as we munch on the bread.
The chefs return, presenting between us with the same artful flourish a massive slice of flourless chocolate cake with a gooey center and a rich ganache exterior, the rim of the plate decorated with chocolate-dipped strawberries.
The moon lifts above the horizon, a delicate crescent amid a wash of countless bright stars.
Finally, in full dark, lit only by the moon and the stars and a single candle, we finish the last of the cake and sit together in silence, listening to the sea shushing and crashing. Something flits overhead with a rustle of wings.
The chefs are lit by cell phone glow, the lamps now off.
The torches flicker in the forest, lighting the way to the cabin.
I can stand it no longer. “Wes?” My voice is low, hesitant. I reach across the table and clutch his fingers. “I’m ready for the next part.”
I can see his smile in the darkness—he keeps hold of my hand and draws me around the table to his side. “Let’s go, then.”
The chefs see us standing up, and greet us with bows and flourishes, old-world grace and elegance. Wes thanks them, and then, keeping me tucked against his side, arm over my shoulder and around my waist, he leads us across the grass. The breeze is cool, now, pressing against my cheek and my side, molding my dress to my thigh.
“Are you cold?” Wes asks.
I’m not, or at least, not uncomfortably so, but I’ve always wanted to have a man drape his suit coat over my shoulders, so I nod. It’s heavy and warm from his body. His shirt is white and bright in the dark.
We’re under the canopy of the forest and lit by the torches now, bathing everything in a dancing orange glow. I smell woodsmoke—the trail curves to reveal the cabin, and a thin stream of smoke trickles from the chimney.
We pause at the door. I gaze up at Wes, and I know my adoration is glowing in my eyes.
“Are you happy?” he asks, his voice a whisper, a murmur. “Has today been everything you hoped?”
I lick my lips and smile up at him. “I’m happy. More than happy.” I touch my palms to his chest, feel his heart beating under my palm; it slams hard and fast, mirroring my own frantic pulse. “Is it everything I hoped? So far.”
His grin is hot, playful. “So far, huh?”