Page 29 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“I’d love to take credit, but I can’t,” she said. “I adapted the one made famous by Julia Child, switching the meat to brisket and combining some steps so that I didn’t have so many pans to clean. But the basics are all hers.”

“How old were you when you made it the first time?”

“High school,” she said. “I found the recipe online and I knew I had to try it. Of course, it took a bit of convincing when it came to my grandma. To her, French cooking meant snails and frog legs.”

I smiled. “Did you cook a lot for the two of you?”

“I’d make something special once or twice a week. That was as much as I could manage, because as you probably noticed from the list I gave you, the more exotic ingredients can be tricky to obtain in Heatherington. Did you manage to get the beef broth from Let’s Meat?”

“And the bacon and brisket,” I confirmed. “He was just about to close when I arrived, so I got lucky.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “Homemade beef broth makes all the difference in this recipe, and he makes it every other day. It’s way easier and less time-consuming than doing it yourself, and his broth is incredibly flavorful.”

“I’ll have to trust you.”

At my prompting, she described some of the more ambitious recipes she’d attempted over the years, along with a few hilarious anecdotes about how they’d been received by her grandmother, who generally preferred her food as plain as possible.

When Wren mimicked the faces her grandmother made while sampling her masterpieces, I found myself laughing harder than I could remember since I was a child.

As the afternoon wore on, the conversation drifted, turning easily from poetry to the peculiarities of certain guests, to my dumber college pranks; we even compared notes on things we’d always wanted to learn but somehow never found the time to (she: playing the piano, using sign language, tap dancing; I: juggling, stone masonry, ancient Greek).

Every now and then she would fade out, her figure becoming only half-visible; at other times she would disappear entirely for minutes, leaving me fretting until she returned.

But for both our sakes, I tried to pretend that nothing unusual was happening.

We merely picked up where we had left off, and by the end, I felt as though we could speak every day for the rest of our lives and never run out of things to say.

I added another log to the fire, and for a moment we both fell silent, watching and listening to the storm. Finally, she leaned toward me, her long lashes hooding her gaze.

“I think it’s probably time to head to the kitchen.”

“I hope I can pull it off.”

“Are you ready for rule number one? When it comes to French cooking?”

“I can’t wait to hear it.”

“You’re not allowed to start cooking until you’ve poured yourself a glass of wine.”

· · ·

In the kitchen, I opened a bottle and poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir; when I turned, Wren was holding a glass of white wine.

I raised my glass in a silent toast and took a sip, watching as she did the same. I set my glass aside. “Okay, boss, what do I do first?”

“You’re supposed to call me ‘Chef,’ not ‘boss.’ But we’re going to peel and chop, so you’ll need the cutting board and the chef’s knife.”

She indicated where to find both, and after pulling the vegetables and herbs from the refrigerator, I got to work.

There were quite a few items—an onion, a carrot, and garlic, among others—and while an expert probably could have done all of it in a few minutes, it took me closer to forty-five.

I almost cut myself several times despite her unending stream of instructions on proper knife skills.

Once that was done, the chopped materials neatly organized in separate ramekins and small bowls, she had me set out the other ingredients, as well as measuring cups and spoons.

As Wren instructed, I placed a Dutch oven on the stovetop and turned on the heat.

I crisped the bacon, browned the cubes of brisket, and added the other ingredients including red wine; by the time I’d covered the fragrant mixture in the pot and eased it into the preheated oven, I felt like I’d accomplished quite a bit.

“What about the potatoes?” I asked.

“We’ll keep those in the refrigerator for now. We’ll peel, chop, boil, and mash them later. They’re better right off the stove than if you have to reheat them.”

“Is that it, then? For now?”

“Not quite,” she said. She was leaning casually against the counter with one leg crossed in front of the other. “You need to clean up. Cutting board, knife, spoons, counters—all of it. A cluttered kitchen is the sign of a cluttered mind.”

“Is that a real saying?”

“If it’s not, it should be.”

I put the spices away, washed and dried everything I’d used, and wiped down the countertops.

“Where to?” I asked when I’d finished and dried my hands on a dish towel. “Unless you want to stay in here.”

She wrinkled her nose. “There’s no place to sit comfortably in the kitchen. I was thinking about the porch, but it’s too wet and cold outside.”

“The parlor then?”

“It feels like we always talk in the parlor.”

“We could try the dining room.”

“That’s even less inviting.”

“I’m running out of suggestions.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I always wished the main floor was bigger and that we had a music room or a conservatory, someplace comfortable but with a different atmosphere.”

“I could probably design something for you.”

“I’m sure you could,” she said. “But that’ll be for the next owners if I decide to sell.” She paused before her voice became more determined. “When I sell.”

“You’re selling?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Officially, I hadn’t even said those words to myself until just now.” She reached for her glass and stared into it before looking up at me again. For a moment the outline of her body shimmered and wavered but then stabilized again. I exhaled, relieved.

She went on. “I don’t think I could stay in Heatherington even if I wanted to.

For reasons we’ve talked about—and some we haven’t—it’s time for me to go, even if it scares me.

I actually met with a real estate agent a couple of weeks ago to get an idea of the market and what she thought the property’s value might be. ”

“And?”

“It’s a lot,” she said. “And that’s a different kind of frightening.”

“Why?”

“Because it means I have no more excuses,” she admitted. “I’d have enough money to move away or go to culinary school or even camp out on a tropical beach for a year to figure out my next steps.”

“I’m not sure I see the problem.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, studying her hands in her lap.

“My world has always been tiny compared to yours. It’s one thing to dream about living in Paris, but it’s entirely another to do it.

Even I know that dreams seldom match reality.

All I can really say for sure is that everything will be different when I sell the property, and that’s a little terrifying.

Here, as hard as it’s been lately, I know what to expect.

But out there in the big, wide world? Everything will be unfamiliar, and I won’t have this place to fall back on if it all goes sour. ”

Knowing what I did about her future, I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach. “I’m not sure what to say,” I murmured.

“There’s not a lot you can say.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “Unlike you, I’m not a brave person.”

“I don’t know about that. The unfamiliar is scary to me, too.”

“I doubt you’ve been afraid of anything.”

“Did I tell you that when Oscar came to my apartment and said he was finally bringing me to the hospital, I tried to escape?” When she shook her head, I went on.

“He helped me pack up and got me into the car, but when we stopped for gas, I told him I needed to use the restroom inside. I went straight out the back door instead. I knew I needed help, but I was mortified by what people were going to think about me. I imagined friends and clients pointing and whispering that I had spent time in the nuthouse. That I couldn’t handle my own life, or that I was messed up.

That even my closest friend knew I had serious problems. I didn’t want to be known, not only to others but to myself, as someone who was broken. ”

“Needing help doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

“It’s easy to say that now and I’m not embarrassed anymore.

But back then? I’m still not sure how I summoned the courage to go through with it.

Of course, Oscar wasn’t about to let me get away.

I hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot before he pulled up next to me and asked where I was going. I told him I was going home.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me to give it a shot for a week, and if I still wanted to leave after that, he’d pick me up and we’d figure out another plan.”

“He sounds like the best friend a man could ever have.”

“He is.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

I wondered if she could. “One day,” I said.

She pushed herself away from the counter and gave a languorous stretch, the neckline of her sweater slipping off one shoulder. “Why don’t we go sit on the love seat by the bookshelves? It’s close to the fire.”

“Let me get a refill and I’ll meet you there.”

I poured another glass and followed her, mesmerized by her graceful movements, the long lines of her body.

After spending so much time with her, I knew why Griffin had wanted to marry her not long after they started dating.

I imagined that he hadn’t been the only one who’d wanted her for himself; Wren, I suspected, had broken a lot of hearts.

She curled up on one side of the love seat while I added another log to the fire, adjusting it with the poker.

Though I settled on the other side of the sofa, there wasn’t much space between us.

I could feel the heat radiating into the room, and up close, her eyes caught the movement of the flames, glowing with a mysterious depth.

“You did well in the kitchen.”