Chapter 8: After Midnight

At eleven that night I was sitting in Hattie's dark kitchen with my coat still on, and somebody knocked at the back door.

It was Ansel, with two paper grocery bags and snow in his hair.

"The hotel restaurant closed at nine," he said. "Everything in this town is shut. I bought eggs."

"It's Christmas Eve."

"I'd noticed."

"Hattie's asleep upstairs."

"Then I'll be quiet," he said, and came in.

He took off his coat, rolled his sleeves to the elbow, and opened her cupboards without asking.

I watched him find a pan, a knife and a cutting board without hesitating.

"Potatoes," he said, and took four from a bag.

He cut one in half and started dicing it.

I lasted about a minute.

"You're holding the knife wrong."

"I was a line cook for six years."

"Then you've been holding it wrong for six years. Pinch the blade."

"I pinch the blade."

"Your fingers are on the handle."

He looked down at them.

"Give me that," I said, and he did.

I stood up and set my hand over his on the knife and moved his thumb back an inch.

I had meant it only as a correction.

His hand went very still under mine.

I took mine away and picked up a potato, and he went back to cutting without saying a word, and the cubes came out even.

"That's better," I said.

"Thank you, Chef."

"Don't."

"I mean it. You've got the best hands I ever watched."

I put the first batch in the pan and let the oil take it.

For a while nobody spoke, and the kitchen smelled of onion and butter.

He cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl and I didn't comment.