by Kathryn Shay
The coffee finished dripping. Delia poured them each a mug and brought both to the counter, where Clare reseated herself. Then Delia removed vanilla-flavored International Delight from the refrigerator and sat down. Clare picked up the bottle and poured some of the sweet liquid into her coffee.
“You knew that was for you?” Delia asked
“Uh-huh. Do you want to talk more about Don?”
“No, I want to change the subject.”
“Then, yes, I knew this was for me. Sometimes I just know things. It’s all so odd.”
“What does it feel like? Not remembering?”
“Very scary. And unsafe.” She swallowed hard and massaged her temples. “When I try to remember, I get pain in my head. But some of what I recall since I came home yesterday is comforting. And smells trigger mostly good stuff.”
“You have a lot to deal with.”
“Especially alone.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without Donny.”
“Your son.” A flash of red hair and freckles filled her mind. “I remember what he looks like. Is he here?”
“No, every June when he gets out of school, he goes to stay with Don’s parents for a while. I miss him, but it’s good for them.”
“Tell me about him.”
Delia had her laughing out loud at the precocious seven-year-old’s antics when the French doors to the kitchen opened.
“If this isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”
Delia smiled warmly at Brady. More warmly than she’d originally greeted Clare. “Like old times.”
Stepping inside, Brady kissed Delia on the cheek, then touched Clare’s shoulder. He smelled even more familiar— she knew that cologne—making her lean toward him. He looked good, too, in jeans and a navy-blue shirt tucked in at the waist. Brady Langston kept in shape.
“Good morning. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I woke about eight. Delia was in the garden, and somehow we ended up here.”
Delia had gone to the counter, poured another cup of coffee and added sugar. She served it to Brady and they exchanged a meaningful look. “Thanks, Dee.”
Clare didn’t have her memory back, but she knew certain things. Entering a house without knocking, a nickname, being served coffee without asking how it was taken and sharing pointed glances all indicated intimacy.
Apparently Delia and Brady had stayed close while Clare had grown apart from them. She wished she could remember why.
* * *
Brady sat at the drafting table in his home office and stared at the walls, bookshelves and computer. On his desk sat the page proofs of one book to go over, and the beginning of another was in front of him. But right now, all he could think about was Clare.
After he found her at Delia’s, they talked over coffee. Mostly she was comfortable, until something came up that she didn’t remember. Then she’d get agitated and, worse, fearful. He couldn’t stand watching her be afraid. After a while, he suggested a walk and she seemed to be itching for exercise. Why not? She’d never sat still for a minute before, even if she didn’t remember that. Two long weeks in a hospital bed had decreased her strength and stamina but not her desire to move.
As they walked, she peppered him with questions about the Kramers, and he tried to fill her in the best he could. Don’s death was still hard for him to talk about, even though he’d known the guy the shortest period of time. Brady had moved into the old house ten years ago when the others were all settled in. He soon came to love Don, like they did. And like Max and Clare, Brady had been devastated for a long time after their friend died.
Grim thoughts often came these days when he was alone. He dragged himself up from the chair and walked into the living room. He’d insisted he and Clare leave their doors open in case she needed him. When he reached the front of his condo, he smiled at his own whimsy of creating the birds, which were supposed to represent the five of them. He fingered the goldfinch, Clare, who’d flown the coop, then stepped into the hall. No sounds from her place. He went back to work, sat at the drafting table, and was just getting into Raoul the Rat and Millie the Mouse when the phone rang. Caller ID told him it was his agent, which was the only reason he answered.
“Brady? Hi, it’s Leo.”
“Hey, Leo.”
“How’s Clare doing?”
“Better. She’s home. I’m on watch this afternoon, but she’s sleeping, so guess where I am?”
“Please, tell me you’re in your office.”
“I am. And Millie and Raoul got one more page.”
“Thank God. The publisher’s breathing down my neck. They gave the extension, but begrudgingly.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
But what could they do anyway? Brady worked at his own pace and did things in his own time frame. It used to drive his workaholic ex-wife Gail crazy. He was successful though, and their marriage had struggled along a bumpy road until tragedy struck and Brady’s whole life turned upside down.
“Did you hear me, Brady?”
Not exactly. His mind went where it always did these days. “Something about a delivery date.”
“Funny.”
“I don’t know when it’ll be done, Leo. I’ve promised to help out with Clare. I want to.”
“You’re in a perfect position to do that. You work at home, she’s next door.” A pause. “You sure there’s nothing going on between you two other than friendship?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure.”
There was a knock on his open door, and then a “Hello!”
“Someone’s here. I gotta go.”
“Scan and e-mail me what you’ve done.”
“You know I don’t like to do that, Leo.”
“It’ll calm my nerves.”
“Take a Valium.” Max appeared at his door, and Brady motioned for him to wait.
“Come on. I need a Millie and Raoul fix.”
“Maybe. Talk to you soon.”
After he clicked off, he stood and faced his longtime friend, Max Mason, whom he’d known since high school, when they’d hung out together and avoided playing football. Max was big enough to compete, though, with the build of a linebacker. Brady had based a character on him once, Mixy, the huge lovable rat. Max feigned outrage, but Brady had seen a few copies of the book on his buddy’s shelf.
They hugged like men do—a bear clasp and pats on the back. Brady had always been grateful for Max’s friendship, especially in the past year.
When he drew back, Max asked, “How is she?”
“She’s home.”
“I thought maybe. I saw the open door. I can help now. I got some time off.”
“You did?”
“I said I’d help.” He dropped his big form into the mahogany leather chair and propped his feet up on the ottoman.
“I know, but she’s not your favorite person anymore.”
His dark eyes narrowed and he ran a hand over his shaved head. Brady remembered when he’d worn it in an Afro. “No matter. If Dee and I don’t help, you’ll run yourself into the ground.” He glanced at the desk. “Or worse, put aside your work again to help her.”
Brady wasn’t up for an argument, especially one they’d had so many times. “Want something?”
“No, I’m going to catch a nap. Long flight.” Max was a pilot for a private company and had been flying his boss around the country while Clare lay in the hospital. “I won’t say any more after this, but I gotta get one thing off my chest.”
“Max...”
“I love you, bro. I don’t want her to hurt you. Be careful and protect yourself.”
“Point taken.”
When Max left, Brady found it impossible to get back to his book. Again, he pushed away from the desk, got up and headed to Clare’s condo. This time, he went in and found her in bed on her side, her hands under her face like she always slept. The pretty green sheet had slipped off, so he tucked it around her. His whole body responded to the sight of her, and the scent of her that
permeated this room. Hell, this was all he needed now.
She looked so fragile, bruised and fearful, even in slumber. Her brow furrowed and she turned over fitfully. How on earth could Brady abandon her now?
Because she abandoned you. And Dee. And Max. Even her own sister.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had a Clare hex on him, and nothing could dispel it. He’d felt this way since the first day he met her…
“The meal was terrific.” Brady lazed back in his chair and spoke to Josie, the owner of Meloni’s. This place was Max and Don and Delia’s favorite restaurant, and his other co-tenant in the house worked here. She recently moved into the old Victorian, but Brady had yet to meet Clare Boneli.
“Our assistant chef made it.” The small, white-haired Italian woman smiled. “Which of course is why you’re here.” She picked up Brady’s credit card—he insisted on paying—and smiled at his friends. “I’ll be right back. Want something else?”
“Cappuccino would be nice,” Don suggested. “Maybe the chef can join us.”
“Sure. She’s cleaned up already.”
When Josie left, Brady asked, “That meal was something. Where did she learn to cook like this?”
Delia grinned like a proud mama. “After college, she went to culinary school, then she studied in France awhile.”
She explained more about Clare’s background until they heard, “Talking about me behind my back?”
Turning, Brady saw a slender blonde with eyes the color of grass carrying a tray of mugs.
“Yep, I’m filling Brady in.”
Brady stood, took the tray and set it down. “You must be the chef.” He held out his hand. “I’m the new tenant, Brady Langston.”
Her grip was firm. “Clare Boneli.”
They both took seats.
“Your Zucchini Boneli was wonderful.”
“My grandmother’s recipe.” She motioned to the mugs she’d set on the table. “Drink up before your cappuccino gets cold. I poured myself one, too.” She wore plain black pants that accentuated long legs and a white blouse. He dragged his eyes to her face.
“Most of her recipes come from her extended Italian family,” Delia said, “but she puts her own pizzazz in them.”
A blush kissed Clare’s cheeks. It was adorable.
Brady sipped his cappuccino. “The drink is different, too. What’s in it?”
“A dash of nutmeg.”
“Unusual. As was the zucchini. What’s its secret?”
“Fresh zucchini, for one. I used to go out to the garden with Grandma and pick it. Couldn’t let it get too big, though, or it would be tough.”
“Did you spend a lot of time with your grandmother?”
“I lived with her.” Real sadness filled her eyes. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was ten. Grandma and Grandpa moved to America to take care of us. Grandma only died five years ago. I still feel her loss.”
“I’m sorry.” Brady cleared his throat. “My dad died recently.” The expression on her face was so empathetic, at that moment he felt a strong connection with her. “It’s hard for me. But you were so little when your parents died. That must have been really tough.”
“It was. Grandma Clarissa was wonderful, though. She taught me to cook.”
“Her and culinary school and France.”
Clare shook her head. “You have to stop bragging, Dee. Let Brady get to know me on his own.”
“Finish telling me about the recipe.”
“Along with extra sausage, I use cream and butter in the mixture.”
He patted his stomach. “Oh, man, I’m going to have to work out extra hard tomorrow to stay in shape.”
“Hmm. Maybe we can run together. I can’t get Don or Max to go with me.”
A huge grin. “I’d like that.”
After they’d gotten back to the house and Max and the Kramers had gone to their respective places, Brady and Clare had talked long into the night. About their pasts. Their families. Their successes and failures.
She’d had big dreams then, as had he. They’d shared those, too. Who knew that, in the end, those dreams would pretty much destroy their relationship?
CHAPTER THREE
“This is silly. I can’t even go into my own kitchen?” Clare stood at the threshold of her bedroom, staring out at the hallway that led to the rest of the condo. After leaving Delia’s, she and Brady had taken a walk, come back to the house, sat in the backyard and had lunch delivered. Then she’d come up to rest. Clare had fallen asleep just before Brady went to work in his home office. And now, at 4:00 p.m., she was restless. She sensed she wasn’t used to inactivity. Hadn’t she found sneakers and tennis shoes, along with a racket, in her closet? It was time she broached her own kitchen. She wanted to see her cookbooks. Get a glimpse of her old life.
Should she wait for Brady? He’d asked her to. Again she glanced at the hallway. Hell, she was thirty-six years old. She could go anywhere in her house if she wanted to. Besides, she had to start making her own decisions again. She knew in her heart it wasn’t her style to let someone else do it for her.
With tentative steps she walked down the hall, through the living and dining rooms. When she reached the archway of the kitchen, she stopped and surveyed the area. Immediately a sense of well-being flooded her. This was Clare’s space. She could feel it in her bones, her hands, even her breath. No longer afraid, she walked to the center island and smiled as she ran her hand over the granite countertop.
It was new, she realized. She’d remodeled in here, though she couldn’t recall what the old kitchen was like. She took in the triple-bowled sink in the island, Sub Zero refrigerator and two ovens.
There was a second smaller fridge under the counter. Pulling it open revealed a cold wine storage filled with several bottles.
We’ll have the Romanee-Conti tonight, Clare. Brady had drawn out the several-hundred-dollar bottle. Publishing your first cookbook is a big deal.
Emboldened, she looked around for the books themselves. She caught sight of a display on a set of oak shelves on the far wall. When she got up close, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, good Lord, I don’t believe it.”
Face out were six cookbooks. All entitled In Clarissa’s Kitchen, Meals and Memories from Italy. Her picture, with long hair, was on the cover of each. The first showed her in a casual dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Volumes two and three sported a similar pose. In four, though, her outfit was more sophisticated, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. Gracing the covers of the last two volumes were photos in different expensive outfits and more conservative hairdos.
What was that? Next to each of the cookbooks was a glossy version. Picking one up, she was hit with a flash of memory.
We got a coffee-table book contract, Clare. The publisher wants to do versions for display.
Whose voice was that? Jonathan’s? No, she was sure it wasn’t. Who then? Was someone she worked with totally missing in her life now?
Feeling as if she were about to step off a cliff, she opened the cover. On the inside flap was A Note from Clarissa.
Welcome to my world of cooking. On the pages that follow, though, you’ll find much more. Accompanying the recipes are anecdotes from my childhood right through to today, letters to people who inspired me, and much more, all associated with my life and food. Mostly, they’re a tribute to my grandma, Clarissa Boneli, who raised me. I hope you enjoy these great recipes and uplifting stories. Mangia!
Suddenly she realized she held a journal of sorts of her life. She swallowed hard and her hand tightened on the book. Should she read it? She began to tremble—in anticipation or dread?
The decision was taken from her by a knock on the door Brady had asked her to leave ajar. He appeared in the archway. Still wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d walked in, he looked concerned. “You’re awake.” He raised dark brows. “And came out here by yourself? I thought we agreed at lunch that you’d wait for me.”
&nbs
p; “No, that was your suggestion. I feel foolish, needing a babysitter, being afraid to go into my own kitchen.” She sank back on a stool at the counter, clutching the cookbook to her chest “When I came in here, and took out one of these, I felt good.”
He smiled, said, “I’m glad to hear that,” and joined her at the bar, dropping down on the stool next to her. Since waking up from the coma, she didn’t like people crowding her, but when Brady stretched his legs out facing her, she braced her feet on the bottom rung of his stool. He nodded to the book, and his blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You should be proud of those. You’re a big success.”
She smiled back at him, wanting to know more about him. “What about you? Are you a success? I don’t even know what you do.”
For a minute, he looked puzzled. “I’m an artist. Actually, an illustrator.”
It was like getting hit with a blast of cold water. “Oh, the sketches in the hallway? They’re yours. I had a visceral response when I saw them. Brady, they’re terrific.”
“You were the one who insisted they be mounted and hung out there. You had them framed even before I said yes.”
“Where’d I get them?”
“Um, mostly from the books I’ve published.”
“You publish books, too? Which ones? How many? Can I see something else you’ve done?”
His gaze dropped to her chest. “You’re holding one.”
“Huh?”
“Turn the book over, Clare.”
She tensed, afraid for the first time since she’d come into this room. She stared at him warily.
“Go ahead. It won’t hurt you. It’s a good memory.”
She turned the book around.
On the back was his picture. Dressed less formally than she, he wore pressed jeans, a silk T-shirt and a taupe blazer. His hair was a bit shorter, but his eyes were the same, long-lashed, crystalline-blue. She read the note with his picture, then peered over at him. “You illustrated my cookbooks?”
“Uh-huh. The anecdotes you wrote and my illustrations are what set them apart from all the other gazillion cook-books on the market.” He hesitated. “We have a new one in the works, too.”
