on.”
The rest of the half hour distracted her. She had no memories until the closing music. Then she said, “Oh!”
“What?”
She turned to him. “You and Max and Delia were there backstage. With flowers and champagne.” She closed her eyes. “Damn, there’s nothing more.”
He was glad she had no recollection of the aftermath because Jonathan Harris had horned in, and Brady had gotten angry about how the guy usurped their celebration.
“What happened? You’re scowling.”
“I guess I’m worried this is too much. Did you enjoy the show?”
“Very much. I’m tired, though.”
“You don’t have to cook, Clare.”
She stood. “I want to. I’ll sleep, then I’m making the meal. You’ll call the others?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope they can come.”
“Me, too.”
“It’ll be like old times.”
Hardly, Brady thought, wondering if he’d made a mistake by getting her hopes up about Delia’s and Max’s presence. At one time, they’d refused to let Clare cook for them ever again.
A WAKE AND RESTED , C LARE HEADED to her kitchen with a smile on her face. She’d showered and put on a loose-fitting cotton dress that seemed appropriate to cook in. At the bookshelf, she picked up the first cookbook and crossed to the counter. She’d watched the tape but hadn’t memorized the recipe, so she propped it open on a beautiful teak book holder, and began to assemble the dinner.
First she got out the chicken and browned it. As the smell wafted up to her, she remembered something.
Clare, girl, we just love it when you’re testing new recipes.
Honest, Clare, this one is my fave.
The voices belonged to Max and Delia. She saw vague outlines of them sitting at her kitchen counter as she cooked for them. And she knew it wasn’t the first time they’d been there. Suddenly, she knew she used to try out her recipes on them, and they’d give her honest feedback. The feelings elicited by the memory were all positive—warm, deep friendship. Intellectually, she’d known they used to be really close, but now she actually recalled it.
But they weren’t anymore. She shook her head, ludicrously regretting that had happened even though she couldn’t remember why. Maybe she could start to rectify that tonight.
She turned on the radio built into the wall. Fiddling with the tuner, she found a station she liked then returned to cooking. The process was soothing and surprisingly mind-blanking. There was something rhythmic about it, something fluid, and it made her feel “right in her skin,” as Grandma Boneli used to say.
Grandma Boneli—the woman who raised her when her parents died. Again, Clare closed her eyes and tried to focus. Soon the image came to her. It was the one from the dream she’d had: a tall, sturdily built woman in a house-dress, hair completely white and a smile the size of Sicily. Warmth seeped into her. She felt loved and cared for.
She continued to cook, humming along with the radio, remembering the melodies. They were golden oldies, from the sixties and seventies. They made her smile…and sent her reeling into a flashback…
“Come on, girl, join in.” Max was dancing with Delia and cutting a pretty mean rug, though it was on the kitchen tile. Her kitchen tile.
“I have to finish dinner.”
Brady, who’d been reading the newspaper at the counter, stood and grabbed her around the waist. “That can wait. Never be too busy to dance.”
She laughed and fell into a jitterbug with him, then they switched partners for the next song and she and Max did the salsa…step, step, quick step, step, step…She was laughing hysterically at the flubs she made and the teasing Max tossed her way.
S HE WAS DRAWN FROM the pleasant memory when she heard Brady call out from the front of the house, “We’re here.”
The clock said it was 6:00 p.m.; they were right on time. The three of them entered the kitchen, but instead of the camaraderie from her memories of earlier times, Max,
The rest of the half hour distracted her. She had no memories until the closing music. Then she said, “Oh!”
“What?”
She turned to him. “You and Max and Delia were there backstage. With flowers and champagne.” She closed her eyes. “Damn, there’s nothing more.”
He was glad she had no recollection of the aftermath because Jonathan Harris had horned in, and Brady had gotten angry about how the guy usurped their celebration.
“What happened? You’re scowling.”
“I guess I’m worried this is too much. Did you enjoy the show?”
“Very much. I’m tired, though.”
“You don’t have to cook, Clare.”
She stood. “I want to. I’ll sleep, then I’m making the meal. You’ll call the others?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope they can come.”
“Me, too.”
“It’ll be like old times.”
Hardly, Brady thought, wondering if he’d made a mistake by getting her hopes up about Delia’s and Max’s presence. At one time, they’d refused to let Clare cook for them ever again.
A WAKE AND RESTED , C LARE HEADED to her kitchen with a smile on her face. She’d showered and put on a loose-fitting cotton dress that seemed appropriate to cook in. At the bookshelf, she picked up the first cookbook and crossed to the counter. She’d watched the tape but hadn’t memorized the recipe, so she propped it open on a beautiful teak book holder, and began to assemble the dinner.
First she got out the chicken and browned it. As the smell wafted up to her, she remembered something.
Clare, girl, we just love it when you’re testing new recipes.
Honest, Clare, this one is my fave.
The voices belonged to Max and Delia. She saw vague outlines of them sitting at her kitchen counter as she cooked for them. And she knew it wasn’t the first time they’d been there. Suddenly, she knew she used to try out her recipes on them, and they’d give her honest feedback. The feelings elicited by the memory were all positive—warm, deep friendship. Intellectually, she’d known they used to be really close, but now she actually recalled it.
But they weren’t anymore. She shook her head, ludicrously regretting that had happened even though she couldn’t remember why. Maybe she could start to rectify that tonight.
She turned on the radio built into the wall. Fiddling with the tuner, she found a station she liked then returned to cooking. The process was soothing and surprisingly mind-blanking. There was something rhythmic about it, something fluid, and it made her feel “right in her skin,” as Grandma Boneli used to say.
Grandma Boneli—the woman who raised her when her parents died. Again, Clare closed her eyes and tried to focus. Soon the image came to her. It was the one from the dream she’d had: a tall, sturdily built woman in a house-dress, hair completely white and a smile the size of Sicily. Warmth seeped into her. She felt loved and cared for.
She continued to cook, humming along with the radio, remembering the melodies. They were golden oldies, from the sixties and seventies. They made her smile…and sent her reeling into a flashback…
“Come on, girl, join in.” Max was dancing with Delia and cutting a pretty mean rug, though it was on the kitchen tile. Her kitchen tile.
“I have to finish dinner.”
Brady, who’d been reading the newspaper at the counter, stood and grabbed her around the waist. “That can wait. Never be too busy to dance.”
She laughed and fell into a jitterbug with him, then they switched partners for the next song and she and Max did the salsa…step, step, quick step, step, step…She was laughing hysterically at the flubs she made and the teasing Max tossed her way.
S HE WAS DRAWN FROM the pleasant memory when she heard Brady call out from the front of the house, “We’re here.”
The clock said it was 6:00 p.m.; they were right on time. The three of them entered the kitchen, but instead of the camaraderie from her memories of earlier times, Max,
Similar Books
