When he walked into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee and flicked on the light, he stopped short at the sight of MW sitting hunched over a mug at his countertop bar.
“Hey.” She flashed him a weary smile. “I couldn’t sleep. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Since she looked brittle enough to crumble, he kept his movements slow. “Nope. This is when I normally get up.”
Now her eyes widened as she glanced from him to the wall clock. “At four-thirty?” She said the time with horror. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” He crossed to the Keurig coffeemaker, put his coffee pod in and pressed the button to brew. While he waited, he turned to study her. “Maybe today you’ll start to remember something.”
Her nod didn’t contain any real enthusiasm, which told him he hadn’t imagined her mood last night. “Why does that upset you?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I simply can’t remember. But for whatever reason, just thinking about it ties my stomach up in knots. That’s why I couldn’t sleep.”
Snagging his coffee, he took the bar stool next to her. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“I don’t know.” The downturn of her mouth fascinated him. He had the strangest urge to see if he could make it curve up in a smile.
Instead, he sipped his coffee. “What would you like to do today while I’m at work?”
She thought for a moment. “Do you have any cookbooks?” she asked.
Surprised, he nodded. “I can probably rustle up one or two. At one point I thought I might teach myself to be a better cook.”
“Did you?”
“No.” He grinned at her, mentally urging her to smile. “I don’t have the aptitude for it.”
Finally, one side of her mouth lifted, then the other. “I guess we can’t all be gifted in the kitchen.”
A hint? Careful not to show his excitement, he focused on his coffee. “Are you a good cook, then?
He looked up in time to catch her slight frown. “I... Maybe. It’s possible. Either way, while you’re at the hospital, I’d like to try.”
“Great.” Pushing to his feet, he dragged his hand through his hair and tried not to notice the way the frilly, brightly colored pajama shorts Greta had bought her showcased her legs. “I’ll find the books and leave them on the counter for you. Right now, I’ve got to get ready for work.”
He hurried out of the room, more flustered than he’d like to admit, even to himself.
* * *
After Eric left for the hospital, MW sat in the kitchen, lost in her own thoughts. The two cookbooks Eric had been able to locate sat in front of her, untouched. She didn’t understand why the idea of finally knowing her own name terrified her, or why a heavy weight of depression settled over her every time she thought about her memory returning. Had something bad happened to her? Or worse, what if she’d committed a horrible act? What kind of person would she turn out to be?
She didn’t know. Eric had said her memory could return at any time, but she shouldn’t try to force it. Since he hadn’t known precisely how long that would be, she had no choice but to try to be patient, even if she felt as if she were about to jump out of her own skin.
Finally, after her second cup of coffee, she reached for the first cookbook. Flipping through the glossy pages, she tried to figure out what she’d like to try making. Of course a lot of that depended on what supplies Eric had on hand.
Why this strong urge to cook, to make something with her own hands, she didn’t know. Maybe some vestige of who she really was. Either way, the idea brought her comfort.
After checking in Eric’s fridge and cupboards, she settled on a simple apple crisp. After all, she didn’t really know if she had any cooking skills.
Peeling, coring, slicing the apples she’d found in a bowl on the kitchen counter, she didn’t try to overthink anything. Her hands seemed to know what they were doing, so she let them. Measuring out the ingredients, she found herself adding a pinch of this and that, some extra cinnamon and a bit of nutmeg. When she finally placed the dessert in the oven to bake, she felt such a happy sense of accomplishment that she wished for music. Since she didn’t have any, she danced around the kitchen anyway.
She’d always loved to dance and sing while she cooked.
Stunned, the certainty of that knowledge made her freeze. An actual memory? What else could it have been?
Desperate, she tried to see if she could recall anything else. Evidently, she tried too hard, because all she came up with was a blank slate.
Meanwhile, the kitchen filled up with the fragrant smell of the apple crisp. It might have been the wrong thing to make in August, but for whatever reason it seemed like comfort food to her.
A quick glance at the clock showed noon had come and gone, and she needed to eat something for lunch. She fixed herself a salad, enjoying the selection of fresh greens she found in the refrigerator crisper. Dr. Eric Colton might be a busy man, but he sure knew how to stock a kitchen.
While she ate, she flipped through the second cookbook, wondering if she should make him something for dinner. Though she didn’t have any idea what time he actually came home, she guessed she could always keep warm whatever she prepared.
The idea energized her. She checked to see what kind of proteins he had. Once again, his freezer was well stocked. She took out a pork roast and put it in the fridge to thaw for tomorrow, and took out a packet of hamburger meat. She’d thaw it in the microwave, and whip up some kind of pasta casserole. That would be easy to reheat.
Grinning—listen to her, thinking she could just whip up a casserole—she started assembling the necessary components.
To her surprise, once she’d followed all the steps in the cookbook, again she found herself intuitively adding a pinch here and there of different seasonings. Just like with the crisp, it felt like she somehow instinctively knew they’d enhance the dish. Humming happily, she conceded the fact that since she had no idea of her past, she just might be a very good cook indeed.
Once she’d put the casserole in the oven, she decided to keep herself busy by concocting another dessert. A cake? Pie? In the end, she realized Eric had enough ingredients for her to make a delicious cheesecake. Since it would need an hour baking time, plus time to cool, she needed to get it going. What on earth they were going to do with two desserts, she didn’t know, but surely the sweet treats wouldn’t go to waste.
Quickly, she pulverized graham crackers, melted the butter, located a pie plate and made a crust. She put that in the oven for a few minutes, then got busy making the cheesecake itself.
Whipping the cream cheese and other components felt strangely satisfying. She again found herself performing steps by rote, as if from the memory of doing this before so many times the actions had become habit.
Since the oven temperature for the casserole was 350, she slid the casserole over and placed the cheesecake next to it. She set the microwave timer for that.
And then she sat back and waited while everything cooked.
By the time she removed the ground beef, pasta and mushrooms, all in a creamy cheese sauce, from the oven, she knew she’d made a winner. First, the fragrant smell made her mouth water, and secondly, the dish looked fit for a photographic spread in a cooking magazine—it was that beautiful.
A quick glance at the clock showed several hours had passed. She couldn’t