His 1-800 Wife (27 page)

Surprised to find she remembered the ingredients she needed to make bread and that they were all there, including yeast that was still fresh, she went to work. An hour later, the kitchen was warm and cozy and the bread was covered for the first rise. While she'd found a cookbook that dated back to her grandmoth­er's teens and used it to supplement her memory, she had flour and wet spots all over the work stand.

Catherine cleaned her mess, feeling satisfied with the result. She made herself a cup of coffee, added logs to the fire in the main room of the house and the huge hearth in the kitchen. Embers snapped and exploded between her and the firewall, spangling the air with fiery stars. Across from the center table in the kitchen was an overstaffed sofa that changed the kitchen into a family room, a place for guests to sit and have coffee while they talked to the cook. Catherine curled up on the sofa with her coffee cup and looked out the window onto the snowy yard. This was the time for storytelling.

When her grandmother was alive and they got to this point in the baking process, they would make hot chocolate and talk. Her grandmother would tell her stories from her childhood on the island, before it was fully developed. Catherine would pour out her problems and ask her adolescent questions. Her grandmother always listened. She never laughed or made Catherine feel young and awkward.

She smiled at the memory of the thin woman with her gray hair and a hug that could solve all the problems of the world. She wondered what her grandmother would make of her and Jarrod. Catherine sipped her coffee. A glow passed over her as if her grandmother had touched her, as if she approved of them.

Outside the yard was white. Snow covered the ground from the door to the small pond that ended the property. Catherine leaned closer to the window. A deer foraged near the pond. She froze, as surely as if she was outside and had turned around to find herself lined up with the animal. She watched as another one joined the first. They came closer to the house, making footprints in the clean snow. Cather­ine watched them with the wonder of a five-year-old on her first trip to the zoo. She rarely saw deer where she lived. There were plenty of trees around her, but development, new houses and condominiums had forced the wildlife farther and farther into the woods.

Catherine was only six years old when she'd seen her first deer. Her grandmother was driving and she was in the backseat, barely able to see through the side window. Jarrod was nine and sat in the front passenger seat. He was tall for his age, although Cath­erine didn't know it then. He looked like a giant to her. And a mean giant at that. She smiled at the thought of him now. He was still a giant, but he could be gentle. She knew how gentle. She glanced up, taking her eyes away from the window and the deer outside, as if she could see Jarrod through the thick walls of Stone House.

It was winter then, too. There had been snow, but it had been cleared to the side of the road. The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the fields of white. She had to squint to keep her eyes open. Her grand­mother had been taking them shopping. She and Jarrod were going to buy Christmas presents for their parents.

There weren't many houses along that road then, only a few here and there set back from the pavement. Now there was a development there, with all the same gray siding and covered chimneys to make them main­tenance-free. She could see one house in the distance. It had been decorated with twinkling lights that out­lined the entire structure. The lights were on even in the bright sun. Catherine remembered thinking it was Santa's house. In the yard was a sleigh. Her mind remembered it as life-sized. Sitting on the seat was a Santa Claus with a bag of brightly colored boxes.

They were almost past it when she saw the deer. They came running out of the woods, three of them. Catherine screamed, thinking they were Santa Claus's reindeer. They rounded the house and headed toward the sleigh. Her grandmother stopped the car. She watched them running through the yard until they disappeared into a different part of the woods. No matter how much Jarrod told her they weren't Dasher and Dancer and Comet, Catherine knew better.

She smiled at this memory. She remained still. The two deer in the yard could easily be part of Santa's herd. She watched them until they moved off and she could no longer see them.

The bread had risen by the time Catherine poured her second cup of coffee. She punched it down, kneaded it and prepared rolls. Her grandmother could break off pieces of dough and form perfect rolls that were even and all the same size. Catherine had never been able to do that. Hers looked more like the croissants she'd tried on their honeymoon, missized and shapeless. She cheated by using a rolling pin and making perfect circles with a floured glass. She set them aside for the second rise.

By the time the first batch of fresh bread came out of the iron-stove oven, Jarrod walked into the kitchen. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and gray slacks. The combination was striking in itself. Catherine immediately felt herself respond to his presence. They'd made love all afternoon, yet she still wanted him. She wondered if it would always be this way. It was a question she would like to ask her grandmother.

"It smells good in here."

"It must be my perfume," she said. "Eau de Yeast." Catherine stirred a pan on the stove.

"Definitely." He reached for one of the rolls and took a healthy bite. Then he lifted her mug and drank the remainder of her coffee.

"These are perfect," Jarrod said, obviously remem­bering her previous effort.

She ignored the implied insult, thankful that the kitchen was in order and the glass she'd used to make the rolls uniform had been cleaned and stored away in the cupboard.

"Those are for dinner, you know."

He turned her around and into his arms. "What's for dessert?" He kissed her soundly, bending her back until she was so off balance she had to cling to him or fall. Catherine clung.

"We'd better eat," she said in a breathy, surren­dering voice.

"I agree," Jarrod said, his voice in her hair, as ragged as hers. "I'm starving to death." His tone told her everything, and it had nothing to do with food.

She stepped back, out of his reach, and took a deep, calming breath. The kitchen was hot. He was making it hotter. "I'll get dinner."

Jarrod moved to the table, which was already set. He took the basket of rolls with him. Using a dish towel to protect her hand, Catherine opened the bottom drawer of the oven. It was heavy and fell down from the unaccustomed weight. She pulled the pan out and set the lamb steaks on the counter. The crushed rosemary and butter mingling with mush­rooms and onions permeated the air, wafting up to combine with the baked bread smells. Quickly she turned them onto the plates, added piping hot pota­toes, baked without the skins, and fried zucchini and set them on the table.

Jarrod got up and took apple butter from the refrig­erator. He returned to the table.

Catherine sat down across from him.

She watched to see Jarrod's reaction as he dug into the tender steak. He looked as if it was the best meal he'd ever eaten. She tried hers. It was surpris­ingly good. She'd never tried to cook this dish before.

“I thought you could only cook breakfast, spaghetti and sandwiches," he commented. "I see you've been practicing."

"And you've been sleeping the day away." She tried not to grin, but didn't do a good job of it.

"When I fell asleep I believe you were in my arms."

A flutter quaked through her at the memory of them in bed. "This is one of those places that makes me want to cook." She glanced around the country kitchen.

"You like it here."

"I love it, Jarrod. How did you find it?"

"I've been here before." He took another roll and lathered it liberally with the apple butter. "I never stayed here, but I've camped in the area. I wondered about this old house. I always wanted to see what the inside looked like."

"The whole setting reminds me of every Christmas I ever had. I was thinking about one when I was six and we saw the deer. Do you remember that?"

Jarrod nodded. "I remember your eyes were so big I didn't think they'd ever return to normal size."

"I
was
six," she defended herself.

They passed the rest of the meal and the cleanup as happy companions, reliving some of their memories. When Catherine returned the final dish to the cabinet and dried her hands Jarrod stood at the windows. She joined him. She didn't touch him or take his arm. The two stood looking out on the same scene she had stared at before. The light was fading, turning the pond water a dark gray. The leaves had turned to the golden yellows and reds of fall, incongruous to the snowy ground. The bleeding light that made them brilliantly alive earlier was nearly gone. Their fire had diminished, but they blended together in that post-card portrait of New England in autumn.

Without looking at her, Jarrod reached for her hand. She put hers in his larger one. They stood like that, watching the light fade into darkness.

Chapter 12

It
was
working, Jarrod thought the next morning. Catherine was falling in love with him.

She was still asleep when he left the bedroom and went downstairs. He walked in the cold morning air on his way back to the house from the village. Some­time during the night it had begun to rain. The snow of yesterday was gone, a memory to pull out and relive on another day. He hummed "Yesterday" as he walked, remembering all of what had happened yesterday. There was ice on the windshield of the Jeep in the front yard and the path leading back to the main road was slippery. He didn't mind. It was unlikely that he and Catherine would be marooned here, but he wouldn't care if they were. He'd welcome having her to himself night and day without the rou­tine distractions of work and daily living to intrude on the idyllic world they had in this stone house.

He went through the gate, along the cobblestoned walkway and up to the front door. The fire in the living-room hearth burned bright and gave the room a homey smell. Jarrod went into the kitchen and put his packages down. He found a pan of uncooked rolls she'd made the day before and put it in the oven. The stove was hot and ready, as best he could determine. Catherine had cooked on it last night, and in their childhood he was sure she'd never seen a wood-burn­ing cookstove. It was his turn today. The fire hadn't completely gone out, and he'd added wood before going into the village. The kitchen was comfortably warm.

Jarrod removed his coat and made coffee. In Eng­land, tea was the drink of choice. He found the English had as many kinds of teapots as they had occasions to drink the substance. The old-fashioned one that percolated on the stove offered no challenge to his talents. When he'd filled it with water and a measured amount of ground coffee, he wondered if Catherine was up yet. He thought of going to check on her, imagined her relaxed and asleep, her hair loose and calling to him as surely as if it could speak. She'd still been under the covers when he'd left her, naked and warm from their long night. He decided against it, although his body tortured him for the decision. Going to her now would mean their breakfast would have to wait for lunch.

He was sure Catherine was falling in love with him. Being without her for two days had been agonizing. He'd spent long hours at meetings, finalizing as much as he could so he could get away early to meet his wife. He thought of her as his wife now. And if their reunion in the stone house was any indication, she'd missed him just as much. They kept the banter light, but it was only a disguise of their true feelings. Jarrod could feel the changes in her. The intensity of their lovemaking and the way she settled so completely in his arms told him that she wanted to be there.

***

Catherine stretched in the bed. It was smaller than their bed at home, yet she and Jarrod fit so well in it. She smelled the coffee and the bread. He was downstairs. She grabbed his pillow, hugging it to her, remembering the night before and going weak with nostalgia. His smell lingered. She smiled, heady at the scent as she settled against her surrogate lover.

After a moment, she got up and went into the bath­room. The card was propped up against her tooth­paste. It was the size of an invitation and had an embossed replica of the Stone House on it. Catherine smiled, wondering what Jarrod had left her this time. She loved his humor and his thoughtfulness with the cards, the origami and the poetry.

She picked up the card. On the outside was a quote by Goethe, written in Jarrod's unmistakable handwrit­ing.
Nothing should be more highly prized than the value of each day.
On the inside, he'd added his own epilogue:
Yesterday was a masterpiece.

Catherine's legs buckled. She grabbed the sink for support. The card dropped to the counter. Her face burned with the reminiscence of the previous day. They had stood at the kitchen window, not talk­ing, not needing to talk, only holding hands. It was as if everything between them was mutual and under­stood. Later they had put on coats and boots and walked in the cold, along the paths the deer had taken when she watched them from the window. The sun set, leaving the day in a blaze of glory, but Cather­ine had not seen it as the dying of one moment, but the beginning of another.

When they returned to the house, they had made love so exquisitely that she didn't believe she would survive the experience. But dying in Jarrod's arms would have been heaven.