Something in her gaze warned me that I should decline, but I found myself nodding. “I would love something to eat,” I said.
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice soft. “I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”
We got out of the car as the rain began to fall harder. We made a dash for the front door, but by the time we reached the porch, I could feel the wetness soaking through the fabric of my clothes. Molly heard us, and as Savannah pushed open the door, the dog surged past me through the kitchen to what I assumed was the living room. As I watched the dog, I thought about my arrival the day before and how much had changed in the time we’d been apart. It was too much to process. Much the way I had while on patrol in Iraq, I steeled myself to focus only on the present yet remain alert to what might come next.
“We’ve got a bit of everything,” she called out on her way to the kitchen. “That’s how my mom’s been handling all of this. Cooking. We have stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna . . .” She poked her head out of the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. “Does anything sound appetizing?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Whatever you want.”
At my answer, I saw a flash of disappointment on her face and knew instantly that she was tired of having to make decisions. I cleared my throat.
“Lasagna sounds good.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get some going right now. Are you super hungry or just hungry?”
I thought about it. “Hungry, I guess.”
“Salad? I’ve got some black olives and tomatoes I could add. It’s great with ranch dressing and croutons.”
“That sounds terrific.”
“Good,” she said. “It won’t take long.”
I watched as Savannah pulled out a head of lettuce and tomato from the bottom drawer of the fridge. She rinsed them under the faucet, diced the tomatoes and the lettuce, and added both to a wooden bowl. Then she topped off the salad with olives and set it on the table. She scooped out generous portions of lasagna onto two plates and popped the first into the microwave. There was a steady quality to her movements, as if she found the simple task at hand reassuring.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a glass of wine.” She pointed to a small rack on the countertop near the sink. “I’ve got a nice Pinot Noir.”
“I’ll try a glass,” I said. “Do you need me to open it?”
“No, I’ve got it. My corkscrew is kind of temperamental.”
She opened the wine and poured two glasses. Soon she was sitting across from me, our plates before us. The lasagna was steaming, and the aroma reminded me of how hungry I actually was. After taking a bite, I motioned toward it with my fork.
“Wow,” I commented. “This is really good.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she agreed. Instead of taking a bite, however, she took a sip of wine. “It’s Tim’s favorite, too. After we got married, he was always pleading with my mom to make him a batch. She loves to cook, and it makes her happy to see people enjoying her food.”
Across the table, I watched as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. The red wine trapped the light like the facet of a ruby.
“If you want more, I’ve got plenty,” she added. “Believe me, you’d be doing me a favor. Most of the time, the food just goes to waste. I know I should tell her to bring less, but she wouldn’t take that well.”
“It’s hard for her,” I said. “She knows you’re hurting.”
“I know.” She took another drink of wine.
“You are going to eat, aren’t you?” I gestured at her untouched plate.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “It’s always like this when Tim’s in the hospital . . . I heat something up, I look forward to eating, but as soon as it’s in front of me, my stomach shuts down.” She stared at her plate as if willing herself to try, then shook her head.
“Humor me,” I urged. “Take a bite. You’ve got to eat.”
“I’ll be okay.”
I paused, my fork halfway up. “Do it for me, then. I’m not used to people watching me eat. This feels weird.”
“Fine.” She picked up her fork, scooped a tiny wedge onto it, and took a bite. “Happy now?”
“Oh yeah,” I snorted. “That’s exactly what I meant. That makes me feel