“Soul food. She makes it for Owen.”
Quentin’s stepmother unceremoniously plopped an enormous pile of wet herbs on the counter in front of him. Sarah didn’t know what they were, because she didn’t know one herb from another. He took a knife from a nearby block and began separating leaves from stems and chopping expertly.
“So this is how you learned to cook,” Sarah said, watching from his non-chopping side.
He laughed shortly. “There were seven of us, and I was the only one old enough to be of any use. And the restaurant didn’t do so well at first. Let’s just say I earned my keep.” He glanced at her. “Well, it wasn’t that bad. I was sixteen by then. I would call Owen to come get me and we’d go drink beer. When I dragged myself home again, she’d slap me in the back of the head, but it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
Sarah leaned closer, inhaling the spice of the herbs and watching his poker face. “You’re trying to tell me something, but you’re layering the jokes so thick that I don’t know what you mean. Was it bad or not?”
He stopped chopping and turned to her with a strange look. Finally he said, “It was good. I just didn’t know it at the time.”
The open moment passed. He scooped up the herbs and threw them into two bowls at the back of the counter. “This is baingan bartha in progress,” he told her. “One for me and one for the lightweights. Do you like yours hot?”
Sarah nodded, because Natsuko probably loved spicy food, the hotter the better. She watched uneasily as he chopped very small peppers and scooped them off the cutting board with the blade of the knife. He raked them, seeds and all, into the small bowl, and stirred. Tearing off pieces from a nearby pile of nan, he dipped out some for Sarah and some for himself.
It was delicious. Five seconds later, it was the hottest thing Sarah had ever put in her mouth. It was all she could do to keep from wincing.
“Not hot enough,” Quentin said. Sarah watched in horror as he chopped more peppers and dipped out a taste for them again. This time it was all she could do to keep from spitting it out in self-preservation. She realized now that Quentin was getting her back for the tequila shots that first night.
“I just can’t get it hot enough,” he complained innocently, chopping up more peppers and stirring them into the bowl.
Quentin’s stepmother reappeared, put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder, and scolded Quentin. Sarah feared the burn in her mouth might have charred part of the circuitry of her brain. But she thought Quentin was giving his stepmother lip in slow, deliberate Hindi with an Alabama accent. His stepmother reached up and slapped him hard on the back of the head.
“All right!” Quentin said. He put down the knife and motioned for Sarah to follow him to a huge refrigerator. He handed her a small carton of milk. She opened the carton and started drinking, watching him over the top. How could he stand the heat? Finally, with a wry smile, he reached in for his own carton of milk.
Sarah didn’t stop drinking until the milk was gone and some feeling had returned to her mouth. She gasped, “What did your stepmother say?”
He crumpled his empty carton in his fist. “Uh . . . ‘What are you doing to the pink-haired woman . . . Don’t you want her to have your babies . . . Get the hell out of my kitchen.’ Basically.”
Sarah laughed heartily. “That’s a hot game of gotcha you’ve got going.”
“Tit for tat.” He threw away the milk cartons and pulled her out of the kitchen, through the large, open restaurant, to a front entry with a counter and cash register.
Sarah would have recognized Quentin’s father right away, even if he hadn’t been passing into the dining room to seat customers. He was a few inches shorter than Quentin and had dark hair, but their muscular builds were similar and their green eyes were the same. When he saw Quentin, he beamed at him and nodded to a group of customers coming out of the dining room. Someone needed to ring up their check. Quentin slipped behind the counter and worked the cash register as if it was second nature.
While she waited, Sarah moved around the small room, examining the Cheatin’ Hearts memorabilia decorating the walls. In the most prominent spot was a huge poster of the back cover of Ass Backwards, signed by all four band members. Sarah agreed that this was a good choice for the restaurant, despite Erin’s red push-up bra, because it showed the band members’ faces and no naked butt.
She made her way around to the counter. Quentin watched her while she examined a framed family photo. A teenage Quentin, tall and thin, light brown curls even wilder than now, wearing spectacles. Holding his fingers in rabbit ears above his father’s head. His father with his arm around Quentin’s sari-clad stepmother. Two blond preteen girls and four small, black-haired children.
“You are the oldest,” Sarah murmured, fascinated. “I had you pegged for the youngest.”
“Why?”
“Because youngest children are the ones who join sex-crazed country bands. Oldest children and only children are the responsible ones with steady jobs. They tend to—”
“Dye their hair pink and move to Rio,” he said, pulling her ponytail. “Hey,” he called over her head to his father. Sarah stood back as the two of them embraced and Quentin’s father slapped him on the back.
“This is Sarah,” Quentin said.
His father took both Sarah’s hands and looked down into her eyes.
“Did that package show up?” Quentin asked.
“They just delivered it,” his father said without taking his eyes off Sarah. He motioned with his head toward a door behind the counter. “It’s in the office.”
“I’m going to check right quick,” Quentin told Sarah, “and make sure I got you what I think I got you for your birthday.” He disappeared through the doorway.
His father held Sarah still with his green eyes. He asked, fascinated, “How’d you get him to drive?”
“Dumb luck,” Sarah explained. She wanted to ask him what Quentin’s problem had been, but she didn’t quite dare bring it up and ruin the happy moment.
Quentin’s father raked his hands back through his hair in the motion of Quentin’s that Sarah was growing to love. “I’ve been trying to get him to drive for—” Quentin’s father shook his head, then threw his arms around her and hugged her hard. “Thank you.”
“Gross,” Quentin said beside them. “I start driving and everyone turns to mush.”