Tru Love (16 page)

              She did try, she reminds herself. He blew her off.

              “Go back to thinking about Truman,” Serena says. “I like you a lot better when you’re glowing like a radioactive mushroom.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

              The kitchen island is covered with all of the ingredients listed on the back of the
Nestle
chocolate chip bag. Genny found a mix master hidden in a cabinet and pulled it out. The beaters are already attached. She purchased a set of measuring spoons in the grocery store, but not a measuring cup and she can’t find one among their collection of seldom used gadgets.

              “How many tablespoons are in a cup?” Genny asks. She remembers learning the number back in middle school.

              Serena is perched on a bar stool, her legs crossed, and makes a show of looking behind her for whomever Genny could possibly be talking to.

              Genny places her hands on her hips and waits her out. Serena
has
to know something about cooking.

              “My parents don’t let me in the kitchen,” she finally says. “They don’t want me to get any ideas.”

              “About what?”

              “Becoming subservient.”

              Genny rolls her eyes. “You have never cooked anything,
ever
?”

              “Of course I’ve cooked. Anything that requires a can opener or a few minutes in the microwave and I’m your girl. It’s the way of the modern woman.”

              “Your mother—” Genny begins.

              “Is an amazing cook,” Serena agrees. “But she’s determined not to pass the genetic deficiency into the next generation.”

              Serena examines her nails. “Let’s go to the salon. My paint is chipping. And on the way back, we can stop at that little bakery on Union. They have to-die-for cookies there. He never has to know you didn’t make them yourself.”

              “He’ll know,” Genny mutters under her breathe, even if his vision doesn’t reveal it. Truman has a way of knowing everything about Genny before she knows it herself. “Besides, I
want
to make them myself.”

              She hopes Serena doesn’t ask her to explain
that
, because Genny hardly understands it herself. What is the big deal, anyway? She’s no Betty Crocker and that’s never bothered her before.

              Serena reluctantly admits, “I know a little something about
Biscochitos
and
empanadas
.”

              “Chocolate chip cookies,” Genny insists. “They’re America’s favorite cookie.”

              “Well, I’m from a good Mexican family. We don’t make chocolate chip cookies. How about Mexican Wedding Cakes? Get him thinking in the right direction?”

              Serena waggles her eyebrows at her.

              “You’re ridiculous.”

              “And you’re starting to sound desperate.”

              Genny plows her hands through her hair. “I think I’m the only seventeen year old alive who can’t get beyond ‘set the oven temperature to three-seventy-five.’”

              “So what? You want to spend your life in the kitchen?”

              Genny pulls the stainless steel bowl from the mixer and cracks two eggs into it. She adds a stick of butter and a teaspoon of vanilla, then places the bowl back on the stand and lowers the beaters. What happens next is mind-numbing. Genny turns on the appliance and the bowl spins around like a piece of melting pottery on a wheel. It tips so far to the side that the eggs fly out, looking like a large, one-celled creature. It lands on Serena’s lap. Genny pulls the plug from the socket and catches the bowl before it can fall to the floor, but the damage is done. Serena peers out from her raised arms and takes one look at her jeaned thighs, oozing with the yellow-brown mucusy substance.

              “My. Lucky. Jeans.” Serena stutters each word.

              Genny uses a dish towel to wipe at the egg. “Sorry,” she mumbles, realizing too late that she’s rubbing the egg
in
not off. “Take a pair from my closet,” Genny offers. “Those cargo Levi’s you like? They’re yours.”

              Serena’s face brightens. “Really?”

              Genny nods. “You’re holding out on me, though,” Genny insists. “When you come back you have to help me. Really help me.”

              “And the jeans are mine, forever?”

              “There yours forever if the cookies pass a taste test.”

     Serena rolls her eyes. “Anyone can make chocolate chip cookies.” She hops from the stool and disappears up the back stairs.

              Genny pulls the Lysol wipes out of a drawer and cleans up the mess. By the time Serena is back, looking better in Genny’s jeans than she ever did, she has everything ready to go.

              “You look like a goddess,” Genny says.

              Serena waves off her comment. “No need for flattery. One batch of chocolate chip cookies coming up.”

              “But it’s true.” Sometimes Genny feels too thin and too
splintery
next to Serena.

              “It’s my Mexican DNA,” Serena says. “Gives me curves. Right now they’re in all the right places, but come see me after I have a baby or two—I’ll be fighting to hold onto what I have. Victor included.”

              Serena nudges Genny aside and starts filling the bowl with ingredients. She has the eggs, butter and sugar whipped into a frothy paste and is measuring flour by the tablespoon into the bowl before Genny comments.

              “Has Victor asked you to marry him?”

              “We talk about it like it’s a done deal,” Serena reveals.  “But he’s not allowed to ask me
officially
until we’re in college.”

              “Why?”

              Serena’s smooth face twists into a frown. “My father’s decision, but he’s made me a deal I can’t refuse. Graduate from college first and he pays all the bills, tuition, room and board, books. If I maintain a three-point five, the wedding is paid for, too. First class.

              “Here.” Serena hands Genny a large spoon. “Scrape the batter off the sides of the bowl.”

“And do what with it?”

              Serena looks at her like she has to be kidding.

              “Nope,” Genny admits. “I have no idea what comes next. Are we ready to put them in the oven?”

              Genny’s guess only makes Serena’s frown deepen. “Ah, the life of the rich and famous.”

              “Cut it out.” She’s seriously considering her mother’s suggestion. She might sign up for a cooking class. Maybe something exotic, like Indonesian cuisine. . .

              “Stop worrying,” Serena says. “Not everyone needs to know how to cook. Those days are long gone and good riddance, as my
mama
says. But you do want to tell Truman the truth—that you made the cookies yourself—so you have to contribute something.”

              Serena takes the spoon from Genny and instructs her to watch while she scrapes the bowl, turning the batter back into the beaters so that there’s a uniform smoothness by the time she shuts off the mix master.

              “Here.” She hands Genny the bag of chips. “Open and pour.”

              Genny accomplishes that feat with ease. She blends the chips into the batter then drops it by “teaspoonfuls” onto the greased baking sheet.

              “The next batch,” Serena advises, “make the cookies bigger. Truman’s a growing boy.”

              Serena sets the oven timer then turns to Genny, arms folded over her chest, and asks, “So why must you absolutely make the cookies for Truman yourself?”

              Genny shrugs. “His mother can’t bake. For years, Truman and his family have been tossing the cookies when she isn’t looking.” And it bothers Genny. “He’s so perfect,” she complains and she doesn’t want him to do that—protect her from herself. “I want to be good at something he needs.”

              “And he needs cookies?”

              “Definitely. I’ve never seen him eat anything sweet.”

              “A lot of guy are meat and potatoes,” Serena says, then changes the subject while a huge grin spreads across her face. “So, tell me, how perfect is he? You gave me so few details today.”

              Genny’s body flushes with warmth as she remembers Truman’s closeness.

              “You’ve never given me any details about you and Victor.” Not the truly personal details.

              Serena spreads her arms. “Ask away. I’m an open book.”

              Genny mulls that over. For every question Genny asks, she’ll have to return in kind—Serena is a strict score keeper.

              “Have you and Victor. . . you know, done it?”

              Serena’s eyes blink once, but she recovers quickly. “You’re not already thinking about
that
?” Her voice is slightly scandalized. “What happened to my little wall flower?”

             
I’m thinking it plenty
, Genny thinks, but says, “We’ve talked about it in terms of something that will happen in the future.”

              “The distant future,” Serena advises.

              “You sound like Truman,” Genny grumbles.

              Serena likes that so much she tips her head back and laughs. “Oh, that’s great.
Truman
is putting on the brakes.”

              “It’s not like I’m throwing myself at him,” Genny says, and lets her hair fall forward so it covers her blush. Or is she? So far, Truman has initiated their kisses, but Genny has been reluctant to let them end.

              “He wouldn’t stand a chance if you did,” Serena says. “That boy adores you. It was instant for him. From the moment he saw you no other girl exists.” She pauses, thoughtful for a moment, then says, “I’ve heard of that happening. Sometimes it lasts. You know, a life-long thing. Marry your high school sweetheart and you’re still together, celebrating your seventy-fifth wedding anniversary, and wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her look turns to one of concern. “And sometimes it burns out in a few weeks.

              “You definitely want passion with a long fuse,” Serena insists. “You wait and make sure you have that kind of love going on before you open talks about moving battle lines.”

              “I feel like I’ve known him forever,” Genny confides. ”And at the same time, it’s all new and. . .breathtaking.”

              “You
are
new at this,” Serena points out. “You don’t know yet what you have.”

              “How long did it take you to know you were in love with Victor?”

              Serena purses her lips as she thinks. “Well, I
thought
I was in love with him by our third date. But that was all the newness you were talking about. My
mama
calls it the first blush of love. It’s really strong. You have to wait for that to mature before you’ll know for sure that it’s the kind that’s going to last.”

              “How did you know you and Victor were the real thing?”

              “It all catches up with you. It’s not a single moment, but it falls on you in a split second, and you know. The little things he does for you. The sweet things he says. His mannerisms. Victor has this way about him, when he’s not sure of something. He’ll say what’s on his mind, then he’ll tip his head to the side and look at me out of the corner of his eye. He’s looking to me for confirmation, giving me a kind of anchoring power in his life. I like being that for him.” Her smile is shining. “But mostly, it’s the way he treats you—all the time—that cinches it. He never forgets that you’re the one for him.”

              The timer chimes and Serena shoos Genny aside. She picks up a padded mitt and pulls the cookies from the oven.

              “Do you have a wire rack?”

              Genny’s trying to figure out what she means when Serena gives up and pulls a plate from a cupboard. She uses a spatula to move the cookies.

              “Who stocked your kitchen?” she asks. “You have a lot of stuff neither of you have ever used. All top notch.”

              “My mom hired some guy to remodel the kitchen and fill all the drawers and cabinets.”

              “Interior designer.” Serena nods. “I thought about that for a while, but I think it’ll kill my parents. It’s too close to homemaker for them.”

              Serena’s course is decided. “Law school isn’t a very creative place,” Genny points out. Serena is brilliant with color and physical art.

              “Starving artist is even less acceptable,” she says.

              “What about feeding the inner self?”

              “Eating trumps it.”

              Serena picks up a cookie, testing its warmth with her fingertips. “It’s ready. You want to do the honors?’

              Genny takes the cookie and bites into it. Her tongue waters. The chocolate melts. “It’s fantastic,” she says.