Kathryn Shay - A Man She Couldn't Forget

Because she abandoned you. And Dee. And Max. Even her own sister.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had a Clare hex on him, and nothing could dispel it. He’d felt this way since the first day he met her…

“THE MEAL WAS TERRIFIC.” Brady lazed back in his chair and spoke to Josie, the owner of Meloni’s. This place was Max and Don and Delia’s favorite restaurant, and his other cotenant in the house worked here. Having recently moved into the old Victorian, Brady had yet to meet Clare Boneli.

“Our assistant chef made it.” The small, white-haired Italian woman smiled. “Which of course is why you’re here.” She picked up Brady’s credit card—he insisted on paying—and smiled at his friends. “I’ll be right back. Want something else?”

“Cappuccino would be nice,” Don suggested. “Maybe the chef can join us.”

“Sure. She’s cleaned up already.”

When Josie left, Brady asked, “That meal was something. Where did she learn to cook like this?”

Delia grinned like a proud mama. “After college, she went to culinary school, then she studied in France awhile.”

She explained more about Clare’s background until they heard, “Talking about me behind my back?”

Turning, Brady saw a slender blonde with eyes the color of grass carrying a tray of mugs.

“Yep, I’m filling Brady in.”

Brady stood, took the tray and set it down. “You must be the chef.” He held out his hand. “I’m the new tenant, Brady Langston.”

Her grip was firm. “Clare Boneli.”

They both took seats.

“Your Zucchini Boneli was wonderful.”

“My grandmother’s recipe.” She motioned to the mugs she’d set on the table. “Drink up before your cappuccino gets cold. I poured myself one, too.” She wore plain black pants that accentuated long legs and a white blouse that accentuated…He dragged his eyes to her face.

“Most of her recipes come from her extended Italian family,” Delia said. “But she puts her own pizzazz in them.”

A blush kissed Clare’s cheeks. It was adorable.

Brady sipped his cappuccino. “The drink is different, too. What’s in it?”

“A dash of nutmeg.”

“Unusual. As was the zucchini. What’s its secret?”

“Fresh zucchini, for one. I used to go out to the garden with Grandma and pick it. Couldn’t let it get too big, though, or it would be tough.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with your grandmother?”

“I lived with her.” Real sadness filled her eyes. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was ten. Grandma and Grandpa moved to America to take care of us. Grandma only died five years ago. I still feel her loss.”

“I’m sorry.” Brady cleared his throat. “My dad died recently.” The expression on her face was so empathetic, at that moment he felt a strong connection with her. “It’s hard for me. But you were so little when your parents died. That must have been really tough.”

“It was. Grandma Clarissa was wonderful, though. She taught me to cook.”

“Her and culinary school and France.”

Clare shook her head. “You have to stop bragging, Dee. Let Brady get to know me on his own.”

“Finish telling me about the recipe.”

“Along with extra sausage, I use cream and butter in the mixture.”

He patted his stomach. “Oh, man, I’m going to have to work out extra hard tomorrow to stay in shape.”

“Hmm. Maybe we can run together. I can’t get Don or Max to go with me.”

A huge grin. “I’d like that.”

After they’d gotten back to the house and Max and the Kramers had gone to their respective places, Brady and Clare had talked long into the night. About their pasts. Their families. Their successes and failures.

She’d had big dreams then, as had he. They’d shared those, too. Who knew that, in the end, those dreams would pretty much destroy their relationship?

“THIS IS SILLY. I CAN’T EVEN go into my own kitchen?” Clare stood at the threshold of her bedroom, staring out at the hallway that led to the rest of the condo. After leaving Delia’s, she and Brady had taken a walk, come back to the house, sat in the backyard and had lunch delivered. Then she’d come up to rest. Clare had fallen asleep just before Brady went to work in his home office. And now, at 4:00 p.m., she was restless. She sensed she wasn’t used to inactivity. Hadn’t she found sneakers and tennis shoes, along with a racket, in her closet? It was time she broached her own kitchen. She wanted to see her cookbooks. Get a glimpse of her old life.

Should she wait for Brady? He’d asked her to. Again she glanced at the hallway. Hell, she was thirty-six years old. She could go anywhere in her house if she wanted to. Besides, she had to start making her own decisions again. She knew in her heart it wasn’t her style to let someone else do it for her.

Still, it was with tentative steps that she walked down the hall, through the living and dining rooms. When she reached the archway of the kitchen, she stopped and surveyed the area. Immediately a sense of well-being flooded her. This was Clare’s space. She could feel it in her bones, her hands, even her breath. No longer afraid, she walked to the center island and smiled as she ran her hand over the granite countertop.

It was new, she realized. She’d remodeled in here, though she couldn’t recall what the old kitchen was like. She took in the triple-bowled sink in the island, the built-in soap dispenser, Sub Zero refrigerator and two ovens.

There was a second smaller fridge under the counter. Pulling it open revealed a cold wine storage filled with several bottles.

We’ll have the Romanée-Conti tonight, Clare. Brady had drawn out the several-hundred-dollar bottle. Publishing your first cookbook is a big deal.

Emboldened, she looked around for the books themselves. She caught sight of a display on a set of oak shelves on the far wall. When she got up close, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, good Lord, I don’t believe it.”

Face out were six cookbooks. All entitled In Clarissa’s Kitchen, Meals and Memories from Italy. Her picture, with long hair, was on the cover of each. The first showed her in a casual dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Volumes two and three sported a similar pose. In four, though, her outfit was more sophisticated, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. Gracing the covers of the last two volumes were photos in different expensive outfits and more conservative hairdos.

What was that? Next to each of the cookbooks was a glossy version. Picking one up, she was hit with a flash of memory.

We got a coffee-table book contract, Clare. The publisher wants to do versions for display.

Whose voice was that? Jonathan’s? No, she was sure it wasn’t. Who then? Was someone she worked with totally missing in her life now?

Feeling as if she were about to step off a cliff, she opened the cover. On the inside flap was A Note from Clarissa.

Welcome to my world of cooking. On the pages that follow, though, you’ll find much more. Accompanying the recipes are anecdotes from my childhood right through to today, letters to people who inspired me, and much more, all associated with my life and food. Mostly, they’re a tribute to my grandma, Clarissa Boneli, who raised me. I hope you enjoy these great recipes and uplifting stories. Mangia!

Suddenly she realized she held a journal of sorts of her life. She swallowed hard and her hand tightened on the book. Should she read it? Would it be too much? She began to tremble—in anticipation or dread?

The decision was taken from her by a knock on the door Brady had asked her to leave ajar. He appeared in the archway. Still wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d walked in, he looked concerned. “You’re awake.” He raised dark brows. “And came out here by yourself? I thought we agreed at lunch that you’d wait for me.”