Page 15 of Townshipped
“Hi, Aiden. I’m calling to check in on Em this morning.”
“Thanks for that. She seems to be doing well, except for the lost memories. She slept a lot yesterday. Ate lunch and dinner. We watched a movie in the afternoon. Otherwise, she hasn’t complained of pain or had any of the symptoms of concussion you told me to watch for.”
“That’s encouraging. I’ll be out after breakfast,” Hazel tells me. “Jesse’s coming along to make a missing person report.”
I groan almost inaudibly. Who am I kidding? I let out a fully audible groan. Jesse. He needs to come. Of course he does. He’s one of our local law enforcement—one of six on the force. Two of our officers are part-time, working on their family farms the rest of the time. Jesse’s my brother Trevor’s age, and he’s a decent enough guy, but a little too into his role as town policeman.
Hazel explains how a missing person report has to be filed since Em came from somewhere in Massachusetts, or at least the car she was driving did.
There’s no registration or insurance papers in the glove box, and the license plate is crunched and scraped beyond recognition, so we’re at a loss as to how to figure out any details about her life before the crash.
For all I know, she’ll snap out of her amnesia in this morning’s shower, come out here, ask to use the phone, and be on her way.
Hazel and I hang up just as Em comes down the hall, freshly showered and wearing a coral sweater and a pair of jeans. I pour her a cup of coffee and add a splash of creamer with no sweetener. Em cradles the mug with both hands and takes a sip.
I’m about to ask if she wants sugar when she says, “Perfection. How did you know how I take my coffee?”
“I took a guess.”
Em hums into the mug as she takes another sip. Then she walks to the island and hops up onto a stool. She seems more energetic today. Her forehead still has the gash which wasn’t deep but is about two inches long. The lump is already receding a bit.
I try to privately puzzle out more details about how she ended up here without making her feel like she’s the subject of my scrutiny. She did bring a suitcase, which means she was traveling to or from somewhere when she hit my tree. But why was she here in Bordeaux?
“Do you want eggs?” I offer.
“Sure?” she says almost as if it’s a question.
“I like mine scrambled with a little seasoning. I’ll make yours that way and you can see if you approve. If not, we’ll try something else.”
Her brows knit together. “I should know. I mean a woman should know how she eats her eggs.”
“You’ll know in less than five minutes. If you don’t like scrambled, we’ll try fried … can’t say I’ll poach an egg, but we can figure this out.”
She smiles softly. I busy myself getting out a pan, bowl, and eggs and start to cook. Then I pop two slices of bread into the toaster. When I look over at Em, she’s got a faraway look in her eyes as she gazes out the kitchen window toward the back of my property.
I scoop the eggs out of the skillet onto two plates, butter the toast, and pass a plate across to Em.
“I’ve got jam from last summer. Peach. Eventually I may plant some fruit trees, but for now, I take the easy route and trade with neighbors.”
Em puts a bite of egg into her mouth and hums as she chews.
“These eggs.” She nods and points her fork to them.
“You like?”
“Definitely. So you trade for jam? What do you trade?”
“Goat cheese. I make some twice a month and sell it. It’s far better fresh than that stuff they pass off at the grocery stores.”
“You make your own goat cheese?”
“It’s not really something to write on an online dating profile. But yes. I do.”
Em laughs. “So, you have an online dating profile?”
“I don’t, but I’ve considered making one since my family and friends constantly hound me about getting back into the dating scene. Well, my mom doesn’t merely want me to date. She comes right out and says she wants me married with kids, but I’m sure she’d settle for me getting into a serious relationship for starters.”
“Always a good thing,” Em says while she scoops some jam and slathers it on her toast. She bites into the corner and moans. “This is beyond delicious.”
