The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,52

tart in front of them. After a while, Isabelle spoke again. “You know,” she said, holding up a forkful, “I am starting to think that maybe memories are like this dessert. I eat it, and it becomes a part of me, whether I remember it later or not.”

“I knew someone who used to say something like that,” Tom said.

“Is that why you are sad?” Isabelle asked, and then saw his expression. “I’m sorry. My manners are going along with my memories.”

Tom shook his head softly. “Your manners are fine—and your mind is plenty sharp.” He blew across the surface of his coffee, took a sip. “My wife. She died a little over a year ago. She was a chef, and she always used to say the same thing about food. I try to believe it, but it was easier when she was here and the food was hers.”

“Ah”—Isabelle looked at Tom thoughtfully—“so we are not so different.”

“How is that?”

“We both have a past we can’t keep hold of.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Tom looked at her, as if waiting for something more.

“I used to know a sculptor,” Isabelle said, nodding. “He always said that if you looked hard enough, you could see where each person carried his soul in his body. It sounds crazy, but when you saw his sculptures, it made sense. I think the same is true with those we love,” she explained. “Our bodies carry our memories of them, in our muscles, in our skin, in our bones. My children are right here.” She pointed to the inside curve of her elbow. “Where I held them when they were babies. Even if there comes a time when I don’t know who they are anymore, I believe I will feel them here.

“Where do you hold your wife?” she asked Tom.

Tom looked at Isabelle, his eyes full. He put his right hand to the side of his own face, then took it away and adjusted the shape slightly.

“That is her jawline,” he said softly, running his left index finger along the half-circle at the base of his hand, then along the top curve where his hand met his fingers. “And here is her cheekbone.”

TOM EXCUSED HIMSELF on the pretense of going to the restroom, and went toward Lillian, who stood by the front door, a wine-glass in her hand, receiving the compliments of a departing couple. Tom looked around the dining room and was surprised to realize it was empty, except for Isabelle at their table.

Tom walked up and touched her shoulder. “I’d like to pick up Isabelle’s check,” he said.

Lillian smiled. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you for calling me. I don’t know how you always know…”

“Lucky guess,” Lillian said, raising her wineglass.

IT WAS COOL OUTSIDE, after the warmth of the restaurant. The streetlights shone through the new growth on the fruit trees of Lillian’s garden. Tom walked with Isabelle along the lavender path to the gate; out on the street, people walked by, their voices animated by the prospect of spring, discussing bedding plants and summer vacation plans.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Tom asked.

“Lillian knows to call me a taxi,” Isabelle said, motioning toward the street, where a yellow cab was pulling up to the curb. “My doctor says I’m not allowed to drive anymore.”

“It was a lovely evening,” Tom said. “Thank you.”

Isabelle leaned up and kissed him softly on the cheek.

“It was lovely. Thank you, Rory,” she said. She moved away and walked toward the cab that stood waiting under the streetlight.

Helen

Helen and Carl walked up the main street of town to the cooking class. It was a clear, cold evening in early February, the end of a miraculously blue day blown in from the north like a celebration. People in the Northwest tended to greet such weather with a child’s sense of joy; strangers exchanged grins, houses were suddenly cleaner, and neighbors could be found in their yards in shirtsleeves, regardless of the temperature, indulging a sudden desire to dig in rich, dark dirt.

In the soft circle of lamplight ahead of them, Helen and Carl saw a man reach the gate of Lillian’s restaurant; at the same time a woman approached from the other direction. The man unlatched the gate and stood aside to let the woman enter, his hand following her, unbidden, never quite touching her back and yet seemingly incapable of returning to his own side.

Helen watched the two walk up the path between the blue-gray lavender bushes—and the hand, the movement, the