Free Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts Page B

said as she brushed her fingers across the title. “And you don’t know how much I need some magic.”
    “Maybe you’ll find some way to save your buckeye.”
    “This is my first book, Forney. And you know what else? This is my first birthday party. Ever.”
    Forney cleared his throat to deliver the speech he had prepared, but two quick thumps from the floor above them caused him to forget his lines.
    “Forney, is there—”
    “I guess we’ll eat then.” He stood up and started toward the kitchen.
    “Can I help you?”
    “No. You’re the guest of honor. You’re not allowed in the kitchen,”
    he said as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
    Novalee could hear kitchen sounds—a spoon scraping metal, the clink of glass against glass, but she could not imagine Forney managing ovens and burners or skillets and lids. She could see him dipping and swaying between history and fiction, but not between a stove and a kitchen sink.
    When he came back in, carrying a tray, he said, “Dinner is served,”
    trying to speak with a French accent, the way he had practiced.
    He set the tray on a cart beside the table, then placed a bowl in front of Novalee and one at his place. “Your soup, madam.”
    “I’ve never seen orange soup before.”
    “It’s orange almond bisque,” he said as he sat down.
    Novalee took a taste, a wonderful nutty taste . . . tangy, velvety smooth—but cold.
    “Forney, it’s just great.”
    She knew when he tasted it he would be embarrassed that it had gotten cold, but she couldn’t imagine it would taste any better hot.
    She tried not to eat too fast, at least no faster than Forney, but he wasn’t doing much eating. Mostly, he was watching her.
    “You made this yourself?”
    Forney nodded.
    “How’d you learn to cook?”
    “I just read about it.”
    “You learn everything from books, don’t you?”
    Forney ran a finger under the stiff white collar of his shirt.
    “I want to get this recipe.”
    “You like to cook?”
    “Well, where I’m living now, I’m not set up to cook, but when my baby comes . . .” She didn’t finish what she started to say, didn’t really know how.
    Suddenly, Forney jumped up and dashed across the room. He swooped around a counter, dipped down, then bobbed back up, a book in his hand.
    “The Physiology of Taste: or Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy, ” he said, as he sailed back across the room. He handed it to Novalee.
    “Is this a cookbook?”
    “Well, it has recipes, but it’s history and philosophy and . . .”
    Forney looked at his watch. “Uh-oh, it’s time.” He took up the soup bowls and raced to the kitchen.
    Novalee checked her watch, too. She would have to be back before nine, otherwise she’d be spending the night in the park. She felt like Cinderella.
    She was still looking at the book when Forney returned with another tray, this one loaded. It smelled so good Novalee felt dizzy.
    “This is asparagus mousse,” he said as he dipped a large serving spoon into a quivering mound of something that looked, to Novalee, a bit like green vanilla pudding.
    “What are those?”
    “Tournedos Wellington.”
    “They look like fancy biscuits.”
    “A pastry, with beef inside.”
    “Beef!” She had to fight herself to keep from snatching food from the tray, tearing into it with her hands. To hell with knives and forks.
    “And this . . .” Forney picked up a small silver pitcher filled with dark brown liquid. “This is Madeira sauce.” He put a tournedo on Novalee’s plate, then poured some of the sauce over it. “And finally, green peas with cream.”
    “The only thing I can recognize.”
    After Forney filled their plates, he sat down across from Novalee again.
    “Forney, I’ve seen pictures of food like this in magazines, but I never thought someone would fix it for me.”
    He couldn’t imagine what to say.
    “This is the most perfect night of my life.”
    Nothing he had practiced would sound right now. He