FORTY-FOUR

IF I were going to sketch a picture of my mind, I decided it would look like the walls in this pretentious summer house. Stark white paint covered with frame lines, faint markings where pictures once hung.

My memories were haunted by ghosted works, too, frames with nothing inside. Something had been there once. I knew it. But I couldn’t see it.

With resolve, I counted my blessings instead. People in my life sincerely cared about me, including (as hard as it was to believe) my ex-husband. He seemed to have faith that my memories would return.

I had to admit, if my memory block was a waiting game, this house—even as vacant and hollow as it felt—made a vast improvement over that hospital room.

After my shower request, Matt took me up to the second floor, and showed me the master bedroom suite. The walls were as bare as the great room, but the king bed looked comfortable.

He turned on the bedroom’s gas fireplace, which made the large space seem a little cozier, and the bathroom was practically a mini spa with a teak floor, a walk-in shower/steam bath, and an odd, bucket-shaped bathtub made of hammered copper that Matt called a “Japanese soaking tub”—the name was to be taken literally. You weren’t supposed to bathe in it. You entered after showering yourself clean, and then you simply soaked.

“It’s very relaxing,” Matt promised.

“I’ll try it tomorrow,” I said.

Tonight, I didn’t want to be on my own. I wanted to shower quickly and learn more about my life. That was why I’d left the lonely hospital, to find connections—and coffee, which Matt went downstairs to make.

After my steamy “simulated rain” shower, I wrapped a bath sheet around me and blew my hair dry.

“I have something for you!”

Matt’s voice came from the next room—the bedroom. I tensed. What is he doing back up here in the bedroom?!

After a few minutes of silence, I peeked out of the master bath. Matt was gone. But he had left a few things behind. Laid out on the bed were a fluffy white terry-cloth robe; a pair of his sweatpants; one of his T-shirts; and a pair of his boot socks. He had also left a mug of freshly brewed coffee on the dresser. I picked up the mug and inhaled the rich, earthy warmth.

Ahhh . . . It smelled like ambrosia. I drank deeply and immediately felt more grounded.

A few minutes later, I was dressed in Matt’s comfy clothes, including the oversized tee, the thick socks on my feet, and the robe, which I’d wrapped tightly to keep me warm in this big, chilly house.

“Hey!” he called enthusiastically from the kitchen. “Feel any better?”

“Yeah. But the house is still cold.”

“I know. The great room is great for summer. Not so much in fall and winter. Give it time. You’ll warm up.”

“Are you cooking?” I asked, even though it was obvious. Matt’s hoodie was off, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and there were pots and pans on the stove.

He shrugged. “You said you were hungry.”

“Yes, but what could you possibly be making? Stone soup? Your fridge was bare.”

“But not the cupboards.”

Walking into the kitchen, I peered into the deep pot. A full pound of dried spaghetti was boiling in a small sea of salt water.

On the burner next to it, Matt was warming a skillet. Sipping my coffee, I leaned against the center island and watched him pour in generous glugs of olive oil, then use his cupped palm to add spices to the pan: garlic powder, rosemary, basil, oregano, and freshly ground black pepper.

“I know what you’re making,” I said.

“You remember?”

“Cacio e Matteo, right?”

It was Matt’s version of Cacio e Pepe, a popular Roman pasta dish. Literally it translates to “cheese and pepper,” and the ingredients were just that: Pecorino Romano cheese and ground or crushed black pepper, along with the pasta, of course.

When doing it the Roman way, I’d use the hot, starchy water from the pasta pot to help melt the grated cheese. Together they magically conjured a kind of quick sauce, right in the bowl.

My grandmother taught me the tricky maneuver, but Matt could never manage it. After we split, he tried to make the dish on his own, but instead of a smooth sauce adhering to the pasta strands, he only created a gloppy mess. His solution was to throw out the traditional version and improvise his own. This included a number of other ingredients that, once I tasted them, I happily approved of—and Joy announced she preferred.

“Wasn’t it Joy who christened the dish Cacio e Matteo?” I asked.

“Yes, she did—about a year after our fried chicken peace talks. You still remember that, right?”

“Yes, Chef Sherlock remembers.”

“Then you’re retaining the recovered memories. Good, Clare. We have to keep it up.”

“Fine. But first, let’s eat.”