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    The Dennison House – (Chapter: Trust (part 1))

     

    If Ashley was this good at everything she did, I could see why she was the best in the business. She had whipped up a four-course meal with all the trimmings, making it seem embarrassingly effortless. I watched her every move as she zipped across the kitchen from the sink to the stove to the oven and occasionally over to where I sat at the counter to kiss me softly on the lips or neck. She was quite the multi-tasker. And when she finally sat me down at the table, using her talented fingers to tie the unnecessary cloth napkin around my neck in an adorable, dramatic fashion, I got to sample the fruit of her labor.

    “Ashley, this is…”

    I was at a loss. And I was only at the salad course.

    “Speechless?”

    I nodded, still chewing.

    “Good,” she said with a proud smile, “that’s how I prefer you.”

    We practically ate in silence after that. I couldn’t help it. I’ve always been serious about my food, and this was definitely a dinner to be taken very, very seriously. Each course was executed with such trained precision I forgot that I was at home instead of out at some over-priced establishment. I must say that the waitstaff was much better in the comfort of my own abode as well. But it didn’t make sense. How could Ashley be this overwhelmingly talented and have her career be so irrelevant to her true calling?

    “Ash, let me ask you something,” I say softly as she clears dishes from the table.

    She batted my hand away when I tried to help.

    “Go for it.”

    “Why aren’t you doing this? I mean, why aren’t you some big-time chef somewhere or something?”

    “Chef?” she asks, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

    “Yeah, you heard me. You’re incredible. You should be doing something with all the skill you have.”

    “Well, some dreams have to be deferred after you have a child. Your responsibilities become more important than your hobbies. Besides, who said I’m not making use of my skills now?” she says with a wink, but I know it’s insincere. I’ve hit a nerve.

    “Fine, but promise me that if I come looking for you in five years you’ll be in the kitchen at your own restaurant…not here…doing this.”

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