Page 58 of Afraid to Hope

Simon placed the other cookbooks on the table. Thankfully, all were considerably smaller than Julia Child’s classic, allowing the three of them to quickly examine the margins.

Natasha pushed the surging memories and accompanying emotions away as she read through the marginalia, until she landed on a very personal note in the baking book. The recipe heading was blacked out. In the margin next to it was a red heart edged with scrolling and smaller hearts. Within the heart, her grandmother had writtenNATASHA’S CAKE. Below it, she had added, “You are the greatest blessing, my darling heart” and a long column of annual recordings of Natasha’s birthdays. The last date was before her grandmother died.Had Mémé made the special, dense chocolate Bundt cake with ganache icing although she had been abroad or just noted her birthday?Even if her grandmother had not baked her favorite cake, the fact that Natasha had been foremost on Mémé’s mind every year she was absent—well, it was too much. Natasha jumped from her chair and flew through the french doors to the expansive outdoor space.

Bane stood behind her and rumbled softly, “Too much, huh?”

Natasha nodded mutely.

“Your grandmother loved you deeply.” He ran his large palms over her upper arms and paused, applying gentle pressure to turn her toward him. “You know, you don’t always have to be so strong, Nat. So impenetrable. I know you’ve experienced a lot of loss and pain. Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispered, swallowing as he took in her wet cheeks and tear-filled eyes.

She wiped at her cheeks with annoyance. “I’m fine,” she said dismissively.

“You’re right. You are fine, but why settle for that when you could be much more? Feeling and reacting is not a weakness. It’s healthy. It helps to strengthen a person. Allows that person to better know themselves. Their limits. Their desires and dreams. To trust.”

“You are borderline lecturing me.”

“Given what you and I are starting here, yeah, I am. Tough shit. I’ve experienced layers of you when you allow me in, and I’m talking beyond our physical chemistry. Fuck, it’s mind-blowing. But then you shut down and I’m reeling. I want you to be vulnerable with me. I ache for you to trust yourself, to trust me.”

Natasha looked away, inhaling deeply. When she looked up at him, the steel was back in her eyes, and so was fear. “What are we starting here, Bane?”

He stroked the silky tresses back from her temples and pulled her forehead against his. Bane framed her head gently with his hands as his lips trailed down her delicate nose and captured her full lips. Natasha kissed him back, and they leisurely explored each other’s mouths. She cupped the back of his head and pulled him closer as his hands slid down over her ass, molding her to his pelvis and rigid length. Natasha moaned and Bane broke off the kiss before they succumbed to the fire building between them, panting and pressing his forehead more firmly against hers.

“Our future,” he breathed.

“Glad to see you have returned,” Simon said, looking up from a cookbook. His gaze lingered on Natasha’s and Bane’s joined hands. He shook his head. “This is mad.”

“Sorry. We lost track.”

Simon fixed them with a steady look. “That is not what I am referring to. Whilst you were otherwise indisposed, I made some headway. Just about all these books were blank,” he said, nodding to the pile to his right. “Except the one on top. It contained an interesting comment, next to a suggestion of a wine pairing for a delectable ortolan bunting.” He glanced at his notes. “Safe choice Casa’s Populaire ’91.”

“What? That makes no sense.” Natasha sat at the table across from Simon. “To my knowledge, my grandmother never served that dish. That particular bird, the ortolan bunting, was banned from consumption because it was almost eaten to extinction. I know this because my grandparents and I saw one during its migration when we were on holiday in the Atlas. They told me the bird’s sad story. Mémé would have abided by the law.”

Simon pulled the book from the stack and held it up. “It’s in here,” he said, glancing at his notepad. “Page seventeen.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing that book.”

“It’s very old, and the front of it is inscribed in English, which is surprising. All the other inscriptions and marginalia in the books are in French. ‘To my loving Josette. May you discover how things should come together. Tasha L. ’91.’”

“What?”

“To my loving—”

“No! Tasha?”

“TashaLperiod ninety-one.”

“Let me see that please,” she said, hand extended. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the words. “The comment is on page seventeen?”

“Yes.” Simon handed the book to Natasha.

Bane watched with interest as Natasha flipped to the page and studied her grandmother’s writing, then returned to the cover page to read the inscription. She paged slowly through the thin, small book. “There are no other notes in the book.”

“No.”

Natasha suddenly sat ramrod straight, her gunmetal-gray eyes shining as they bounced from Bane to Simon. “I think I’ve solved the riddle,” she said excitedly, rising and beginning to pace. “See if this makes sense to you. Mémé switched herself and me in the inscription. L-91 is the number on the key I received from the courier and also on the key enclosed in Pépé’s note from the Fatima door knocker. Mémé used this book because of the ortolan bunting recipe, knowing it would draw my attention if I found it. Her notation reiterates the number on the two keys, as does the inscription.” Natasha stopped, smiling from ear to ear. “And she gave us the final piece, what we’ve been looking for. Where the safe-deposit box is. I’m sure of it.Safe choice Casa’s Populaire ’91is not a wine. Populaire is a bank where my grandmother had a private account, here in Casablanca.Casa.Casablanca’s nickname. Whatever we’re looking for is in a safe-deposit box, L-91, in that bank. All these keys open the same lock!”

Bane spoke up. “Makes perfect sense to me. How do we access it?”

Natasha paused. “With one of these keys, I hope.” She resumed pacing. “I have access. Mémé had me sign a form for her safe-deposit box when I turned twenty-one. She gave me a key to it, which is in my townhouse in Cape Town. Jesus!” She stopped again. “I didn’t even think to look at it because I have never felt the need to use it. Let’s assume my key is another duplicate fourth. So who had the key that was found at a cheese farm outside Imouzzer du Kandar? And where is Mémé’s?” She exited the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I need to check something.”

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