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 believe the time—six-fifteen. She had no idea when Eric got off work at the hospital, but since he’d gone in over twelve hours ago, surely it would be soon.
Her stomach growled. Should she eat? Or wait? She decided to let the casserole cool slightly and if Eric wasn’t home, go ahead and have her meal. She knew he’d understand, especially if he didn’t return until much later.
Thirty minutes later she pulled out the cheesecake, pleased with the way it looked. She placed it on a rack to cool and opened a bottle of red wine. After pouring herself a glass, she walked to the window, gazing out at the busy city streets below.
The sound of the key in the front door lock made her jump. When Eric came inside, her heart skipped a beat.
“Wow.” He stopped, sniffing appreciatively. “Whatever that is, it smells great.”
His comment made her beam. Glad she’d waited, she hurried to set the table. “I made dinner.”
His green eyes twinkled. “You know you didn’t have to, but you wouldn’t believe how glad I am that you did. I barely had time to eat an apple today, so I’m starving.”
Happiness and pride hummed inside her as she placed the casserole in the center of the table. She poured him a glass of wine and took her seat across from him, watching as Eric dished up a large serving on his plate. Though her own helping was a third of the size of his, she felt a jolt of alarm as she realized she should have tasted it before serving it. Every good chef knew that.
Every good chef? What did she know about that? Shrugging off the thought, she watched as Eric raised his fork to his mouth.
He rolled his eyes, making appreciative sounds. “I didn’t know you were a gourmet chef,” he said, once he’d swallowed.
Delighted, she managed a casual shrug. “Neither did I,” she teased. “I simply followed a recipe I found in one of your cookbooks.”
One silver brow raised. “Taste it.”
After she complied, she made a pleased noise. “It is pretty good,” she admitted, having another bite.
Too busy devouring his meal to comment, Eric merely shook his head. When he’d cleaned his plate, he had seconds, which gave MW a serious case of the warm fuzzies.
“Try and leave room for dessert,” she told him, unable to keep from smiling.
“Dessert?” He followed her gaze to where the cheesecake sat cooling next to the apple crisp. “Be still my heart.”
This time, she laughed out loud. “You have a choice. I hope they’re as good as they look and smell.”
Eric opted for the cheesecake, promising to try the crisp in the morning. “Mmm. It’s even better.” Eric devoured his slice, then gave her a sheepish look as he got a second. “I’ll gain weight if I keep eating like this,” he said, sounding not the least bit repentant.
She laughed again. With surprise, she noted that despite everything, she was happy. She liked him. Not for the first time, she wondered if losing her memory gave her a much-needed opportunity to start over. A blank slate.
But that would only be needed if it turned out she had an awful past.
With that, she gave herself a mental shake. Until she knew the truth, why waste her time speculating?
When the meal was finished, she began clearing off the table. Rising, Eric helped. “We can eat these leftovers again,” he told her, smiling. “I’ll cover them and put them in the fridge for later.”
The tableau felt so cozy and domestic, she blinked. Swaying, she felt as if she watched them both from a distance, as though viewing a show on television. “Is disassociation part of amnesia?” she asked, trying not to worry.
Eric went still, eyeing her carefully. “Why do you ask?”
His stillness scared her more than anything. “Nothing,” she lied. “Just curious.”
She didn’t know him well enough to know if he believed her or not. “Do you get to take a lunch break during the day?” she asked, changing the subject while she carried the dishes to the sink.
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