Holly Ch. 04

Hollis Graves has the primal sexual sensibility of his kind, so he realizes how much he truly likes MK when he notices his interest in something as superficial as her wardrobe. Of course, he's learned that the answer to 'Does this make me look fat?' is always no, but he has to cover his inability to tell when a woman is dressed up or wearing something new for him. When Allison had caught onto this he'd thought to say, "But you always look beautiful." That worked, but he was covering that he couldn't tell about that, either... not really. His friends were impressed by her looks, so he took it as read that she's attractive. Her personality was attractive, if a bit boring after a while; her goodness was what mattered most.

MK is like a little doll he wants to dress up. Maybe it's that he doesn't know her well, but her outfits are like different aspects of her personality. This third one looks most like her so far, he thinks: vintage jeans with wide, straight legs that accommodate the "fuel tank," as he now thinks of her artificial thigh, and a stretchy black top with a deep neckline and tiny sleeves like what ballerinas wear to practice. His eyes linger on the white cut-out of her skin. She must taste like ice-cold milk.

The sloppy braid he likes so much is back, off-center this time. He has the urge to buy her jewelry to adore her, but perhaps it's also possessive to want to put something around her neck.

She stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the back porch where he's now smoking a cigarette by the window, something he does when he's not sure what to do with himself.

"Does this seem strange to you?" she asks, gazing out at the inclement night.

"What?" The way things are unfolding, she might be talking about anything.

"This rain. I have a weird feeling."

"It's gonna freeze. If it doesn't let up, the roads will be a mess tomorrow," he replies, not terribly concerned. He's got a reason to think he might be calling in sick.

"When you finish your smoke, do you want to look at the TV to see if there's anything about a storm? Now that I think of it, the store was way too crowded, even for a Sunday. I think maybe people were stocking up and I was just oblivious."

"Yeah, I'll go look. Wouldn't they have said something at church to warn people?"

MK nods. "Yep, and that part would have been at the beginning when Father Dunstan does announcements. I went in a few minutes late because I get carsick. Puking in church isn't a sin, but I didn't like the thought of it."

"Do you feel okay now?" he asks. "You don't have to-"

"Yes, thanks. I'm even hungry-I hope you are, too."

Holly stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray that's clean save for one foreign filter. She must indulge once in a while. He goes to the TV to see if her intuition is as good as he suspects.

* * * * *

MK takes a deep breath and centers herself to start dinner. It's not a tricky recipe, but there are steps and it's a thing worth doing properly. Hers is the kind of brain damage one wouldn't notice all the time, but certain types of tasks can leave her frustrated and foggy in her thinking. She looks around her immaculate kitchen. "If it's not fun, why did you do this?" she whispers to herself, and then, "You've got this. Piece of cake."

She places a cooking tome on a stand so she won't mess it up. This one she bought more for the beauty of the book itself than any intention to make French recipes. The photo does inspire an appetite to create something with her hands as much as to enjoy a fine meal. It's not above her skill level if she employs some time-consuming tricks, such as prepping everything first; overlapping the tasks just won't work for her anymore, especially if she's talking to Holly. The man is distracting; if she looks into those mysterious eyes as she works, she knows she'll forget how to boil water.

She meticulously wipes clean each mushroom with a moistened cloth. It's more work than rinsing them, but this way they'll absorb the flavor of the pan juices instead of tap water. 'A little dirt is good for him,' she thinks. 'They need their minerals.' She calls up her patience with herself when she has to work to recall the correct way to neatly slice an onion without tears. She feels like it's possible that she looks cute tonight and doesn't want to be a sniffling amateur when he returns. The large onion falls into a pile of uniformly thin pieces with a few well-placed cuts. Peeling and chopping the carrots is dull, but requires no thought. She takes more care with the fresh herbs because, being omega, they spark her ancestral imagination. They are descended from witches. Oh, that reminds her...

She listens a moment, but all she can hear is the heavy rain. Quickly, she nicks the side of her fingertip and squeezes two drops of blood into the bottom of the deep cast iron oven. This recipe is typically considered a romantic dish, which she hopes he won't know, so a little love magic won't go amiss. It's not something she'd tell her priest, but it's not as though she worships another god. The way A/os like her see it, God made the universe and all its laws; magic is meant to work with those laws and the Lord helps those who help themselves. Hasn't He done enough for her without her bothering him for every little wish? She was raised in a Catholic orphanage, so the thought of praying to get a boy to like her wouldn't have occurred to her even as a girl. A little kitchen magic to make sure he feels welcome in her home is just the ticket.

After triple-checking the recipe, MK lines up the rest of her ingredients: Stock she made the last time she roasted a chicken, natural bacon from down the road, good butter, flour, Burgundy, and Cognac. 'He's going to think you're a serious drunk,' she thinks. But this is not a recipe to be fucked with. What's missing? Garlic. She presses just enough cloves for the right flavor, but, if he's what she thinks, too much will be like pepper-spraying him in the face. They're supertasters and, considering all that's going on in this dish, if he doesn't care for it, it will actually be a terrible experience. 'But it's going to be great,' she assures herself.

She springs over to the counter space on the other side of the stove. The chicken's been resting well apart from everything else. No one ever wants food poisoning, but in her case it could be what finally shuts down her organs for good. That would certainly ruin the mood. She grabs her special occasion knife to disarticulate the bird. Strangely, the structure of the rings of an onion had been more puzzling than the more complex creature. Maybe it's that she's spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about anatomy, how muscle and bones fit together and come apart.

This knife seems to do half the work on its own and it's a beautiful sight to behold. She gets lost in the pleasure of seeing each part perfectly represented in an orderly line up. They will look like the picture nestled in the cheerful goldenrod Le Crueset. She'll admit she bought it because the color spoke to her, not that she'd planned on making coq au vin for a gorgeous lodger.

* * * * *

'That's a big fuck-off knife. That definitely cost more than my truck,' Holly thinks. He hesitates just inside the realm of the kitchen; he's afraid to startle her while she's holding that thing. Plus, the sight is pure delight: His omega absorbed in some old school cooking against the backdrop of a dark and stormy night. He gets the same feeling he did when he first drove up to this house two nights ago, that this is a fairy tale. He can hardly get enough of her contented little smile as she cracks bones apart and he wonders if she knows what to do with a deer.

"Hey."

She looks up. When she smiles right at him, his brain snaps a mental photo. It's a moment.

"What's the word? Is there anything on TV about it or am I crazy?" she asks.

He shakes his head. His expression is a boyish mix of mischief and regret. "I hate to tell you... do you remember the ice storm from a few years back?"

"Shut the front door! Is this...?"

"Yeah. The whole northeast, but especially New York state. Tons of steady rain and freezing temperatures. It's gonna be ice world again for days. Before it gets bad, do you need anything? I can go out now because soon everything will shut down."

"Absolutely not!" MK says in her motherly tone. "It's already too shitty to go out. Now I feel awful I was complaining earlier about the old folks all getting their prescriptions." She makes the sign of the cross with the knife still in hand.

"Nah, you didn't know. You sure you're gonna be okay?" he asks.

"Me? Yes, it won't really affect my life at all. We have enough food and there's some emergency water in the pantry... What about you? Do you want to use my phone to call your boss? I'm sure he doesn't expect you to work tomorrow, but he'll still want to reach you."

"Yeah, thanks. I better check in with him. I'm sure he's been trying to call me."

"Go ahead. It's charging right over there."

Holly leans on the kitchen table and calls Damian. He's amazed he can remember the number, but maybe that speaks to their friendship. He makes a mental note to memorize MK's number in case of an emergency. To be that dependent on one device seems ludicrous, in light of what's coming. Only a few, but people did die in the last big ice storm.

"Damian? It's Hollis."

"Hey, man! You got my message?" he replies in his booming voice.

"No, my phone got wet. This is MK's cell if you need to reach me."

"Ahhh." There's a knowing lilt in the interjection as if her letting him use her phone is significant. Holly grunts.

"Are you guys okay? Kids all home?"

"Yeah, and it's kind of sad how thrilled they are that they can stay home from school. They won't be so happy when the power goes out. Time to break out the board games."

"Well, you did want to spend more time with them. Could be good for you," Holly offers.

"And what about you? Are you, uh, you know..." Damian tries to ask.

"Huh?"

"Were you gonna be home anyway tomorrow is what I meant."

"Yeah, I think so. So, just to be clear, the shop's closed, right?"

Damian laughs. "Duh! The roads are closed, so the shop is closed. Don't worry, you'll know when it's time to get back to work. So what are you guys going to do all iced in? Things going okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's good. MK's cooking us-" the sound of bacon sizzling turns his head- "a meal from scratch. She's a real cook."

"My, my. Didn't you land on your feet! So do you think she's..."

"Uh-huh."

"She's standing right there, isn't she?" Damian laughs.

"Yep."

"Well, this conversation is even more 'Holly' than usual. You have a good night, brother."

"You, too... brother." Holly's not sure he's ever called him that before. He might have a few biological brothers out there, given his father's modus operandi, but he's glad Damian is the one in his life. "Later."

MK is shifting from foot to foot with a bit of a bop like she's dancing to the music she put on in her head to afford him some privacy for his phonecall. She's methodically browning the chicken in the bacon fat at the bottom of her yellow pot. Holly peers over from the other side of the island. "That's an insanely good idea. What do you call this?" he asks.

"Oh. It's, um, French country chicken. And don't worry about the bacon. It's from the farm down the road and they don't put any nitrates in it. The pigs are happy, too, so it tastes better."

He'd forgotten about his food sensitivities. It never crossed his mind anything bad for him could come out of her kitchen.

"How is your friend? I mean, your boss," she asks.

"He's good. He's got his family safe at home, but he's worried about how his kids will react when the power goes out. Hey, speaking of that... you have solar panels. How's that gonna work, should we prepare or something?"

She shrugs, unconcerned. "They're supposed to work in the winter, and last year was fine. This, though... I don't know if they can cope with inches of ice." It was true that the last ice storm brought down trees, collapsed some roofs. "We have two fireplaces, though, and plenty of firewood, so we won't freeze. I really hate to ask, but better now than after the ground is an ice rink, um, do you think you could bring in a whole bunch from the shed so we have it?"

"Yeah, that's great," he says, trying not to look too delighted to do something useful for her. 'She's gonna think you never smile if you keep tamping it down like that,' he thinks.

"Thank you! There's a firewood sling by the back door. The key is hanging on a hook-I keep it locked because the bikes are in there, too."

* * * * *

'That would be me out there,' Mary Katherine thinks. 'It sure is nice to have him around.' Her truer voice lets her know that's not the real reason-not at all. There's the soft timbre of his voice that she can almost feel when he speaks. His mild accent is endearing, too. So far, he's as easy to be around as being alone, which was more than she'd dared hope for. She feels ashamed that the thought even occurs, but he provides what she'd thought a pet might, that low-key companionship that's better than people, but she's still too attached to the cleanliness of her little world for animals running around. And animals are good to look at, but not so much it gives her fuckin' energy.

She washes her chef's knife, carefully dries it and places it back in its elegant wooden box. Phase one is complete. She reviews the rest of the recipe a few more times. Can it be that easy? It seems that the hard part is out of the way, the hard part being to get her brain online for the project. The parts in charge of simple tasks are obeying her faithfully. The rest is running a little wild.

The chicken and bacon are set aside on a plate. She tosses the onions and carrots into the pot with a pinch of salt and pepper. She can do this kind of sauteeing in her sleep. A shiver through her metal components alerts her she must have forgotten to turn the oven on. "You need heat to cook a chicken, dumbass," she whispers. Still, it's of no consequence because it's fairly early. Black and moonless outside, but the hour is young. She hopes her new friend can see by the light of the house's windows. If he is an alpha, he might be able to see in the dark, but not all A/os possess all of the traits as a package set. They've interbred with betas so much that some of their abilities have grown rare. MK wonders about certain other attributes and blushes red like she hasn't in years. "Never you mind about that," she chuckles to herself.

She adds the sticky garlic and cooks it until it smells sweet, then pours in the Cognac. 'Yay, it didn't explode,' she thinks, then returns the meats to the pot. Half a bottle of lusty red, stock, stemmed thyme for a subtle herbal note, and so far it's not a fiasco. Holly walks in as it starts to simmer. His brave face against the freezing rain softens when the aroma reaches him. That beguiled expression hints at the things she shouldn't be thinking. He's even more delicious when he's a little wet. She envies his skin.

"I brought in quite a lot, hope that's what you wanted. It's by the door to the porch."

"Thank you! Do you want to make a fire to warm up? The oven will be on for a while, but it's a low temp and a big room."

He nods gratefully. "Sounds great. That smells amazing, too. It's freakin' nice in here!" he laughs incredulously.

"Sorry I made you go out there. I hope this can make up for that."

"Naw, I don't mind. Had to be done and I'm here to help," he drawls kindly.

"Well, you're really sweet."

Holly makes a fire and then walks to the sink to wash his hands. When he's standing right behind her, MK is finally sure he's an alpha. She can't smell him, not over the scent of the simmering stew, but there's a distinctive charge to his magnetic field. She hasn't detected one for a while; that omegability seemed to go dormant along with her libido.

She slyly returns the cookbook to its place among a hundred others. It's less of a secret that this could be considered a romantic meal, but she doesn't need to get his hopes up with that mouth-watering photo of deeply golden braised skin nestled in a constellation of pops of bright orange and shimmering droplets of fat.

He stands beside her to see what she's done. "Mama would have loved you," he says.

"When did she pass?" MK asks.

"It was six years ago."

"I'm sorry. You must miss her, especially this time of year."

"I do. What about you? Are your folks still around?" he asks.

MK turns off the gas flame and places the lid on the pot. When she goes to lift it to transfer it to the oven, she can't; it's heavy when it's empty and full it won't budge. "Well, that's embarrassing," she mutters.

"Let me get it," Holly says. 'He's too strong for his size to be beta,' she thinks as she stands aside and observes his shoulders working.

"Thanks, you saved the day. To answer your question, I never knew them. 'St. Andrew,' my last name, is the name of the orphanage where I grew up." She quickly turns to look at his eyes before he can hide what she has come to know as "that look," the one that shows the horror people feel at that idea. "Wow. You don't look like you assume I had a terrible childhood. I really didn't."

"I didn't think so. I've met people who did. You don't have that wounded look," he says, looking closer.

"Ha, that's funny, considering."

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry."

"I'm just teasing. You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"You know, we have something in common. I wasn't raised by my biological parents, either." Holly proceeds to tell her his background, in a nutshell, and minus the A/o stuff. "Can't believe I just told you that."

"Why not?" she asks sincerely.

"Well, it's a disgusting thing and I shouldn't bring you down with the thought of that."

"Oh, it's a disgusting thing, but you didn't do it. Buddhists take the lotus flower as their symbol because it grows in the mud and when it blooms the petals are miraculously clean. God isn't disgusted by you at all."

"What about my father?"

"That guy has a lot of work to do if he doesn't want to go to Hell. Would you like a glass of wine? It's good stuff, but I'll just pour the rest away. If you like red, you should drink it."

Holly hesitates. "I'm scared of what else I'll tell you with a glass of wine in me. Yeah, I will, thanks."

MK gets him a wine glass and lets him pour. "You can relax by the fire if you like. You should be comfortable."

He smiles. "I'm comfortable here, unless I'm in your way, of course. Can I help do anything?"

She can tell by the way he asks he'd rather have his hands busy than not. She likes him where he is, too. "We need potatoes for this dish. I was going to do that next. Do you prefer mashed or roasted?" she asks.

"I like them mashed with some of the skin on," he replies. MK is a little surprised he didn't just say, "whatever you like," as she'd anticipated. She likes this-she'd rather live with someone who has opinions and she takes it as a sign he's beginning to feel at home.

"That's the best way. Let's make a lot for the leftovers tomorrow," she says. To her ear, that still sounds presumptuous, but then again, this is not a date. He moved in because he had no place else to go and now he's trapped here by severe weather. Still, what if the door were wide open onto a glorious spring day. Would he stay? It's sure pretty to think about.

* * * * *

"So, you know about the last storm like this. Were you here then?" Holly asks.

"I was! Farther north by the Canadian border, but I was back in New York for a wedding: My one and only time attending a destination wedding, and I got stuck for a whole week at an inn I couldn't afford and got fired from a show I needed."