Break/Open

6. Warm

When the roar of her car engine died down, Nina looked up at the home she grew up in. The brick facade was weather-worn, and the roof had been battered by more than a few winter storms. But other than the passing of time, nothing else had changed. The air still smelled the same, and the time of year carried in the same snowfall, and the same freezing bite in the air.

Nina braved the cold, and pushed her door open, balancing a stack of trays on one arm along with her overnight bag as she rushed up the steps to the front door.

"Wash your hands, Nina, I need some help," her mother glanced up as soon as she appeared in the kitchen. Salma's thick, silver hair was elegantly gathered into an up-do, and her hands were wrist deep in a bowl, thoroughly kneading a ball of dough.
Nina kissed her mother on the cheek on her way to the sink, and pulled up the sleeves of her fleece sweater to her elbows.

"Johanna's on her way," she said over her shoulder, and then fought some of her curls into a clip after drying her hands. "Where's my brother?"
"In his room," Salma said as she sprinkled a helping of flour onto the clean white marble surface of the counter. "He's been in an out of here all day. Do you want to tell me what really happened to his face?"

She turned around to make sure she caught Nina's expression at the question. Salma could detect bullshit with accuracy and from a distance, and no one was safe from her scrutinizing glare.

"He just got into a stupid fight, Mama." Nina evaded. "You know how Marcus is."
Salma looked into her daughters eyes, not buying what she was selling. Nina hadn't inherited her sultry dark browns. Nina's eyes were all her father's - Salma's constant reminder of the man whose steel grey stare was cold as ice the day he left her.
"Chop these up really fine. Don't be lazy," she instructed, only temporarily satisfied with the lie. She passed Nina a bowl brimming with pecans, employing the same stringent tone that had helped hone Nina's aptitude in the kitchen.

"Did you put rose water in that dough?" Nina paused on her way to choose a serrated knife, and sniffed the dough Salma was still rolling out. The smell was the epitome of nostalgia. The aroma of her grandmother's pecan pie was already developing. Once it was in the oven, the rich caramel, buttery pecan, and fainter notes of rose and cinnamon would fill the house, and linger into the next morning.
"Good nose," her mother proudly tapped her on the tip of her nose, then walked to the wine rack to select what would be the first bottle of the night. "So, Desmond called me."
Nina's knife stopped mid-action. She abandoned it in the middle of the cutting board, and reached for a bottle opener instead.

"He did?" She asked, driving the corkscrew in into the neck of the bottle, and twisting the top.
"Yes. Nina, he did," Salma said casually, watching her daughter over-pour herself a glass of Merlot.
"You invited him over, didn't you?" Nina accused, and Salma didn't look up until she rolled out her dough one last time.
"Of course, I did," she shrugged, and Nina's eyes widened at her.
"Mom!" She grimaced, and Salma chuckled at the dramatics.
"He declined my invitation. Relax," she waved her daughter off, and then gently lifted the dough into the greased pan waiting on the counter. "But I still deserve to know why you decided to throw away a relationship you were invested in for years. And had the rest of us invested in for years."
"Maybe when I get a few more of these in me," Nina snarked, tapping her fingernails to the crystal stem of her glass.

Right on cue, the front door was clicking open, and Johanna announced her arrival over the rustle of her paper bags and clunking of her hand-luggage.

"There's my baby!" Salma greeted her like her favorite child as she sauntered into the kitchen, bearing gifts that would add to their collection of wine bottles.
"I was worried you were going to change your mind and spend the holidays with your real family for a change," Salma laughed as she released Joanna from her tight embrace.