Page 57 of Afraid to Hope

“It’s stamped. L-91. And?” He placed it on the table in front of him.

“I think it goes to a safe-deposit box. I also found this,” she said cheerfully. “Put your hand out again.”

Bane played along, amused by Natasha’s bossiness, enjoying how she cupped her hand into his waiting one. Heat surged through him at her touch. She deposited something cool and metallic.

“Another key.”

“Yes,” she said, relieving him of his beer and slipping onto his lap, facing him. “Look at it.”

“I’d rather look at you. In all honesty, I’d rather do some other things too.” He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her in, rubbing her back softly while running his tongue over her collarbone.

“I’m serious,” she scolded, drawing away. “Look at it.”

“Fine,” he groused. Bane examined the key and his expression changed from pouty to surprised. He sat up straighter and grabbed the key attached to the Fatima, positioning the two side by side. “Where did you get this second one?”

“It was tucked inside Pépé’s note.”

“Fuck. They appear to be twins. Do you have any idea where this box could be?”

“Not at this time.”

“Okay. Next question. Do you have any idea what the box might contain since your grandfather apparently had access?”

“No idea, but after we turn this place inside out tonight, maybe.”

Bane rubbed at his face in frustration. “You and I are going to have to wait. Let’s get a jump on it.”

“Are you going to call Simon in?”

“Simon?”

“Yes.” She chuckled. “Remember him? Your good friend staying with us while he’s here on business and house-sitting while we’re traveling for my work? Presently searching through cookbooks in the kitchen? We need to go help Simon with the books.”

“I completely forgot about him. Between this and my fascination with you, I’m a lost man.”

When Natasha and Bane returned to the kitchen, Simon was lounging against a cabinet, well into paging through a cookbook. “I’ve made some notes. Per your instructions, there was nothing in three of the gardening books. However, uh”—he glanced over the shorter stack next to his hip and tapped on the top book,The Mediterranean Gardener—“in this book there was something in the margin on page seventeen that stood out, so I bookmarked it with a scrap of paper and wrote it in my notepad.” He lifted up a tome of a cookbook from his lap.Mastering the Art of French Cooking. “I found a similar reference a few pages ago, on page 317. Bookmarked and noted it as well. Julia Child. She was something else, eh? My mum attempted to make one or two of her recipes when I was a wee lad, but, well… Mum wasn’t much of a cook.”

“My grandmother referred to this cookbook as the bible of French cooking. We used it constantly. What was the reference?” Natasha asked excitedly.

Bane still stood behind Natasha and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Simon?”

“Letters and numbers. They stood out because the rest of the notes are just that, in French, such as “added a sprinkle more sugar” or “Tasha’s favorite.” Some are dated, others aren’t. I enjoyed the story you, I assume, and your grandmother created in the master gardening book. It spans about fifteen years. Remarkable,” he commented kindly.

Natasha had forgotten about that. Her throat burned and she looked away, blinking rapidly.

“I’m sorry, Natasha. Did your grandmother pass recently?”

Natasha nodded. “This year.”

Simon waited a minute before continuing. “What has jumped out at me so far are these notations. L-91, JBA3 in the gardening book, and L-91, TA17 in Julia Child’s book. Very similar, and in the same script. Undated and—” Simon stopped talking at Natasha’s sharp intake of breath.

Bane directed Natasha to a chair at the table.

“Can I see them, Simon?”

“Sure.” Simon rose and stepped next to Natasha with the two books. He laid each open in front of her.

Natasha traced the writing lovingly, her voice soft. “This is Mémé’s writing.” She felt her resolve returning, and her eyes moved between Bane and Simon. “Let’s get on with it.”

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