Amanda was elbow-deep in flour when the doorbell rang.
“Evan, can you get that?”
Her call went unanswered and as the doorbell rang again with a slightly more insistent ring, she remembered that Evan was at football training or band practice or something and wouldn’t be home for another half an hour or so.
Wiping her hands on the tea towel she headed towards the door. She could see the figure through the mottled patterned glass in the front door panel, and by the height and posture, she figured it would be one of Evan’s friends.
“Hello, Mrs Maguire.” The cheery greeting was spoken as soon as she opened the door.
Barry was standing there. She was slightly surprised that Barry had actually gone to the bother of ringing the doorbell. There were times when Barry seemed to have moved in and on more than one occasion she’d wondered if he had his own key.
“He’s not back yet. He’s still at football practice.”
The news did not go down well.
“Really?”
Barry ran his hand through his ruffled short blonde hair. He looked at her with a hint of desperation in his eyes.
“Are you sure? I really need his help.”
Amanda laughed.
“I don’t have him hidden under the stairs, but you’re welcome to come in and wait for him. He shouldn’t be much longer.”
She stepped to one side and watched as Barry lumbered into the hall. She couldn’t help thinking, not for the first time how tall Evan and his friends were. She was sure when she was seventeen that the boys she hung around with were much smaller. This lot really did look like young men.
As she returned to the kitchen island and resumed kneading the pastry, Barry rested against the worktop, watching her.
“If you want to make yourself a cup of tea, you know where everything is.”
Barry smiled and declined the offer.
“What are you making, Mrs Maguire?”
Amanda laughed. “They’re spanakopitas, and please, call me Amanda.”
Barry looked interested at this and straightened up. He watched her as she rolled out the pastry onto the worktop, her fingers deftly sprinkling flour over rolling pin and surface to stop the pastry sticking.
“Are they not really hard to make?”
“What, you think I’m not good enough to make something like that?” Amanda teased.
She smiled as she watched the boy’s cheeks flush red and run his hand through his hair again.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’re a great cook. I’ve eaten enough of your dinners. No, what I meant was...”
She waved her hand to silence him. “It’s okay, Barry. I was only teasing you.”
He smiled sheepishly at her and she couldn’t help thinking, perhaps not for the first time, how cute he looked when he ruffled his hair like that.
She glanced over at him and was surprised to catch his eye before he quickly looked away.
‘Stop it,’ Amanda scolded herself as she deftly cut the pastry into long strips. ‘He’s young enough to be your son.’
But the thought, now voiced internally, wouldn’t go away. As she spooned a mixture of spinach, onion, garlic and feta onto the bottom of each strip, she found her eyes travelling up the young man’s body. He was tall, at least five-foot-nine and had towered over her as she’d let him in. She knew he was muscular having watched him battle on the rugby pitch on many a cold Saturday morning and god, he was handsome. He would have been just her type at school.
As she started to wrap the pastry, Barry stepped closer, watching intently.
“So you fold the pastry like you’re folding a flag then?”
His voice had dropped to a whisper as if he was scared of frightening her.
“Yes, that’s right. Since I learnt how to make these, I’ve discovered I can fold a flag now too, should the occasion ever arise.”
She laughed and raised her eyes to meet his. They were pale blue, cold as ice but sparkling with warmth and humour.
“Do you cook much, Barry?”
She had quickly straightened and turned to look for a pastry brush, more to break the tension that had suddenly enveloped her than for any culinary reason. As she turned back to the spanakopitas, Barry leant closer.
“I don’t know much about cooking, Amanda...” She felt her insides clench as he called her by her name. She gazed into his eyes as he lowered his hand and slowly trailed a finger through the sprinkled flour on the worktop. “...But I know what I like.”
He grinned as if embarrassed by the lame joke he’d made.
“Would you like to fold one?” Amanda offered, desperate to break the silence that had enveloped the room.
He came closer, standing beside her. She could smell his scent, masked as it was by the liberal spraying of lynx deodorant. He grasped the pastry and tried to fold it the same way as she had earlier but the filling spilt out the sides and onto the worktop.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, quickly followed by a, “Sorry, Mrs Maguire... I mean Amanda, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Amanda reassured. She took his hands in hers and slowly guided Barry’s fingers to fold the layers of pastry over and back, over and back.
“There you go, your first spanakopita.” She patted the triangle. “They just need to go in the oven now for twenty minutes or so. You’ll be able to taste your handiwork if you hang around.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good, you can help me wash up then.”
She was surprised by Barry walking straight to the sink and running the tap. She thought about the battles she had with her own son Evan to load the dishwasher and here was Barry, sleeves rolled up, fingers already agitating the washing up liquid to create more bubbles.
They made a good team and within ten minutes, the kitchen looked spotless. She found she actually enjoyed Barry’s company when he wasn’t rushing past in a hurry to get to Evan’s room to play computer games or running out the door with him to play rugby or whatever.
They both picked up tea towels to dry the last few remaining dishes. She had just put her hand on the last cup in the dish rack when Barry’s hand came down on top of it. She apologised and went to move her hand but Barry slowly wrapped his fingers around it, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. She looked up at him. His face had a serious expression and his eyes looked dreamy yet determined.
