Nothing to Lose: The Pocket Watch Chronicles

by Ceci Giltenan

  That brought her to another concern. How was she going to do this? If she just said the word wherever she was at the time, that’s where this body would be found dead. The thought gave her pause. She wouldn’t want Benedict to have to deal with her death. In fact, it occurred to her that if she was found dead in his home, he might be accused of murdering her. No, that would not do. Clearly, she had to go somewhere else, but where?

  Then it came to her. If those who knew she’d fallen overboard never found her, they would assume she’d drowned. She could put on the shift she’d been wearing and swim out into the Adriatic. When she was far enough out, she could say the word. She would return to her own body and if this body were ever found, it would be consistent with what everyone believed had happened to her.

  With those details nailed down, Sara started imagining possible plots worthy of her stalwart hero, Rafe di Santi, and drifted off to sleep.

  When she woke the next morning, the sun was barely up. At home, when she wasn’t on vacation, she lived by a fairly fixed schedule. She woke early. She didn’t set an alarm, it was just what her body was accustomed to. She had breakfast then spent the morning writing. Around eleven, she went out for a while—usually to the gym where she swam or took an exercise class. Then she came home, took a shower, made lunch, and settled down with an iced coffee to write for several more hours. When the time came to stop, she had a glass of wine and made dinner. She enjoyed good food and wine and absolutely loved to cook.

  Writing the morning away was out. She couldn’t actually do that here. Well, she guessed she could, but it would be a bit pointless because she couldn’t take it with her. However, she could play out scenes in her head as she explored this time and place. And she could simply experience what life was like here. Hopefully, she’d remember enough to be able to write the book as soon as she returned. So, she got up, dressed, and made the bed. She looked through Mrs. MacIan’s clothes until she found an apron.

  When she dressed yesterday, she had remained bare-footed, but it might be good to have a pair of serviceable shoes. She searched the wardrobe, but all she found were two pair of what Sara would have called slides or mules. Shoes with a low heel that slipped on the foot and didn’t have a back or heel strap. One pair was very delicate and beautiful, clearly intended to be worn with a fancy dress. The other pair was a little less dainty. They weren’t exactly what Sara had had in mind, but they would have to do. On the upside, whether they were meant to be or not, they could be worn without stockings. And adding yet another layer to her already hot garments was not enticing.

  When she reached the kitchen, Benedict hadn’t returned from the Arsenale yet. Good. She would make him breakfast. But what did he have that she could prepare?

  When he’d fixed their supper of cold ham and bread the previous evening, he’d taken the ham and bread from a small pantry off the kitchen. The salt-cured ham could be kept at room temperature. The pantry also contained jars and crocks of preserved food, bottles of wine, olive oil and vinegar, as well as a basket of potatoes. But he had gone outside for the butter. There was a well with a hand pump on it that was his source of water. However, to one side of the base of the pump was a round iron plate, for all the world like a small manhole cover. He lifted that plate and attached to the underside was a rope. He pulled the rope up and on the end of it was a very large covered basket, inside of which was a bottle of milk, a wheel of cheese, a container of butter, and another one of eggs. Clearly, the basket was lowered deep enough into the well to keep the contents cooler, without actually submersing them.

  She went outside, pulled the basket up and took the butter, cheese, and two eggs from it before putting it back down the well. She’d make ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and bread.

  She’d have loved to make biscuits or soda bread, but baking soda hadn’t been invented yet and there was no oven chamber in the stove. However, yesterday he’d shown her the brick bread oven built outside, well away from the house. It hadn’t been used since his mother had left. He had flour in the pantry from which she could make a sourdough starter. If she could figure out how to use the brick oven, she could make bread in a few days.

  She washed and sliced the potatoes, put them in a bowl and covered them with water. They needed to soak for a few minutes so she mixed the flour and water for the starter, covered it with a cloth, and put it on the hutch where the dishes were stored. Then she sliced some ham and cut it into small cubes, finely chopped a small piece of cheese, and cut a few slices of bread. She’d love it toasted, but she wasn’t quite sure how to do that.

  She turned her attention back to the potatoes. She dried them before frying them in a mixture of butter and olive oil. It was a bit tricky to cook on the top of the stove without being able to control the temperature, but she managed to avoid burning the potatoes, frying them just until they were tender, then removing them to a plate to cool. She would finish everything after he returned. She filled the kettle and put it on to heat, then stepped out the back door.

  He’d mentioned a garden the previous evening, but she hadn’t had a chance to see what grew there. To her delight, there was a plethora of vegetables that were just coming into season. She’d take a close look later, but for now, she pulled up a couple of small onions. Beyond the garden was an orchard, which she’d have to explore later, too. She returned to the kitchen, her mind already planning dinner.

  She washed and chopped the onions before toying with making a pot of tea so that she could have a cup while she waited. But with no idea when he’d be home, the pot might go cold before he returned and she didn’t want to be wasteful.

  She needn’t have worried. She heard him coming through the front door just as the water reached the boil. She poked her head into the hall. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “Breakfast?

  “Yes. Breakfast. The delicious first meal of the day.”

  He smiled, a slightly puzzled look on his face, but followed her into the kitchen. He had a large package wrapped in paper under one arm that he laid on the table.

  She poured water into the teapot, then set about finishing breakfast. She put the potatoes on to fry again, allowing them to become a little crispy before adding the ham and onions. In another pan, she fried the two eggs. She sprinkled cheese on the potato mixture, and when it had just begun to melt, she divided it onto two plates and topped each with a fried egg.

  She put the plates on the table and poured tea before she sat down. “Do you normally ask a blessing?”

  Again, he gave her a quizzical smile. “Yes, I do.”

  She folded her hands, bowed her head, and waited.

  “Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” she echoed. She broke her egg so that the yolk drizzled onto the potato mixture then took a bite. It was delicious.

  He followed suit. His face split into a broad smile when the food hit his lips. “This is delicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is this something you do often?”

  “Make breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, doesn’t everyone?”

  “No.”

  No? “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have never eaten anything like this at any time of the day, much less in the morning. But now that I have, I fear I shall only want more.”

  She frowned. “You don’t eat breakfast?”

  “Well, I might have some bread and butter with my tea, but that’s all.”

  Whoops. “Uh…I’m sorry. I just thought…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Sara, I’m not upset. This is wonderful. I’ve just never had it before. It makes me wonder where you learned to cook like this.”

  She shrugged. The Food Network, didn’t seem like a good answer. “I don’t know.” She figured it would be best to just change the subject. “What’s in the package?”

  “Dinner.”
<
br />   “Dinner?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, dinner. The large delicious meal in the middle of the day.”

  She laughed. “I mean, what is it?”

  “It’s a fish. A sea bass that I picked up in the fish market before coming home.”

  “I love sea bass.”

  “Do you know how to cook it?”

  “Of course, I do. You’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Chapter 6

  Benedict had loved the sea bass that evening and that thrilled Sara. She’d always enjoyed cooking, but Mark was the only person she had cooked for in quite a while. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her cooking, he did. “Babe that was great” came on the heels of almost every meal. But she’d learned early on that he liked the basics. He wanted plain meat and potatoes, no-frills vegetables, and iceberg salad with bottled ranch dressing.

  After she made beef wellington once, he said, “I’m a guy, Sarah., I like steak, pork chops, ham, ribs, and hamburgers. I don’t mind shrimp once in a while and crab cakes are okay, but don’t waste your time on fish or anything froufrou.”

  He’d eat potatoes nearly anyway she fixed them, but the only vegetables he liked were zucchini, yellow squash, broccoli, cauliflower, green beans, and corn and the only way he liked them was boiled or steamed, with no sauce. He didn’t mind spaghetti once in a while, but only with meatballs and tomato sauce. And the one time she fixed a rice dish, he pushed it around on the place and asked, “Hey, could we throw a potato in the microwave?”

  So, she saved her more adventurous menus for nights when she was cooking only for herself.

  She went to bed Monday night thinking of all the things she could try making that Benedict might not only eat, but enjoy. She’d start tomorrow with western omelets. This was going to be great. After just one day of trying to live without modern technology, she was having a blast. This little adventure was turning out to have all of the elements required for her ideal fantasy vacation.

  First, she was close to the sea. She had been to beaches from New England to Florida and it didn’t matter where it was, she loved the shore. She had grown up in Maryland and she could be at a Maryland or Delaware beach in a few hours. But perhaps her best ocean memories were from her family vacations. And since the accident, it was the one place where she could go to feel connected to her family through those wonderful memories.

  From the time she was a little girl, her family had spent two weeks every summer at “arrogantly shabby” Pawley’s Island, South Carolina. Two weeks of body surfing, shell hunting, building sand castles with her little brother, or just relaxing in a hammock with a good book. She read her first romance novel there. It had been given to her by a girl named Paula, whose family was vacationing there, too. She also experienced her first real kiss there, as she walked along the beach one night with a local boy she’d gotten to know over the years.

  So, the location of her fantasy vacation was perfect. But she also absolutely loved to cook, and as fate would have it, just outside the back door, she had access to the freshest ingredients possible. Figuring out how to cook on a woodstove had been a bit of a challenge but so far, she’d succeeded. And as an added bonus, there was someone on hand who seemed to like eating her creations.

  Which brought her to the last feature of her perfect holiday fantasy, someone fantastic to share it with. Kind, thoughtful, and oh so handsome, she couldn’t imagine spending this time with anyone more wonderful than Benedict…well except for Mark. But then, he didn’t really like her “froufrou” cooking, plus he provided excellent source material for her next hero, so Benedict was perfect under present conditions.

  A little voice deep within her whispered, Benedict is perfect…period. But she did everything possible to quiet that voice. I’m in love with Mark. I have to go back to my own time and once I do, I have a fourteen-day cruise ahead of me and Mark is going to propose.

  She drifted off to sleep as she had for at least the last month, imagining the wonderful things she and Mark would do on the cruise. And yet, at some point in her dreams, the man at her side on the cruise became Benedict.

  ~ * ~

  Sara woke the next morning to the crowing of a rooster.

  A rooster? Her eyes popped open and she almost squealed with delight when she realized that she actually was still in eighteenth-century Venice, courtesy of the pocket watch. She jumped up, dressed, and hurried downstairs to start breakfast. By the time Benedict joined her, she had beaten the eggs, sliced some cheese, and was sautéing the chopped ham, onions, and green peppers.

  “Breakfast again?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Yes. Eggs a different way today. I normally would have it with toasted bread, but I’m not sure how to do that.”

  He laughed. “You know how to cook an absolutely amazing sea bass, but you can’t toast bread?”

  She shrugged, realizing how silly that had sounded. “I guess that’s one of my missing memories.

  “No need to worry. I can handle making toast.”

  So, as Sara finished putting the omelets together, he sliced several pieces of bread and one at a time, speared them on a long fork and held them near the stove to toast.

  Just like roasting marshmallows. I should have thought of that.

  Benedict appeared to enjoy the omelet every bit as much as he had yesterday’s meals.

  After breakfast was done, he offered to show her around a bit more.

  She went into raptures of delight when she got a better look at exactly what was growing in his garden. “Ooh, you have a lot of ripe peas. If you want, we can have those for supper, with some of that zucchini. And fresh tomatoes. Wow, they look gorgeous.”

  He smiled. “If you’d like, we can have chicken, too.”

  “I’d love that. Where will you get the chicken?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Where one normally finds chickens, in the chicken coop.”

  “You have a chicken coop?”

  “Sara, you have cooked eggs two mornings in a row. Where do you think they come from?”

  She actually hadn’t given it much thought because the eggs were in the basket down the well. “I know where eggs come from. I just didn’t realize you had chickens. I thought perhaps you’d bought them.” Even as she said it, she remembered the crowing rooster that had awakened her and felt like a prime idiot.

  To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her. “No, I actually keep chickens, but in fairness, the coop is set back from the house a ways so you probably didn’t see it yesterday. I’ll show you.”

  He led her to the coop with its fenced in yard. Nearby was a small stone byer. “I keep the feed in here.” He took the lid off of a barrel and removed a large wooden scoop full of cracked corn. Then he showed her how to feed the chickens and collect the eggs.

  “How often do they lay eggs?” she asked.

  “About one a day. As you know, I keep the ones I collect in the well. But on the first four days of a month, I mark the eggs with a charcoal ‘X’ and leave them in the nests. If the marked eggs haven’t hatched by the end of the month, I throw them out. Usually, enough hatch that I keep a steady population so there is always a supply of fresh eggs and chicken to eat.”

  “I’ve never eaten such fresh eggs.”

  He laughed. “How do you know?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “I just do.”

  “Do you know how to cook chicken as well as you do eggs and fish?”

  “Yes, I do. There is just one tiny problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve only ever prepared a chicken that was already…uh…dressed.”

  He chuckled. “Again, I’m not sure how you know that, but I’ll be happy to provide you with a dressed chicken.”

  He also showed her his orchard and it was beyond her wildest dreams. She had expected to find apples and maybe pears, but there were cherries, plums, and apricots as well—and much of it was ripe.

  “What do you do wit
h all of this amazing fruit?”

  “I eat it and I dry some of it, but I don’t have the time to harvest and preserve it all, so I share a lot with the birds. My mother used to make jams, but I don’t really know how to do that.”

  Sara didn’t know how to dry fruit, although she’d love to learn. But she did know how to make jams and jellies. “I hate to see it go to waste. I know how to make jams. If you have plenty of sugar, and crocks or jars to put it in, oh, and beeswax to seal it with, I’ll make some for you.”

  “I have all of those things.”

  And so, Sara picked vegetables and fruit while Benedict dressed the chicken and hunted down the supplies she needed. Then she was in her element for the rest of the day. She started the chicken cooking. She seasoned it with garlic, rosemary, sage, salt, and pepper and browned it in a large iron pot she would have called a Dutch oven. Then she added white wine, covered it with the lid, and allowed it to roast on top of the stove.

  She washed and prepared the fruit and crockery while the chicken roasted. She made sautéed zucchini, peas and onions in a cream sauce, and fresh sliced tomatoes to go with the chicken.

  She had the most wonderful time pulling dinner together and felt no small sense of pride that she’d done it with only a wood-burning stove. The icing on the cake was Benedict’s words of praise as they enjoyed the meal together.

  After dinner, she spent the rest of the afternoon making jam while Benedict worked in his study. They had cold chicken and spinach salad for dinner and she surprised him with stirred custard over fresh apricots for dessert.

  “Sara, I don’t think I’ve had such delicious meals in years. No, what am I saying? I don’t think I’ve ever had such delicious meals.”

  As she went to bed that night, she realized that as much fun as she found cooking to be, it was way more fun to cook for someone who loved it.

  ~ * ~

  The next day, she made crepes for breakfast, then spent the morning making pasta. Dinner was pasta primavera and poached plums for dessert. That afternoon he took her for a walk on the beach to the north end of the Lido. They passed blackberry thickets on the way. “Oh Benedict, can we pick some? I love blackberries.”