by Kathryn Shay
All would be well as soon as they could spend some quality time together.
It would. It would!
CHAPTER FOUR
With the late-morning sun beating down on them, Brady stood behind Clare, one hand at her waist, the other on her arm. Man, it felt good to touch her again. Too good. His whole body responded to her nearness. “Adjust your hips to the left,” he said rather hoarsely. “That’s it. Now, turn your grip about forty-five degrees on the racket’s handle. Good. That’s how you hit your backhand.”
They’d been reviewing the mechanics of tennis, and she seemed to remember them with only one demonstration. “Got it.”
Reluctantly he backed away, but he didn’t move to the other side of the court. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Dr. Summers said I could play if we took it easy.”
“She told you that yesterday morning. I’m not sure she meant for you to run right out to a court.”
Rays of sun caught her hair, turning its blond strands lighter. He knew how silky the mass would feel if he ran his hands through it.
“Brady, you’re sweet to be concerned, but this is my fourth day home, and I’m dying for more exercise.”
“I’ll hit you some shots, but go slow.”
He’d gotten a cage full of bright green balls from the clubhouse at Midtown Tennis, and they’d gone outside, forgoing the indoor courts. He knew she’d been playing at Harris’s swank country club, a place she didn’t recall, so he didn’t remind her. If only the rest were that easy.
From the other side of the net, she smiled over at him. “Thanks, Brady. For this and everything.”
“You’re welcome. I snapped my Achilles tendon four years ago playing basketball, and you were a huge help. So I’m returning the favor.”
She stared at him, trancelike. “You were a big baby about it.”
“I was not!” His eyes narrowed when he saw the gleam in hers. “You don’t really remember, do you? You’re making that up.”
“Gotcha.”
He laughed out loud as he took his position. “Ready?”
“I hope so.”
He hit a weak one over the net. She returned it easily.
Three more followed in the same vein.
She bounced the ball in front of her a few times, which used to be her habit when they’d played together. “This is boring.”
“We usually play harder.”
“Let’s put more behind the hits.”
They continued to lob the ball back and forth, using more oomph each time.
At a pause in the volleying, she asked, “Who wins, Brady, when we really play?”
“I do, of course.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re lying. I’ll bet I’m better than you.”
“Are you remembering that?”
“No.”
“Then, nope, I’m the better player.”
This time she laughed out loud, which hadn’t happened much since the accident. Laughter and pure fun had been a routine part of their lives together until Harris had come along. Snagging the next ball with her hand, she headed to the back of the court.
“That outfit looks great on you,” he called from behind her. It made his mouth water. And he felt good flirting with her again. This also had been part of their history—the innocent, suggestive remarks that made them both smile. Though for him, things between them had been far less innocent long before the accident.
She glanced down at the white skirt and red halter top she wore. When she pivoted back around, she gave him a haughty look. “You’re just trying to distract me.”
Huh. She was distracting him, big-time. “I don’t need to. I told you I always win.”
Stopping at the serve line, she faced him. “Let’s play a game.”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll take it easy, I promise.”
Without his instruction, the mechanics of the serve were there for her: throw the ball up, racket angled behind down her back, over her head, slam! During the course of the serve, her top pulled up and Brady got a very nice glimpse of a tanned patch of skin on her midriff. Arrgh!
He barely reached the ball in time because of his double take on her stomach, but he managed to hit it back. She raced forward and sent the thing soaring over the net. He didn’t even try to get to the shot.
Her hands went to her hips. “You missed that on purpose.”
“I did. I don’t want you playing too hard.”
“I won’t, but I have to move. I need exercise, I need to sweat.”
He opened his mouth but bit back a sexual innuendo. Those were better left unsaid right now. “Maybe a little.”
She served three more times and won the game. “Told you I was good,” she gloated.
He grinned. “My serve.”
He let her win a few points, but took the last three of the next game. She was running around—and sweating—and breathing hard. “God, this feels good.”
On another volley, she charged the net to return his short lob. Brady hit it back way over her head. She raced toward the ball and was just about there when she stumbled and went down. “Ohh…”
Leaping the net, he was at her side in seconds and knelt down. “Damn it, what was I thinking?”
“I twisted my ankle. It doesn’t hurt much.” She rubbed her foot. “I’m sorry I pushed. Probably too hard.” She shrugged her shoulder. “But it felt good.”
Chuckling, he reached for her foot. Very gently, he untied her sneaker, removed that and her sock. He palpated her sole, her ankle and her shin. “Hurt?”
She sighed. “No, it feels good.”
“The injury feels good?”
“It isn’t injured. Your fondling me feels good.”
Oh, Lord, now she was flirting.
“I was not fondling!” A smile quirked at his lips. “I was checking for damage.” He glanced around. “We’re done here.”
“I guess.” After sliding her sock and shoe on, he stood and offered her his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
She took the assistance. When he didn’t let go after she was on her feet, she moved in close to him. His arms slid around her as if he’d never stopped hugging her. His whole body tightened. “You okay? Dizzy?”
“No. I like when you hold me. I feel safe. We must be really close.”
He had to clear his throat “We are.”
She drew back. “Thanks.”
“Time for a nap?”
“Not on your life. I’m so tired of sleeping.” Her eyes sparkled like the old Clare’s. “I know. Let’s go to the grocery store.”
He grabbed the cage and started picking up balls. “I wondered when that would kick in.”
“What?”
“The grocery store’s your favorite place.”
“You think we could go there, or would it push my memory too much?”
“I think it’d be okay. Let’s finish up here, and we’ll head over.”
They pulled up to Weidman’s fifteen minutes later. Clare had hoped for a bit of recognition at the sight of the big blue sign on the huge storefront, but none came. Brady held her hand after they exited his Blazer. Once inside, he got a cart and set it in front of her.
“Where to?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
“Hmm. I’ll wander.”
First she went to the dairy counter and selected goat cheese. Then she headed to the vegetable department. They strolled along, and Clare seemed to absorb the sounds and sights and smells of her surroundings. She picked up onions and juicy tomatoes. Bypassing the bagged kind, she chose curly red lettuce in a bunch. They kept going: chicken, canned artichokes. By the time she snagged a couple of loaves of fresh bread, she turned to him. “I have the ingredients for a chicken artichoke dish I used to make.” Her face lit, and she smiled broadly. “Oh, wow.”
“You remember.”
“Yes, suddenly.” She closed her eyes. “There’s more.”
> “What?”
“Me behind a counter, facing cameras, wearing a pretty fuchsia apron with embroidery on the front of it.” She looked at him. “I made this dish in one of my cooking shows, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, one of the first demos you did.”
“Do you like this recipe?”
“A lot.”
“Will Max and Delia come if I cook tonight, do you think?”
“If they’re free.”
But he wasn’t so sure of his statement. Max and Delia had each stayed with her a couple of times, Max overseeing mostly when she was sleeping. He knew Delia had brought over a photo album and showed her pictures of their life together. Clare had laughed at the way she looked in college, made jokes at the images of herself surrounded by boxes on moving day, and got tears in her eyes over the baby pictures of Donny, whom she’d helped raise. But there was still an underlying tension among them all.
When she and Brady reached the checkout line, something else occurred to her. “Do I have tapes of the shows, Brady?”
“Uh-huh, from the studio.”
“I’d like to watch this one, then make the meal.”
Without speaking, he paid the cashier. He had a bad feeling about her watching the show that had, in the long run, taken her away from him.
“I’ll stop if I get a headache or upset.”
“I don’t think you should rush your memory.”
“I won’t.”
Though he was worried about this step, he was pleased about one thing. Over the course of the past few days, she’d taken to asking his opinion, his permission sometimes, like she used to in the old days. It had gone both ways and they’d spent a lot of years consulting each other on choices and decisions to be made. It was only right that she should now, after what they’d meant to each other.
When they got back to her place, Brady found the show’s CDs packed away in a cabinet and stuck the one she wanted, labeled by the meal, in the player. Sitting next to her on the couch, he watched as she came on and smiled out at the camera.
Now memories flooded him—her nervousness the night before, him calming her down. That day, they’d all been over the moon about it. He, Delia and Max were almost as excited as she was and had come to the studio for the first taping. She’d looked great too; he’d given her that apron with the name of the show stitched on the front.
“Oh!” she said, seated next to him. “The music is familiar. It’s familiar.”
Lord, was this going to bring everything back? Was he ready for that? “Maybe it’s too soon.”
“No, this feels right.” Her eyes widened as she stared at the screen. “My hair…” She touched her own short curls. “I look good with it long.”
“You look good with it short, too. And if you don’t like the style now, your hair grows fast.”
Mesmerized, she stared at the TV. So did he.
“Welcome to Clarissa’s Kitchen. Today we’re going to make Chicken Rosie, a recipe my great-aunt taught me.” She laughed and the camera panned in on her, capturing the amused twinkle in her beautiful green eyes. “Aunt Rosie didn’t work in amounts. This recipe came to me orally, in directions that read a package of chicken, some tomatoes, artichokes if you can find them…”
As she spoke, she chatted about her grandmother’s sister, whom Brady had never met. But he knew that she was big and round, with white hair and a huge smile.
“I’m going to brown the chicken, but not too much.” Grease sizzled in the pan. “Don’t make the mistake of letting it get too done, because it’ll cook more when everything’s combined. Meanwhile chop up the onions, tomatoes, olives and broccoli.”
She picked up a jar of tomato sauce. “This is my homemade sauce, canned early this year, but you can use grocery store sauce if you want.”
“Yuck,” Clare said aloud in the living room. She had a very familiar look on her face.
Brady laughed. “You remember you were a purist, huh?”
“I guess. I’d never eat sauce from a jar.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
She glanced at him as a commercial came on. “Was I a snob?”
“About food you were.”
“Just that?”
He hesitated.
She put the CD on Pause. “Brady, I’ve pieced together that I worked too much. And I wasn’t close to people anymore, like Delia and Max. And obviously you.” She nodded to the screen. “Was I that way when the show started?”
“Not when it started. The four of us were best friends and did a lot together.”
“Like what?”
“We played cards in a euchre group and we socialized with the other players. We had a bowling team. A dinner group.”
“Hmm. How sad that we stopped that.”
He nodded to the CD, wanting to get out of this discussion. “Let’s get you back 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.
* * *
Awake and rested, Clare 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 her playlist, hooked into the speakers across the room. When she’d originally discovered it, she was fascinated by what songs she’d downloaded. After pressing play, she 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 gol
den 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 foxtrot…step, step, quick step, step, step. She was laughing hysterically at the flubs she made and the teasing Max tossed her way…
She 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, Delia and even Brady all radiated anxiety.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Max spoke. “Been a long time since we did this, Clare.”
Brady said, “Max…”
“No, let him speak.” Clare wiped her hands on her apron and faced the big man squarely. Instead of fear, she felt sorrow. “Every time you’ve been here—and you, too, Delia, to a degree—it’s been strained between us. The problem for me is that the memories I have of you two are good. As a matter of fact, I just remembered all of us dancing in the kitchen.”
Delia came forward. “I know, Clare. We have those good ones, too.”
“But too many bad ones to compensate?”
Delia shook her head. “Not for me.”
“Jury’s still out for me.” Max walked to her fridge, got out a bottle of wine and was pouring it before he stilled. “I forgot. I used to help myself all the time. Is it okay?”
“Of course it is. I like the familiarity you all have with my home. Helping yourself to things in the kitchen, coming in without knocking.”
“We used to.” Max’s expression was stern.
Crossing to him, she touched his arm and got another flash. The two of them, out back in the garden, planting. He was talking about Stephanie. Another image, of a beautiful girl with caramel skin and gorgeous hair. “Who’s Stephanie?”
