The onions are stinging the hell out of my eyes. I blink hard, sending tears running down my cheeks. I swipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but that only makes it worse.
“Some people seem immune to onions,” Celia says. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
“My pieces are wonky,” I point out.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll taste the same regardless.”
Celia uses the knife to scrape the onions into a cast-iron frypan, which is already sizzling with butter. She sautés carrot, onion, and celery pieces all together, filling the kitchen with their savory scent.
“How did you like riding this morning?” Celia asks me.
For a second I can feel myself blushing, as if Celia might guess what happened at the river. Then I remember that nobody knows that—all they saw was me trying out a horse for the very first time. So I say, truthfully, “It was much better than I expected. Really incredible, actually.”
“Most people are scared of horses if they haven’t ridden before.”
“I was scared, at first,” I admit. “I would have been more afraid if I was on Brutus instead of Penny.”
Celia looks over at me, her blue eyes searching my face.
“I can see why Raylan likes you,” she says. “You’re honest. That’s important to him. He can’t stand being lied to.”
“We don’t . . . we’re not . . . ” I trail off. I want to tell Celia that we’re not dating, but I can’t exactly say there’s nothing between us.
“I know, I know,” she says, stirring the contents of the frypan. “He told me you weren’t together. But he’s never brought a girl home before.”
Despite the fact that I don’t want Celia getting the wrong idea, her statement gives me a warm flush of pleasure. I would have been jealous at the thought of Raylan bringing another woman here. Introducing her to his family, taking her on horseback for the first time. Even though I don’t particularly want the distinction, I’m enjoying it anyway. Knowing this is all as new to him as it is to me.
“Here, cut this up in bite-sized pieces,” Celia instructs me, handing over some cold chicken out of the fridge.
While I’m working on that, she flours the countertop and rolls out a large lump of pastry. She lines two pie pans with the dough, while also making some kind of white sauce on the stove that smells buttery and delicious.
“What will this be?” I ask her.
“Chicken pot pie,” she says.
I’ve never tried that before. Possibly my expression betrays that, because Celia says, “Don’t worry, it’s good.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say hastily. “I’m not picky.”
As I watch her assemble the pies with the chopped chicken, the sautéed vegetables, and the gravy-like sauce, it reminds me of an Irish dish.
“My family makes something like this,” I tell her. “Chicken and dumplings.”
“Sure,” Celia says. “That’s similar.”
Celia shows me how to top the pie pans with another circle of pastry, then crimp the edges to seal the top and bottom of the pie. Then she makes little slashes across the top of each pie.
“What does that do?” I ask her.
“Lets the steam out.” She slides the pies into the oven. “There. Those’ll be done in an hour.”
I know I should probably use that time to shower and change my clothes, but I find myself lingering in the kitchen, which is warm and cozy and smells like sage and browned butter. I want to talk to Celia longer.
So I say, “Raylan is so good with horses.”
“One of the best I’ve ever seen,” Celia agrees. She wipes a strand of hair away from her forehead with the back of her flour-dusted hand, giving me a little smile. “And I’m not just saying that because he’s my son.”
I hesitate, hoping I’m not about to offend her.
“Why did he enlist?” I ask. “He seems to love it here . . . ”
Celia sighs. “He does,” she agrees. “I think . . . I think he felt he had to leave. For a while, at least.”
I frown, not understanding.
“Has Raylan told you anything about his father?” Celia asks me.
“No.” I shake my head. “Nothing at all.”
An omission I noticed immediately, since he talked openly about all the rest of his family.
Celia hesitates a moment, as if she’s deciding how much to tell me. I’ve seen this before in depositions—the human desire to share information, battling against the endless unknowable consequences of our own words. I can see that she wants to explain but doesn’t want to anger Raylan.
At last, she says, “I didn’t grow up in a house like this—big and beautiful, with every amenity. I was the kind of dirt poor you only see in the south. I had one pair of shoes, and when they got too small for me, I slit the front of them so my toes could poke out. I had seven brothers and sisters. I was the oldest, so most of the care for them fell on my shoulders. Getting food for them was a constant battle. I’d get a loaf of Wonderbread and make margarine and brown sugar sandwiches, if we had margarine or brown sugar. And then the whole loaf was gone, and I had to find something else.”
She presses her lips together, as if wincing from the memory of hunger pains. And I realize that the massive meals she cooks that fill the table might stem from a long-ago desperate desire to be able to feed the people she loved with as much delicious food as they could stomach.
“I left school in the tenth grade, and I got a job. I was working as a waitress at a roadside bar. I wasn’t supposed to be serving drinks—I wasn’t anything close to twenty-one. But the owners knew my situation, and they needed the help.
“It was rough. I know things look rugged around here now, but it’s nothing to how it was thirty years ago. Silver Run was the kind of place where people didn’t stick their noses in other people’s business. Which is why nobody did anything about the fact that my parents were too high to feed or clothe their kids, or make sure any of us attended school. And if something did happen that crossed a line—people were more likely to take the law into their own hands than to call the sheriff.”
I nod slowly. I know exactly how that works. In the Irish Mafia, it’s the same—each family runs their own affairs. And when there’s a conflict, you take it to one of the head bosses. Never to the police or to any other outsider.
“So,” Celia continues, “I served drinks and food to all types. Ranchers and truck-drivers, farmers and line-workers. Most of the men were local, and reasonably respectful to me. They’d flirt or tease or maybe give me a little slap on the ass now and then. But I was relatively safe and making enough money that my next two siblings down the line could stay in school, and hopefully, graduate. Then one night, somebody I’d never seen before came in to eat.”
A shiver runs down her frame, like a cold breeze just blew on the back of her neck.
“He was about forty years old, tall and handsome. He wasn’t dressed like the men I usually saw. He had on a proper suit, and his hair was freshly cut. What I noticed most of all was how clean he was. Not a speck of dirt on his shoes or trousers. And his fingernails were spotless. I’d hardly ever seen a grown man look like that. He wasn’t tanned, either. His face and neck and hands were pale like they’d never seen the sun. So he caught my eye at once.