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Peter sat at his desk in the bullpen at the FBI White Collar unit, poring over surveillance transcripts. He’d been thrown another securities fraud case that afternoon and he was determined to make headway. They were boring, but easily cracked, and he’d become something of an expert on them. Besides, his investigation of Neal Caffrey had hit a temporary lull, and there was nothing he could do to move it along unless and until the young conman made another move. Peter didn’t even know if he was still in the country.
He glanced at his watch and groaned. 7:30 already? El would kill him if he got home any later than 8:00. He packed up his files, shoved them in his briefcase and headed for the elevators.
When he arrived home, he was greeted by an extremely enthusiastic Elizabeth, who threw her arms around his neck and kissed him repeatedly around his face, on his eyes, and finally on his mouth. “Hi, sweetie,” he said, surprised and delighted at the attention.
“Thank you so much, Peter. You are the best husband a woman could have!” she enthused, gave a small squeal of delight and kissed him again.
“You’re…welcome,” he said, not quite knowing what she was talking about, but hedging just the same.
“They’re the best anniversary present you’ve ever given me!” she stated happily, flicking her hair back to show off the beautiful sapphire earrings she wore.
Anniversary! Peter flinched visibly. He'd remembered to make the reservation at Donatella's weeks ago, but work had gotten so crazy, he'd forgotten everything else. Elizabeth didn’t notice; she was headed to the dining room. “The roses are beautiful, honey!” The table held a stunning arrangement of two dozen apricot tea roses, their perfume filling the room. “Wherever did you find them this time of year? And these chocolates…” she picked up an elegant box covered in a rich brown matte paper. “You know how I love truffles!”
Peter took the box of chocolates she’d offered him and glanced at the label. “Handmade Truffles by NoHo Chocolatier” it read, but there was a logo embossed on the gold label, a large, stylized NC. “Caffrey!” Peter hissed, gripping the box tight enough to dent it.
“What did you say?” Elizabeth asked.
“Nothing, sweetie. Happy Anniversary!”
----
Potato Encrusted Salmon with Beurre Blanc, Steamed Green Beans, Crème Brulee
“Honey, I’m home!” Elizabeth trilled. She removed her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She couldn’t wait to get her shoes off. Satchmo trotted over, tail wagging energetically. “Hi, Satch!” she greeted, flopping his ears around his head as she ran her hands all over him. She heard a distinct popping sound come from the kitchen. “Honey?”
Peter entered the room just then, kitchen door swinging shut behind him, two glasses of champagne with raspberries in hand. “Hi sweetie!” he greeted, leaning over to kiss her. “Happy Birthday.”
“Oh,” she purred, taking a glass and cupping her hand on his cheek. “So sweet.” He gestured for her to sit down and, sitting on the coffee table, he took one of her feet into his lap and started to give her a massage. “Oh!” she repeated, her voice in a much lower register, leaning back and closing her eyes. She moaned with pleasure. “Do we have to go out tonight?” she sighed.
“Actually, I was thinking we could stay in. Dinner is almost ready.”
She sat up, slightly alarmed. She remembered the last time he’d cooked – pot roast left burning in the oven and poor Satchmo languishing in the yard. “No, no,” he assured her. “It’s all under control. Neal gave me the recipes. You just sit there and relax. I’ll be right back.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a small basket containing slices of crispy baguette, butter and spicy radishes. He set it in front of her with the bottle of champagne. He had a kitchen towel over his shoulder, which she thought might be the cutest thing she’d ever seen; he began to twirl it around in the air. “I’ll be getting back to the kitchen. Can I get you anything else?”
“No,” she said, amused. She didn’t know what had possessed him to cook for her, nor did she know how he could be so calm and confident about it – his culinary skills were rudimentary at best. But she was willing to roll with it, and she had Lorenzo’s on speed dial just in case. Satchmo rested his head in her lap and she slipped him a radish, which he promptly spat out on the floor. “You don’t think you’re getting any of this, do you?” she said to him, biting into a piece of delicious bread slathered with butter. Satchmo whined.
Minutes later, she heard the distinct hiss of something hitting a sauté pan, then some movement around the kitchen, a pot lid clanged, oven door opened and closed. She was tempted to see if she could help, but decided another glass of champagne was preferable.
Soon, Peter came into the room with two plates in hand. She joined him at the table, noticed he’d set it with their best crystal, had even bought flowers and lit candles. He set the plates down at their places and opened the wine, which sat in an ice bucket at the end of the table.
Elizabeth looked down, admiring the food. The salmon sat enticingly in its bed of rich sauce, accompanied by steamed haricot verts that had been tied into a tidy bundle with a bit of steamed leek. She looked up at him as if he’d just laid the Hope Diamond at her feet. “You did all this?”
He smiled broadly and she kissed him again. They sat and ate, feeding each other off their plates and discussing their days. All in all, Elizabeth couldn’t think of a happier way to spend her birthday, and she told him so.
“That’s not all,” he said. “There’s crème brulee for dessert.”
“My favorite!”
He rose and took their plates to the kitchen. Elizabeth leaned her head on her hand, head cocked to the side and reflected that she might just be the luckiest woman she knew, if not in all of New York. Suddenly, she remembered that she’d used up the last of the butane in her brulee torch the last time they had guests, and that Peter might not know where she kept it. She grabbed it from the cabinet beside the bookcase and walked through to the kitchen. “Honey, you might need this,” she began, and stopped dead in her tracks.
There stood Neal Caffrey in his shirt sleeves, wearing a black chef’s apron and sprinkling sugar atop two custards while Peter watched. They both looked up at her entrance, surprised. Well, Neal look surprised. Peter looked like Satch did when he was caught drinking out of the toilet.
“Ah ha!” Elizabeth barked, pointing the can of butane at Peter. “I knew the little green bean bundles were too good to be true!”
“Sweetie, I can explain,” Peter began.
“I’ll bet. So you’ve conscripted Neal to do your dirty work?”
“No, I just wanted it to be special.”
“In all fairness, I offered to help out,” Neal said.
She narrowed her eyes, but she couldn’t stay mad or even pretend to stay mad in the face of all this fine food prepared in her honor. “You didn’t have to hide out here in the kitchen, Neal. Come inside and have dessert with me.” She gestured for him to join her, and he did. She hooked her arm inside his and they left the kitchen together. “Peter will bring us our coffee, won’t you, honey?” She shot him the stinkeye, but then giggled lightly as soon as the door swung shut behind her. This would go down as one of her more memorable birthdays.
----
Neal opened his eyes and experienced a momentary jolt of panic, suddenly very aware of two things. First, he was not in his own bed, and second, he was naked. What the hell?
A moment later he remembered where he was and why, and a feeling of warmth flooded through him, beginning in his chest and radiating outward. He knew, and the hand draped over his hip was confirmation, that he’d spent his first night with Peter and Elizabeth. He closed his eyes and reveled in the memory of soft curves and tangled limbs and passionate moans. He sighed, more contented than he’d been in a very long time.
Neal eased out from under El’s arm and moved as quietly as he could, found his pants and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. After a quick bathroom visit, he headed to the kitchen and began exploring the cabinets and fridge, taking a mental inventory of their contents. Finally, he chose some buttermilk, the blueberries El had picked up from the farmer’s market the day before, eggs and butter from the fridge, and some dry ingredients from the pantry and set about making a batch of pancakes.
Kate always marveled that Neal could cook. She liked to joke that her mother’s idea of a special meal was to actually heat the can of Spaghetti-o’s, so for someone to prepare a meal for her was a special thing. Neal regarded cooking the same way he thought of art: something created from the heart, an expression of his thoughts, his feelings, his soul. For him, cooking especially was an outlet for his emotions, and he was always inspired to do it when he was in love.
He tossed the blueberries with sugar, squeezed in some lemon juice and put the sauce pan on the flame. Next he put some butter in a small dish and set it in the microwave to melt. While he waited for it, he measured out the dry ingredients: flour, sugar, leavener, salt.
“'S wonderful,” he began to sing to himself as he worked. “Da, da duuuum.” He looked for a measuring cup in the cupboards below the counters. “…care for meee.” No luck. He turned his attentions to the cabinets beside the fridge. Still nothing. Shrugging, he decided to wing it. He pulled out a cereal bowl and beat the egg with a fork, added what he thought might be the right amount of buttermilk, whisked them both a bit more. Finally he mixed the milk, butter and eggs into the flour and set the bowl of pancake batter aside.
“'S awful niiice.” He whirled around and grabbed a skillet off a hook on the wall and placed it on the stove to warm. “'S paradise.” He hit the button on the coffee maker and the beans began their dance through the grinder. “'S what I love to see,” he said to the machine with a smile.
Grabbing a wooden spoon from the jug on the counter, he stirred the blueberries, saw they had started boiling and adjusted the heat to low. He leaned over to take a taste, added more sugar and turned to look for some plates. “You’ve made my life so glamorous,” he sang, hitting the kitchen door with his hip and spinning into the dining room. “Can’t blame me for feeling amorous.” He set three plates, juice glasses, napkins, flatware at the table.
“'S wonderful! 'S marvelooooous!” came a voice from behind him. Startled, he turned to find Elizabeth standing at the edge of the room, barefoot, wearing Peter’s shirt. He grinned at her. “That you should care for me!” they finished together.
She walked over to him, put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his bare chest. “Something smells good,” she said.
“Breakfast,” he answered, kissing the top of her head.
“Oh yeah, that too.” She said, tilting her chin up and smiling at him.
“Last night was…” he let the sentence hang.
“Perfect,” she finished. “Thanks for staying.”
“Thanks for asking,” he said. “Where’s Peter?”
“He’ll be right down. What’s for breakfast?”
“Pancakes.”
“My favorite.”
“You always say that when I cook.”
“I always mean that when you cook.”
“You’re going to give me a big head.”
She reached down and put her palm over his crotch. “Oh yeah? When?”
He laughed and went back to the kitchen to pour them some coffee.
----
Wild Mushroom Omelet
Neal broke the last of the shiitakes into pieces and threw them into the skillet with a little more butter, cranked the heat and let them brown. He took a sip of his wine – a quite excellent sauvignon blanc from Oregon – and then shook the pan, added a splash of lemon juice, tossed the mushrooms one last time and set it aside. He moved across June's large kitchen to turn up the stereo; they were about to simulcast La Bohéme live from the Met tonight and he didn’t want to miss a single aria.
One of the perks of living with June was that she often let him have the use of her restaurant-caliber kitchen whenever she was out, which was often. He loved to make his favorite meal – wild mushroom omelet – on these occasions because the high-output gas range in the kitchen put a perfect sear on the mushrooms he just could not replicate on the tiny electric stove in his apartment.
He put a small, well-seasoned blue steel pan on the flame to warm and cracked three eggs into a bowl. He scooped in some crème fraiche, a bit of minced chervil, salt, white pepper and whisked them like mad for a solid two minutes, enjoying the burn in the muscles in his forearm and biceps. A knob of butter in the skillet was followed by the eggs and Neal took up the pan, stirring the eggs into curds with the fork, allowing it to set a bit, then stirring again. When the eggs were just set, he laid in a bit of the mushrooms, the barest whisper of Gruyere and turned it out on a warm plate, flicking the pan lightly as he plated to attain a perfect, bi-folded result.
Neal glanced up when he heard a knock to see Mozzie’s face peering in through the kitchen door. He set the omelet down and went to let him in.
“Did it start yet?” Moz asked, referring to the opera. He sst down at the table.
“No.”
“Good. I hear the guy singing Rodolfo tonight is sublime.”
“So they say. Wine?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking a glass from Neal. When Neal turned around to grab his own glass, Moz reached over and slid the omelet over in front of him and tucked in, chewing thoughtfully. “Hmm. Is that marjoram in there?”
Neal gave him a look; so much for his supposed lactose intolerance. “Chervil. You like?”
“Not bad with the cheese. Good pairing.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Neal replied with a hint of sarcasm, and started cracking a few more eggs for himself.
The front doorbell rang as Neal was adding the mushrooms to the second omelet. “Do you mind getting that?” he asked Moz; his hands were full.
“Suit,” he heard Moz say from the foyer, and soon Peter joined him in the kitchen, looking haggard.
“Rough day at the office, honey?” Neal snarked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Peter said, loosening his tie. “Budget reviews – again! Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to have the time to catch criminals.” He plopped himself down at the kitchen table and ran his right hand over his face.
“Is that one of your mushroom omelets?” He looked at the plate in Neal’s hand with such longing on his face that Neal had no choice but to put it down in front of him. “Thanks,” Peter said gratefully, and Neal tweaked his ear fondly before returning to the stove to crack another few eggs.
Finally Neal was able to sit down at the table with an omelet in front of him. He’d taken two bites when the doorbell rang again. Neal went to answer and was surprised to find Elizabeth standing there.
“Hi, baby,” she said, kissing him. “Is June home? We were supposed to talk through the seating arrangements for her women’s group charity ball this afternoon and I got tied up. I was hoping to catch her in.”
“No, sorry. She’s at dinner with the mayor’s wife or mistress or something. Want to come inside? We’re having a party.”
She followed him into the kitchen to find Peter and Moz seated at the table. She kissed them both hello and turned to Neal. “I don’t suppose you’d know where she’d keep the seating chart? I’d come back tomorrow, but I’m meeting with the caterer at 8:00.”
“Sure, I’ll have a look in her study.” Neal left and El grabbed his wine glass and took an appreciative sip. “Ooo, is that mushroom omelet?” she asked Moz and Peter. They nodded and she picked up the plate and took a mouthful. “Mmm, can that man cook,” she said appreciatively, and followed it with another swig of wine.
Several minutes later, Neal returned with a folder and handed it to El. She had already finished his wine and had opened another bottle. She handed him back his glass, filled, but the omelet was a goner. He sighed and went back to the stove.
“Oh, is that the time?” Peter said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got a conference call with the Australian Federal Police at 10:00 on that counterfeit ring and all my files are at home. I have to leave now if I’ll make the call.”
“I’ll ride with you,” El said. They kissed Neal goodbye, quick pecks on either cheek, and headed for the door.
“I’ll never get used to you with the Suits,” Moz commented.
“Yeah, you will,” Neal said, whisking.
“I should go too. Lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Neal poured the eggs into the pan – again – as Moz left the way he’d come. Neal finished cooking his omelet, plated it and took another sip of wine. He sighed contentedly, sat down wearily at the table, finally able to enjoy his dinner in peace as the strains of O soave fanciulla began on the radio.
----
Roasted Beet and Arugula Salad, Beef Tenderloin with Horseradish Cream, Roasted Potatoes, Coeur a la Creme
Neal Caffrey was nervous. It was the kind of nervous that made stomachs churn and hearts beat irregularly. The kind that made a person want to vomit.
He kept burning himself. First on the oven door when he was roasting the beets earlier in the day, and then when he was searing the damn beef. His face was flushed, betraying his mood. It was days like these he cursed his fair skin for this easy betrayal.
He heard the front door open and the fall of a light footstep. Elizabeth was home. “Baby?” she called.
“In the kitchen” he called back, and she joined him there.
“Happy Valentine's Day! What’s on the menu?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the jaw. He wanted to melt into her arms, really he did, but the thought of what the night held ahead for him kept him tight and rigid. He hated it.
“Beef. Salad. Dessert,” he replied.
His distraction was obvious, and Elizabeth knew better than to press him for what was wrong. She knew he’d tell her eventually. “Want some wine?” She hoped it might mellow him.
“Sure. We’ve got – “
“I’ll get it. You do your thing.” Minutes later she handed him the drink; squeezed his hand in both of hers where he grasped at the stem of the wineglass. He looked into her eyes and knew everything would be all right. Eventually. Right now he still wanted to puke. He swallowed, managed a tight smile and downed the entire glass with one gulp.
“I’ve got some pate,” he pointed to a plate that held a vegetable pate terrine and crackers. She took the subterfuge for what it was – he wanted her out of his kitchen – and headed into the living room as Peter arrived home.
“Mmm, snacks!” Peter said happily as he saw her, tucking in.
Dinner, as usual when Neal cooked, was superb, the beef a perfect medium rare, the sauce a tart counterpoint to the richness of the beef, the simple steamed asparagus a welcome crispness on the plate. Neal, El noticed, ate almost nothing.
It was time for dessert and Neal fled to the kitchen, Peter and El following with the plates, which they piled in the sink. El offered to make the coffee. “No, I’ve got it,” Neal said too quickly. “You guys go relax.”
Even Peter picked up on Neal’s strange mood and gave him a look. “You sure you don’t want help, Neal?”
“Nope,” he answered too quickly.
“What’s up with him tonight?” Peter commented as they made their way to the living room. “He’s as jumpy as a cat.”
“No idea. He’s been like this since I got home.”
Further conversation was cut short as Neal entered, a tray in his hands. He set it on the coffee table and knelt down in front of it. There was a heart-shaped ceramic mold in the center of a silver platter, a small pitcher of strawberry sauce sat to the side.
“What’s this?” Peter asked.
“Coeur a la crème. You want to unmold it, Elizabeth?”
“Sure,” she said, giving him a look. It was very unlike Neal to leave the drama of unveiling something – anything – to another person. She sat forward on the couch and slipped her fingers under the lips of the mold. It released easily, and she lifted it up. The dessert inside was creamy-white, smooth, glistening…and nestled on top were two rings, platinum, each set with three diamonds.
El looked up at Neal sharply, realization dawning. He was now wobbling on one knee, looking at the both of them with such an earnest, nervous, dear expression, she thought she might just die.
“Peter. Elizabeth…” he began.
“Yes!” Peter exclaimed, surging to his feet.
“What?” Neal said, taken aback.
“Let’s do it. Let’s get married. Let’s make this official.”
“Honey!” El smacked Peter on the butt. “He was proposing!”
“Oh, sorry,” Peter said, sitting back down. “Carry on.”
Neal sat back on his haunches and just smiled, his nervousness forgotten. The rest of the night went much more smoothly.
----
Thank you for your time