My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. Slowly, tentatively, I’ve shared with her a little bit about Bernard and what happened. She has been really wonderful and supportive.
“Well, my dear, I will tell you what Helene told me before she brought me home. Be yourself. Do not alter, change, adjust, or in any way be anything other than who you are. Because two things are true: People can smell pandering and obsequiousness from a mile away, so anything you might do or say to try and bond on a cultural level will come across as disingenuous. And second, remember that this man fell in love with who you are, and they love him and want him to be happy, so by being your true self you are letting them see the person he loves.”
“That is beautiful advice,” my mom says.
“Thank you for that. It makes me feel better,” I say, and it does. It is still a shock to me that who I am is the kind of person that Shawn could fall in love with, but he makes me feel so safe in that love that slowly I’m coming around to the idea that I’m worthy of it. I know that Glenn is right, you can’t bond with people by attempting to force cultural connections.
“You’re a wonderful girl, Eloise dear. Shawn’s family will love you because Shawn loves you, just as Helene’s family loves me because she loved me. Embrace your differences, let them be funny instead of fraught, and trust that these people raised the man who fell in love with you, so unless he is telling you that they aren’t going to be comfortable, trust in that.” Glenn grins at me.
I smile back at him and start clearing the plates. I load them quickly into the dishwasher and get the platter of brownies out to the table, then return to the kitchen to make coffee as my mom and Glenn chat.
As I wait for the machine to finish brewing, watching the dark liquid slowly fill the pot, I think about Glenn and Helene and everything they shared, the life they made together. And while his advice on how to handle meeting Shawn’s family is good and makes me feel better, it doesn’t fully alleviate my nerves. Because I know that Shawn is close to his family and if I want to stay with him, getting their approval is going to be essential. As much as Shawn makes me believe in his feelings for me, I’m still not so convinced that what he sees is going to be at all apparent to his family. Putting race and religion aside, who am I, really? I’m not particularly accomplished or successful, however financially stable. I know they won’t think I’m a gold digger, but will they think I’m a good match for him? I have such a small little life. A little family, few friends, one of whom is his ex-wife. How does that look to people who want the best for their son?
I shake off the doubt; I’ve still got a few weeks to go. And suddenly it occurs to me. The bet. Since the bet I’ve got some hobbies and outside interests, and I’m working on my cookbook proposal, which shows some career ambition. Maybe, just maybe, this silly bet might be the thing that helps me be the kind of complete person that makes a decent impression. Who’d have thought?
? ? ?
It’s like a cloud,” Shawn says, digging into the soufflé.
“I know,” I say, drizzling more crème anglaise into the crater I made in the center. “Old-school, but classic for a reason.”
“Damn, that is so good,” he says, rolling his eyes.
The whole meal has been spectacular, in no small part because we are good together in the kitchen. I stirred the risotto while he seared the steak. I made the salad dressing while he prepped the salad greens. He whipped the egg whites while I made the pistachio base. We operate in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, which isn’t always true of couples. Cooking well and easily together? It isn’t instinctive and can’t be taught. I’ve always been something of a loner in the kitchen, no surprise there, but I love cooking with Shawn.
We finish the soufflé and clean up the dishes, Shawn sneaking bits of steak to Simca at every possible moment. When the dishwasher is loaded and running, I pour us each a short calvados, and Shawn takes my hand and leads me out to the living room.
“I have something for you,” he says, once I’m seated. “Stay right there.”
He heads for the back door, so that he can go out to his car, which is parked next to mine in my garage. I sip the calvados, feeling its wonderful burn settling my stomach after the rich meal. I reach behind the couch cushion and pull out the small box that I hid there for him, and place it on the table. I hear the back door open again, and Shawn calls out to me. “Close your eyes!”
I shut them dutifully and hear him approach and the sound of something heavy landing on the coffee table. Then the weight of him sitting down.
“Okay, you can open them.”
On the table is a large red bag covered in silver hearts, with silver and pink tissue spilling out of the top.
“Oh, Shawn! It’s wonderful!”
“Well, let’s hope you think so when you open it!”
I pull the tissue out of the top and look inside, and there is what appears to be a small silver metal suitcase. I lift it out of the bag. It is surprisingly heavy.
“What in the world?” I ask, unlatching the case and lifting the lid. My breath catches.
“You didn’t.”
Shawn grins. “I did. Did I do okay?”
My eyes fill with tears. “You did perfect. Thank you so much.” Inside the case is the complete set of Copic drawing markers, over three hundred colors. I had shown Shawn some of the illustrations I’ve been working on for the cookbook proposal, and he really loved them.
“I went to the art supply store and asked what someone doing your kind of work would really love, and the guy said that this would be the end-all, be-all.”
I throw my arms around his neck. “It is the most perfect thing.” I love that it isn’t jewelry or a spa gift card or flowers or anything expected for the Hallmark holiday. I love that it isn’t something to do with cooking, which is everyone’s go-to for gifts when you are a chef. It is the kind of gift that is a double whammy, first for its extravagance—I can’t begin to imagine how insanely expensive this kit was—but mostly, because it means he sees me. It isn’t something I mentioned wanting; he just knows me, knows how much I’m enjoying making the illustrations for the cookbook, knows that this is just the sort of luxury I would never indulge in for myself.
“I’m so glad you like it. I’m still new at this whole gift-giving thing.” He laughs. “But I swear I didn’t call Lawrence this time!”
“You did perfect. I’m afraid mine is a little bit small by comparison.” I hand over the box, my stomach doing flip-flops. I’m taking an enormous risk, and I know that it could backfire, but like Shawn, I’m going with my own impulses, right or wrong, and if there are consequences, I have to be prepared to suffer them. If I’m going to live a bigger, fuller life, I have to own my feelings and not shy away from them.
Shawn pulls the ribbon and opens the lid of the box. He looks down, and then looks into my eyes, face serious. “Are you sure?”