Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS: LA
April 2013
"Cooking is the continuation of love by other means."
As the days went on, Eric and Nell became nearly as inseparable off the job as they were at the Mission, and fell into a happy, springtime-in-love rhythm that started as soon as they met in Ops and lasted until Eric dropped Nell off at her apartment each night. Nell applied to the Naval War College, Army War College, and National Defense University, and seemed much more surprised than Hetty did when she was accepted to all three places.
If Detective Deeks had visited to investigate, he would have left disappointed at what he spied, for their "dates" usually consisted of little more than meeting at one apartment or the other and, over herbal tea and a plate of cookies, draping across each other on the sofa to spend the evening reading. Nell's Kindle became a library of national security readings, from Sun Tzu to Clausewitz to Richard Haass, while Eric spent his evenings engrossed in the latest operating manuals and tech journals, followed by a few pages from a spy novel.
As the weeks passed, though, Eric sensed a melancholy undertone to Nell's mood. Finally, he made a plan to confront it: on Saturday he would prepare her a dinner of her favorite comfort foods. He had even managed to track down a chocolate cake recipe from the website of her hometown church. The preface said, "The Jones family has been bringing this cake to church suppers for years and always leaves with an empty platter." So, he marshaled his courage and set to baking it as soon as he awoke. As the cake cooled, he did his last-minute shopping.
A market wrapped around a building a block from his, so Eric took a jaunty walk to get the fresh groceries. His first stop was the baker's, where he selected rye rolls with a hint of orange, because they would match the Scandinavian breads of Nell's Minnesota. Next, the florist wrapped his half-dozen daffodils and dispensed advice on how to keep them fresh.
Eric's upbeat mood came to a sudden, overwhelmed end when he entered Gene's Greens, the produce shop. To match the hometown comfort-food theme, he had planned a simple iceberg salad, but springtime in California provided a profusion of greens that quietly demanded something more adventuresome. Gene was an aging hippie with his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a magnificent, bushy ponytail tied with a tie-died band. He sensed Eric's panic and worked his way over to guide him, finally recommending a mix of chervil, baby chard and mizuna. Eric would top it with a few baby carrots, and mark Nell's salad with three edible pansies. For the dressing, he bought bottles of balsamic vinegar and walnut oil and snapped a picture of a recipe card specifying their proportions. As he rung Eric up, the gentleman plucked a sprig each of thyme and rosemary and folded them loosely into a sheet of unbleached butchers' paper. "With our complements," he said with a smile.
The salad makings had taken longer than Eric had expected, so as he returned home, he mentally prioritized his steps. As soon as he stepped in the door, he set his purchases on the table and extracted a just-right basket for the rolls and a pitcher for the flowers. While the pitcher filled, he set the rolls in their basket, still in the bag, and started unwrapping the flowers. In they went, and onto the table. Eric hoped to send the flowers home with Nell, so he set the florist's paper flat on his bed, the only unclaimed horizontal surface remaining in his small apartment.
Since the cake was still cooling, he got the meatloaf into the oven and set some baking potatoes alongside. A little later, he added a pan of vegetables to roast. The cake's frosting recipe looked more difficult than anything he'd ever tried, but it came out looking (and tasting!) like a frosting so he used it on his masterpiece, although with more enthusiasm than skill. He applied it so thickly he had to put the cake in his fridge to set the frosting. On the other hand, he ended up with time to shower and do a little last-minute cleaning before he had to get the salad made.
As soon as he had rinsed the salad greens, his doorbell rang.
"Hello, Rockstar!"
"Eric, it smells amazing! Just like home," and she stepped into his arms. "You're just so sweet. What did I do to deserve this?"
"You just seemed a little down, so I was hoping to cheer you up."
She pulled back in his arms to look him in the eye. "Remind me to get bummed out more often!"
Eric gave a rueful chuckle. "Thank you, but no! I'll be cleaning powdered sugar and cocoa powder out of that kitchen for the next month as is."
"Cocoa powder? That's not your secret ingredient in the entree, is it?"
"No. That's dessert. Promise you won't laugh, and I'll show you."
"I promise," she said with a mix of trepidation and pity. So he opened the refrigerator door to reveal the cake within. "It looks…" she paused to choose her word carefully, "decadent." His laugh reassured her that he appreciated her discretion.
He gleefully put on a playlist he'd designed for the evening, filled with upbeat electronica. As they bounced around his tiny apartment, he made the dressing and plated the salads. Nell brought the iced tea to the table while Eric changed playlists and brought the salads to the table, setting the flower-decked plate at her place.
"I've never eaten flowers before! This will be weird." A little later, she did taste one, and offered her review. "They're good. You've got to try one." She slipped one of the flowers onto her fork, and held it out for him to eat from.
After they finished the salads, Eric excused himself to make gravy for the meatloaf, while Nell watched and provided a monologue about her readings.
In a fit of uncharacteristic machismo he instantly regretted, he pulled the potatoes from the oven with his bare fingers. Unaware, Nell gushed, "Wow! It's been so long since I've had a real oven-baked potato. Lately, I've just zapped them in the microwave." Meanwhile, Eric discretely cooled his fingertips with his glass of iced tea.
All through the meal, Nell continued to rave about Eric's cooking, eliciting, more than once, his trademark sideways grin.
After Nell took her first bite of the cake, she told an anxiously-waiting Eric, "Wow! This cake is amazing. It reminds me of—of all things—church suppers."
"I would hope so—I got it off your church's web site." He smiled with pride, but then scowled in puzzlement. "But, what, your mom only baked it for church suppers?"
"No, the Joneses brought it."
"But…"
Sensing his confusion, and too much in love to torture him any more, she explained with a laugh, "There were two Jones families at our church—not related. People called them the Fifth Street Joneses and us the Elm Street Joneses." Eric could do nothing other than laugh so Nell continued, her eyes focused faraway in reminiscence. "It's been a long time since I thought of them. At Halloween, she always baked cookies for trick-or-treaters… and he had the best garden in town. In his retirement he actually raised his own hybrid irises. Sweet little couple." Her head cocked but her smile remained as she continued, "Their grandkids were hellions, but old Mr. and Mrs. Jones were the greatest. I can't believe you found her cake recipe on the web!"
As Eric watched Nell, he decided that, far from making the wrong cake, it worked out even better than if he could have found a recipe from Nell's family.
After dessert, they settled on his sofa, "That was amazing, Eric, and we didn't even have any beer or wine. I know you would have wanted an Anchor Steam with that."
He made to stand up again. "I can get you one, or some merlot if you'd rather, but none for me. I wanted to keep my head clear for this."
"For what?" she asked nervously as she pulled him back to his seat.
"Like I said, you've seemed down lately, and I wanted to talk to you about it."
"I am not! How could I be 'down' after a meal like that," and she indicated the table, "and with a guy like you in my life?" She snuggled into his chest.
Eric persisted. "You are too. 'Down,' that is. I've noticed it the last week or so. You even admitted it yourself. As soon as you walked in, you said, 'Remind me to get bummed out more often.' What's going on?"
Nell opened her mouth to argue, but Eric narrowed his eyes in warning, so she gathered her thoughts to confess. "Getting accepted to those programs brought home for me how this will all come to a screeching halt in September." She held her forehead in her hands for a minute before looking up. Despair shown in her eyes as she turned to Eric. "Why? Why did Hetty let us get together like this, only to pull us apart?" She paused and studied the coaster on his coffee table. "What's she doing writing my future anyhow?"
"Nell, Rockstar, I'm not in this relationship because of anything Hetty did. I'm here because I want this. September and all, I want this. And I trust you too. I trust you to act on your own free will, not as Hetty's pawn. She may have un-chocked the wheels, but we're the ones steering the truck. We're writing our own futures."
"But I know all about all the goodness inside of you, Eric." She indicated the dinner surrounding them, "After everything we've been through, I could never imagine that the future I write wouldn't include you."
"Nor could I imagine my future not including you. Together we write our futures."
Nell agreed, "We write our own futures together," and she pulled him in for a kiss.
"Together," Eric whispered, and returned to the kiss. The kiss deepened, and she reached for his shirt buttons. Eric pulled Nell to him and, never breaking the kiss, they stumbled—together—toward his hall and bedroom.
As the morning sun came streaming through his discount-store curtains, Eric pulled the sheet up over Nell's nude back, and carefully rolled to his back to contemplate his enormous good fortune:
We'll always have Torrance.