“I’m recording light on silver atoms,” Jacob says, snapping a picture of me in the kitchen.
“You’re what?” I pat down my hair. I’m not prepared for another session for the scrapbook.
“You know, imprinting your beautiful face on photographic paper.”
“Lined with silver,” I say.
“Absolutely. That’s how real photographs are made. Not the digital ones.”
“Please don’t take any more pictures of me cooking.” I push my hand over the camera lens. “I can’t even boil an egg. I turn everything I touch into stone—or ash.”
“The Medusa Touch,” he says. “With the Medusa hair.”
“Stop,” I say, yanking the camera out of his hand.
“Too late. Your beautiful image has been committed to film.”
“Then uncommit it.”
He kisses my cheek. “Not a chance. Come on. I’ll show you how to cut the sweet potatoes. But first we have to clean them.” We wash all six small sweet potatoes in cold water.
“Show me your magic,” I say.
“Glad to oblige.” He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me bodily, heading for the bedroom.
“That’s not what I meant!” I laugh, squirming out of his arms. “I meant your magic cooking techniques.”
“Oh, that.” He feigns a look of disappointment. “Fine. The recipe calls for the sweet potatoes halved with the skin still on.” He hands me the gleaming, serrated knife. “Don’t cut yourself. I’ll cube the squash.”
On the countertop, the pear-shaped squash leans to one side, misshapen and bulbous. We could plant our own vegetables in my mother’s old garden, Jacob whispered long ago. We would never have to leave the island.
How lovely that would be, I said. A gorgeous burgundy sunset spilled across the sky. As that summer day left us, I felt my hopes and dreams taking leave, too. How could I possibly stay in this magical world of forests and birds, sunsets and beaches? The island felt uncomplicated in comparison to my life in the city. How I loved the rosy twilight reflecting off the sea, the unhurried days exploring the tide pools and quiet trails. But I had to go back to my obligations, clogged highways, and the frenetic pace of life. In Seattle, I sense that every hour was spoken for. I had no time to plant anything at all.
“Where was your mother’s old garden?” I say.
“What?” The knife slips from his hand, hitting the counter with a clang.
“The last time we were here, you mentioned your mother’s garden.”
He picks up the knife. “Over there.” He points to the south side of the house, toward the cottage. “I’ll show you when we have time. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be great,” I say.
Look at all these weeds, he said. He kneeled in the soil to yank out dandelions, almost angrily, as if they had invaded his mother’s neglected garden on purpose.
I place a sweet potato on the cutting board, slice down the center, splitting the potato in half. On another cutting board, Jacob slices the squash, revealing a core full of seeds.
“Did we make food together a lot, like this?” I say, slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.
“Sometimes. I cooked, you helped.” As he chops the squash, he drops the cubes into a measuring cup. The countertop shimmers and changes color from pale granite to cerulean blue. The kitchen cabinets elongate. They were different, a lighter oak color. I’m seeing our old kitchen on the mainland. The sink had a two-handled faucet, unlike this one with a single handle. The house felt large, empty. I’d left the lasagna to cook too long. The top had burned and dried up. I was in a panic.
Jacob strode in. He took one look at my stricken expression and rolled up his sleeves . . . I’ll fix this, he said.
It’s ruined, I said. I can’t do this. I never should have tried.
Allow me. An incredible feeling of relief washed through me.
The kitchen morphs back into the cottage kitchen. I wrap my arms around his waist, pull him close.
“What’s this?” he says.
“I’m just appreciating you.”
“I’ll take a few orders of appreciation to go,” he says.
“I was remembering something. Did our old house have light oak cabinets and a blue countertop?”
He gives me a look of shock, which quickly melts into a grin. “You’re close. The countertops weren’t blue. They were leaning more toward green.”
“Funny, I remember them as blue,” I say.
“In what context?” He turns on the oven to preheat to 400 degrees, pulls two large baking sheets from a high cabinet.
“You were cooking . . . and I was upset. In anguish about having burned lasagna. Someone important must’ve been coming over . . . and I wanted to impress.”
He frowns. “Burned lasagna, let me think. That must’ve been the night Professor Brimley was coming over for dinner.” He’s arranging the squash and sweet potatoes on the baking sheets. He drizzles them with coconut oil and slides the baking sheets into the oven.