Page 12 of Grouch-ish

“I don’t know anything about canning pears.”

“Unfortunately for me, I’m going to have to teach you.” This is the only item on the Brock-provement list that should involve me. I didn’t need Brock burning down the house. However, I have no intention of holding his hand through the canning process. I’ll set him up with the pears, syrup, and water, and all he’ll need to do is boil and fill jars. Easy.

A memory hits. Mom in our old Chicago kitchen, following the same simple recipe. We didn’t own the orchard when I was a kid. This property was acquired later by Dad.

Our dream, he’d whispered when he first brought me here.

Next comes a vision of my sister and me dancing around the kitchen table singing some silly made-up song about pears, like we were performing an ancient ritual to fruit goddesses.

A pear song from a pair of sisters.

Quickly, I brush away both memories and cut into my pie. Filling my mouth with my most recent experiment prevents me from talking, and the last thing I want to do is share more information than necessary with Brock.

Instead, I focus on the celebration in my mouth. The warmth of the filling. The flakiness of the crust in combination with the crumbles. The right combination of nutmeg, cinnamon, and Anjou pears. Closing my eyes again, I savor the flavors, the temperature, and the texture. God, I love good food, especially excellent desserts.

I’d always wanted to be a baker.

Instead, I work—worked—in the food industry for a top company in pre-packaged food. The product wasn’t necessarily enticing, but the job had paid my bills, and I had plenty until recently.

Brock and I eat in silence. His head bows as he scarfs down the remainder of his slice, then sheepishly asks for a second. He doesn’t touch his hot chocolate; instead snagging a second Santa mug from the rack and helping himself to water from the tap.

“What the hell is this?” He sputters and coughs around the mineral tang of the water while swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“It’s well-water. There’s a filter on the fridge.”

“This tastes like ass.”

“Really? Tasted one lately, have you?”

He smirks. “Funny.”

What’s your story, Brock Scroggs? What did he do to earn him a twelve-day retreat with Dad? How much trouble is he in with his department? How close is he to losing his job?

None of it should matter to me. I didn’t need another deadbeat man in my life. Been there. Got rid of that, thank you very much.

After Reggie, a long time passed before I was able to go on a date. I was as selective as Santa making a list. I’d seen the good. I learned to recognize the bad. Brock seemed to straddle the line somehow. List destination to be determined, I decided, and although Christmas was only yesterday, there was no better time than the present to start making a new list for next year.

Brock had pulled out my chair. A check in the plus column.

He was a helluva good-looking man but looks didn’t earn you points when behavior was the key.

Guess we’ll see how naughty or nice he can be.

Even though Christmas has officially passed, the true twelve days of the season began today, on December twenty-sixth. I didn’t have romantic notions of a true love gifting me a partridge in a pear tree, but it would still have been nice to spend the holidays with a partner. A couple coupling.

I almost laugh out loud at my ridiculous thought and drop my foot to the floor, leaning forward to lift my cooling hot chocolate.

Brock doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. This is Aunt Bertie’s special recipe, complete with a dash of peppermint extract and a shot of complementary Schnapps.

There’s no better comfort and joy than chocolate and alcohol.

’Tis still the season, I silently toast my new housemate, and then down the rest of my drink.

+ + +

Canning pears was a disaster for Brock. I’d set him up as promised and then excused myself for a winter’s day nap. A girl shouldn’t live on two hot chocolates with shots of peppermint flavored alcohol and a slice of pie, but I’d been silently toasting my sister’s absence.

When I awoke, I had a text from my Dad but I was distracted when I found the kitchen was a mess; Brock was swearing; and I’m not certain a single jar was properly sealed.