Til Death Undo Us. Morgan Q O'Reilly

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ shortened it to Cas. The first time his friends tried to shorten his name to Cay, they ended up with a few bruises. I had a few myself, but he’s gotten past that. At some point, the spelling of my name changed to Cassidy. The moment Ryan Malone said he wanted to marry me, I set about procuring the license and shedding the unwieldy Shaughnessy. I was barely nineteen when we married, and madly in love with the handsome man five years my senior.

      Is there anything better than young love? The first kiss, the first mutually whispered terms of endearment, the first utterings of that all-important, I love you... I remember each moment of those with Ryan as if they happened yesterday.

      Like a fairy tale, our life together was picture perfect. Too perfect, some had said in those very early days. Later, they said it was the perfection of our love that eventually doomed us and sent the sickness that killed Ryan.

      I got my first glimpse of him when he came into the coffee shop where I was learning the fine art of working the espresso machine. My second day on the job, my very first job as a high school graduate, so far I’d learned to work the register, wipe tables, sweep, and empty trash. I’d had a little time on the espresso machine the day before with Mary, the manager, at my shoulder. Around eight on Friday, June the tenth, the morning rush had begun to slow when she handed me an extra large paper cup with the order marked on it. Vanilla latte. Medium foam. She turned away to take the next order and my heart went through a complicated little dance involving joy and terror in equal parts.

      My first solo. Simple enough. Too worried about doing a good job, I took a quick peek to note the customer was tall, but then nearly everyone in the world is taller than I am. I did observe he was taller than Dad, not as broad in the shoulder, and maybe an inch shorter than Cayden. A bit like my brothers, he had auburn hair, darker than our varying shades of red, a little over-long so it brushed the collar of his whisky brown leather jacket. I didn’t catch the color of his eyes just then. I was too focused on the process. Grind the coffee, tamp it down just so. Lock it into the espresso machine, push the button. Very carefully I steamed the milk, watching the thermometer all the while until a noise made me look up for half a second. I quickly returned my focus to the job at hand, poured, stirred, dusted the top with powdered vanilla, and set the cup on the counter.

      “Vanilla latte,” I said.

      Anxious for feedback, I watched his long fingers wrap around the brown paper cup with the shop logo imprinted on it. We left it to the customer to find the tops and java jackets for themselves.

      He paid little attention to me and lifted the cup. I had the impression this was his first cup of the day. He didn’t appear to be quite awake, despite the gleam of freshly shaved jaw and damp hair holding in a recently washed and combed position. Did he use hair gel to keep it that way, or would his hair ease into loose curls as it fully dried? Without stepping away from the counter, he lifted the cup and took a sip. A second later, his eyes flew open and speared me like green lasers.

      Oh no. I did my best to hang onto my hopeful smile. I’d seen that same look in my father’s eyes the first time I’d made an apple pie and had mistaken salt for sugar. As I’d been standing there, hands twisting nervously, Dad ate a large bite of pie, exclaimed how wonderful it was and how I’d grow to be a fine cook. I was ten at the time and Mom was down with the flu. My brothers had made the stew and biscuits, leaving dessert to me. Poor Dad. A lesser man would have winced and pushed the plate away in disgust. My six brothers weren’t nearly so kind and expressed their opinions in varying decibels. While they gagged and ran for water, howling they’d been poisoned, Daddy pulled me onto his lap and wiped away my tears. Sadly, my brothers’ predictions of culinary disasters came true more often than Dad’s continued assurances that one day I’d learn to cook.

      That morning as I took in Ryan’s expression, I had visions of being booted out the door and told my pitiful wages would be mailed to me. Later, he told me my inexperience shone like a lighthouse beacon on a clear night. Otherwise, he might not have held back his gag and probably would have asked Mary to make him a fresh latte right then and there. Instead he smiled, said “thank you,” and turned to the condiments table.

      That smile did me in. I fell hopelessly, completely, head-over-heels in love.

      Because of the hearts and stars dancing before my eyes, I didn’t see him add three packets of sugar–which he later confessed–before he snapped on a lid, turned for the door and lifted his cup in salute. I watched long enough to note he wore his black chinos very well. From his shoulder hung a laptop case on a long black leather strap. He looked like most of my brother Brennan’s friends from the university. Only a block from the vast campus, the coffee shop drew a lot of students as they walked from the apartments and rooming houses that started on the back half of the block.

      A few minutes later, the phone rang while I was wiping down the espresso machine.

      Mary shooed me to the register to take the next customer’s order.

      I didn’t understand the strained smile on Mary’s face when she came back, but she intercepted me as I headed for the machine to whip up a mocha. The rest of the day I worked the register, poured coffee from the carafe and cleaned tables, humming happily as I daydreamed about the beautiful man and our beautiful life together. After the lunch rush, sure enough, Mary handed me a wad of cash and suggested I look into a job at the local grocery store. She said I did an excellent job of running the cash register, but apparently I was lethal at the espresso machine and she needed a good barista.

      “Oh God,” I cried. “I poisoned him!” All my daydreams crashed in that instant. If I ever saw him again, he’d turn and run the other way. Dejected, I buried my face in my hands, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the earth. My future as a beloved wife faded like a wisp of fog under the glaring sun.

      “No, no, Cassidy.” She rubbed my shoulder. “I knew when I hired you that you’re somewhat challenged in the kitchen.”

      She did, really. She’d been dating my eldest brother for a few months and had given me the job as a favor. Aidan had never softened his criticisms, but we’d thought making coffee shouldn’t be too much of a strain. After all, I made coffee at home and it was fine. Apparently there was an art to the fancier types of coffee drinks. To this day I can’t tell if a bean is Sumatran or Arabica, medium roast or dark. I buy what’s on sale and doctor it with half-and-half. No one gags, but I do keep sugar on hand.

      Always kind, Mary consoled me and assured me she still liked me. “You didn’t poison Ryan, but he did end up throwing out the coffee. Seems you forgot the vanilla syrup and burned the milk. He hated to complain…”

      “I know. I hear that a lot, actually.” I didn’t want to hear more and we both knew if I hadn’t gotten it by then, I probably never would. The stories of my culinary mishaps at home were approaching legendary.

      When Mom had gotten sick, she gave me a crash course in cooking. I prayed every hour of every day for her recovery. Mom died when I was thirteen, leaving my family to the mercy of me in charge of cooking with carefully notated recipes. My older brothers refused to cook at all and hoped I’d learn by constant practice. Dad, of course, worked long days and didn’t have the energy to cook when he got home. The three older boys were also busy with sports and afterschool work–Cayden, my elder by five minutes included himself in the older category and, as he was the star pitcher of his baseball team and busy with ROTC, he got away with it–and the three younger were working to follow in the elders’ footsteps, so there was little chance of me weaseling out of the job. And even though I was very careful about my seasonings, I’d never managed anything other than a basically okay apple pie. Not bad, but not great. Canned filling worked wonders. I could make scrambled eggs, but not omelets. Toast, but not French toast. I could do basic foods, but anything remotely gourmet was СКАЧАТЬ