“Oysters Rockefeller,” I said.
“Gesundheit,” Dan said, from behind a copy of Esquire.
I leaned on the granite counter separating the
kitchen from the den where Dan lay ensconced on the sofa. “But what do you
think about them?”
He lowered the magazine and said cautiously, “I
don’t think a lot about them. I don’t
think I’ve ever had them.”
“I was considering cooking them for Saturday.”
For the past month I’d been appearing in a small
theater production of The Long Christmas
Dinner by Thornton Wilder. Our last performance was this evening, and on
Saturday we were hosting a cast party. It was the first party I’d ever hosted,
or even co-hosted, in a long…well…ever.
I wanted everything to be exactly right.
“Well,” Dan said thoughtfully — and the fact that
he did give it his serious consideration was one of the reasons I loved him so
much, “oysters are kind of an acquired taste. They’re expensive too.”
“I don’t care about that. The expense, I mean.”
“Okay, but I’m guessing they don’t make great
leftovers.”
“True.” I frowned. Neither of us ate leftovers, so
what did that matter?
“Chief, you should make whatever you want to make.
If you want to make oysters —”
“It doesn’t have to be oysters. I just want to
make something nice. Something special.”
“Anything you make will be nice and special,” Dan assured.
“Now you’re humoring me.”
He laughed, tossed the magazine aside, and joined
me in the kitchen. He looped a casual arm around my shoulders as he stood next
to me studying the recipe. “They do look good.”
The wind shook the beach house. I glanced out the
picture window at the ocean gray and choppy with whitecaps. The white Christmas
lights looped over the deck railing twinkled determinedly in the face of the
winter gale.
I said, “I wanted to cook them because they’re the
same era as the play. I thought that would be fun.”
“I like that idea.”
I liked the smell of his aftershave, grown-up and
masculine, like Dan. I liked the fact he hadn’t shaved yet because it was just
us home together, relaxing. I liked how he looked in well-worn jeans, a white
Henley, and white socks. I never knew how sexy socks could be until I saw Dan
walking around my house in his white athletic socks. And I liked the fact that,
even if he thought I was being a goof, he pretended to take me seriously.
Because he did take me seriously, even when I was a goof. Because he loved me and
cared about what mattered to me. It had taken me a while to catch on to this,
to really trust it, but I’d finally figured it out. Love meant never having to
be sorry you were a goof.
I said, “You’re going to be here, right?” This was
the third time I’d asked. Being a police lieutenant meant Dan’s schedule could
be unpredictable. Not that I couldn’t handle this single dinner party on my
own, but it would be so much better with Dan. Everything was so much better
with Dan.
He turned his head and met my eyes. I was smiling,
but he didn’t smile. Or at least his mouth curved into something that wasn’t
quite a smile, could just as easily turn into a kiss. He said softly, as usual
understanding me better than I did myself, “I’ll always be here, Sean.”
