“No. I’m either eating military cafeteria food, MREs when we’re on assignment, or takeout or restaurant food when I’m with my family.”
“I forgot your mom doesn’t cook.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “She’s great, and I’m not complaining, but home-cooked food is my favorite thing—well, next to my M4 Rifle.”
Her brow furrowed at that, and he realized his mistake. She’d seen something horribly violent, and from what he remembered, she’d never been a fan of weapons.
“Sorry,” he said.
She waved that away. “So what are your favorite foods?”
He thought about it. “If I tell you, you don’t have to make them. You don’t even have to cook. Just because I love food doesn’t mean I want you slaving in the kitchen while we’re here.”
She smiled wryly at him. “I enjoy cooking, and it gives me the chance to create, since I can’t be in my lab.”
“You miss your lab?” he guessed, munching on his fajita.
“Horribly, but …” She gestured at the beautiful landscape outside. “This isn’t torture.” Her smile slipped as soon as she said the word “torture.”
“I wish I could take away what you’ve seen,” he said before he could stop himself.
She watched him, her deep blue eyes serious. “You’ve probably seen worse.”
“Maybe, but I signed up for it.”
She bit at her lip. “Nobody should have to see that—or worse, have it happen to them.”
Isaac agreed.
“Does it get better?” she asked, her lip trembling.
“Yes,” he said. “You don’t forget it, but with a lot of prayer, talking with the right person, and sometimes professional help, it stops being the first thing you think about in the morning, or the thing you dream about at night.”
She considered that for a moment and then picked at another bite. They ate quietly for a while, and Isaac waited for her to either talk more about what she’d seen and what she feared, or move on.
“So what are your favorite foods?” she asked.
Isaac smiled at her. She was resilient, but he’d still like for her to talk about the trauma she’d been through and get it off her chest. “I remember your mom made us homemade bread and potato soup when we came to visit you in San Francisco once. That’s a taste I’ve never forgotten.”
If she was bothered by his reference to her recently departed mother, she didn’t act like it. “Mom’s bread was amazing.” She paused for a moment and then said, “Do you have things to do this afternoon, or are you going to sit and stare at me as I cook?”
He’d happily sit and stare at her, but he admitted, “I need to set up some perimeter security.”
Her gaze sharpened on him. “Do you think he’ll come after us here?”
“No,” he said. “It’s just precautionary.”
“Okay.” She smiled bravely. “You get going on that, and I’ll cook.”
He smiled too. He could get used to this arrangement.
* * *
Cooking had always soothed Cosette, and she busied herself in the sunny, open kitchen, making bread, potato soup, and chocolate chip cookies before throwing a salad together. It was a little odd to be cooking soup and bread when an eighty-degree breeze was flittering around her from the open-air house, but she thought it was very sweet that Isaac had remembered her mom cooking for his family. Cosette could think of dozens of times that her mom had made this same meal for her and her dad. She missed her. Her mom had loved and embraced Cosette’s impulsive, flighty nature. She knew it worried her dad.
All of her work that afternoon proved to be worth it. When Isaac came in, he reacted to the smell of fresh-baked bread with over-the-top gratitude. They carried a comfortable conversation as they ate, talking about what each of his siblings were up to. After dinner, they cleaned up side by side, he kept thanking her for the delicious food. She accepted his praise, but she wanted to ask him if he still thought she was “adorable,” or if the fact that she could cook and bake had made him realize she was a woman, not the whimsical teenager she’d been. Yet she liked her whimsical side, even missed it. The terror of Vance and the loss of her mom had pushed it away. Being here with Isaac restored it. If only she knew he didn’t think of her as a child.
The sun was dipping toward the west as they finished cleanup, and Cosette wasn’t sure what they’d do with themselves. There was no Wi-Fi here; she’d checked, but her computer hadn’t worked. Maybe they could watch one of the DVDs she’d seen stacked by the television or play cards or something. She felt restless just thinking about sitting around and watching a movie.