A Recipe For Love

A RECIPE FOR LOVE 

Ingredients. 

Joe Aramitz moved quickly from counter to refrigerator to stove to counter again. Although he was not a cook, he had invited Miller Sanders for their first dinner in his home. Millers was four years younger than his thirty years, a pretty blonde with wide blue eyes, an athletic body, and an intelligent discerning wit. She worked part time at an insurance office and wrote columns for the weekly county newspaper. 

Joe was a realtor with FastPace Realty, a position he had held for going on eight years. The company was owned by a friend of his Uncle Jack which enabled him to get a start and keep some job security, even in the slow months. Joe had grown up and lived most of his life in Madison, Mississippi, a small town just south of the Tennessee border. Miller, on the other hand, had lived here for only a couple of years. They had met at a County Council meeting a little over six months ago, Joe stomping the grounds pushing for the passage of a regulation lowering property taxes, which was bound to increase real estate sales and prices. Miller was there covering the event in her part-time reporter gig. 

The chance meeting had led to a first date, then a second, and finally to steadily seeing each other when at all possible. Joe had been divorced from his first wife for over five years, and, although he believed Miller to have had a past relationship as well, he had not felt comfortable in asking her for the details. The one time they came close to approaching it was when he asked her what had brought her to Madison.  

“I needed someplace else to be,” she said after a minute. “Hey, maybe I came here to meet you,” she finished, only laughing slightly. He smiled and hoped that such was true. 

He looked at his watch. Almost seven and Miller was nothing if not punctual. He looked around the kitchen. The oven braised chuck roast, cooked following a recipe that he had found online, was done and the mashed potatoes with his grandmother’s secret sauce were sitting on the stove top simmering. In the refrigerator, wine, both red and white, was waiting to be sampled, the desert filled most of the shelf beneath the wine, and the doorbell was ringing announcing the arrival of his special guest. 

He opened the front door to a beautiful vision in a short, but not short enough, white dress, long blonde hair, and beautiful red lips. He could not even bear to think what she saw when she looked at him. He was six feet tall, not too heavy but not skinny either, with thinning hair, a rugged tanned face, and a nose that could open doors. He couldn’t believe this was happening. 

Cooking 

“Hello,” he said, acting almost childish in his happiness to see her. She smiled but said nothing else. They hugged briefly but it wasn’t how they had hugged before. 

“Can I get you something to drink,” he asked as he lead her into the small living room adjacent to the kitchen? 

“Sure,” she nodded. “Water will be fine.” 

He had expected that and quickly handed her a bottled water from the fridge. “I have red and white for dinner,” he said, pointing toward the wine bottles. 

She thought for a minute. “What are we having for dinner,” she asked? 

“A special roast recipe that is all the rage in fancy restaurants,” he replied.  

“Red,” she responded immediately. 

“Of course.” 

Being early October, Miller didn’t have a coat so there was nothing to hang up. Also, being about their normal mealtime, Joe led her to the head of the short, light brown, wood grain table covered by a taupe fabric tablecloth that left plenty of the room for the table legs to show. 

As soon as he made sure she was comfortable, he brought her a glass of wine and started the food train. First the lettuce, no salad tonight, then potatoes, southern cornbread, his special recipe followed oven braised chuck roast, and then finally the tasty cheesecake – bought not made.  

He watched her as the plates passed back and forth between them. Although her appetite hadn’t seemed to be affected, he could tell that something was on her mind. Trying to be a good host, he toasted her with wine and made light conversation as they both ate. Finally, he couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Is something the matter,” he asked? 

She put her fork down and sat back in her chair. 

“Not really,” she said after a minute, then continued, “well there is something on my mind, but I hesitated on bringing it up.” 

“Why,” he asked? “We can talk about anything.” 

“This is something serious, something that I found out about by accident, and something that is going to get worse before it gets better.” 

“Now you have me curious and concerned.” 

“I stumbled upon a story for the paper,” she started. “It is about a real estate development that is being worked. The only problem is that the developer seems to be breaking the rules, perhaps even paying someone off so that the project can go on as planned.” 

“I am sure that you must be wrong,” he replied, “what development are you talking about?” 

She hesitated for a minute. “The McKenzie Pavillion, being developed by Ranovich Development. I have received tips that the company has been ignoring standards for the building code that could cause safety or health issues. I have even been told that money has changed hands between the company and the County Inspector, Jonathan McNamara.” 

Joe paused, his mind suddenly spinning out of control. What else did she know? Did she know that his company, FastPace Realty was an investor in the project, in fact more like a partner than someone who had just handed over money. Did she know that his boss was actually acting as the local representative since Ranovich was located in California. To them, this was just one of many projects going on. But not to FastPace, not to Alan Rocker, his boss. 

Joe finished his desert. No matter how uncomfortable the conversation, he could always eat. He looked across the small dining room table at Miller. She looked back at him, her eyes wide and confused looking. He didn’t look away, he couldn’t. She was digging, digging deep into a hole that his job, his company, his life was falling into. She knew about Ranovich, she knew about MacNamara, what she didn’t have was the connection. What she didn’t have was him. 

“Joe,” she said puzzled, “what is it Joe?” Her voice was confused, questioning, but strong willed. 

“What is there to say,” he answered. “You know what you think you know, but you don’t have any proof.” 

“Do I,” she replied. “It depends on you if I do or not.” 

“On me,” he said softly, lifting his head up toward the ceiling. 

“On you, Joe. You know what has been going on, what is going on. I know your company is a partner. I know that they set up the meetings with MacNamara. But what do you know? Do you know who is dealing with who and where the proof is. If so, you can tell the police and walk away.” 

“No,” he answered quickly. “This is my job, my people, my life.” 

“I know that, Joe. But I want you to know two things. One, if I found out what I found out, then the authorities can’t be too far behind. Two, if you tell me that you can’t say anything, then I will not ask you anything else, nor will I pursue the investigation any farther.” 

Joe felt even more astounded than had had before. “Why would you do that,” he stammered? 

“Because I know who you are, the type of man you are. Because you are not the type of man to be involved in something like this. Because I love you, and I think that you love me too.” 

Joe couldn’t say anything. Was it true? Would she do that for him? If so, she must truly love him, but the question still to be answered. Did he love her? Up until now, he would have said yes, but now, taken in the context of ruin, perhaps prison, was the answer still the same? Did he truly love her? And what would happen if he said nothing. What then? As much as she said she would still love him, he knew that things would never be the same between them. There would always be the barrier between them. At some point in time, he would lose her and never have her again. 

Final Recipe. 

It was just like a recipe, he thought back to the one he had used just this evening. Ingredients, cooking, and the final dish. Only in this case the ingredients were the questions, answers, and the two people involved. The cooking involved a heated relationship between the two that had the possibility of either getting very hot or of freezing to a stop. And the final dish, the final dish was either love or loss. 

He breathed heavily. “Okay, get your notebook out,” he sighed. “I will tell you everything that I know.” 

The final recipe was love.