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He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I didn’t see her often. I was busy with my firm. She was still in college. But I had always been her big brother, charged with defending her and protecting her. That I couldn’t do so that night was a terrible feeling.”
“I can only imagine.” She put a hand on his arm. “When did it happen?”
“Three years ago.” His eyes scanned her face, wondering if she had any idea of the connection between them. Wondering if something might dislodge a memory. “Eleanor was twenty two. And pregnant.”
“Oh, God.” Chloe’s hands covered her mouth, and for a second, Hendrix thought the whole sordid mess might have untangled in her mind. But she was only expressing sympathy for his situation, not realisation. “What a tragedy. Did they get the guy?”
“The guy?”
“The drink driver?”
His black eyes flickered with some unknown emotion. “Not yet. But I have a feeling fate won’t be kind to him.”
Chloe wanted to step up on tiptoes and kiss him. Only Ellie’s curious little presence stopped Chloe from reacting in the way that her instincts demanded.
“I suspect you’re right. These things have a way of evening out.” The butter began to fizz noisily and she moved back to give it a stir. The diced onions and garlic were in a little bowl; she upended it into the butter and moved them around until they glistened in the fat.
“Where did you learn to cook?” He asked, fascinated by the ease with which she added ingredients to the pan. She didn’t seem to be following a recipe, other than one in her head. Every now and again, she’d tilt a spoon into the sauce and taste it, then nod or shake her head and further adjust the seasoning.
“My mother was a chef. My childhood was spent at her feet, amongst the potato peelings and smell of soups.” She pulled a glass container from the fridge and laid it down on the bench top. Ellie’s cheese had long since disappeared, and Chloe furnished her with half a banana. “They had their own pub. Mum and dad.” Her eyes, when they lifted to his, were sparkling with pleasurable memories. “I grew up in the kitchen. It would have been impossible not to pick some things up.”
“The opposite to my experience,” his grin was lopsided and it set her heart going at a gallop.
“Why? In what way?” She’d made the gnocchi earlier that day and it was now perfect. Cold enough to add to the water and hold its shape. Hendrix peered into the container, marvelling at the neat little oval shaped pasta pieces.
“Neither my mother or father had any interest in cooking.” He moved closer to the stop, to see the sauce that was bubbling away. “My mom was French, and she used to joke that we ate Continental dinners. You know. Platters. Cheese, bread, fruit, nuts. She didn’t like to cook, but she liked food.”
Chloe turned the temperature up on the saucepan, and added a glug of oil. “That sounds romantic.”
He couldn’t resist pressing a finger against her cheek. It was soft and pink from the heat of the kitchen. “Flour,” he said apologetically, when her eyes flew to his face. “Yes, it was romantic. My parents were artists. My memories are all against the background of bohemian irresponsibility and joie de vivre.”
“Really?” She asked, the picture she had subconsciously formed of his childhood. “How wonderful!”
His face shifted into a mask of exaggerated chagrin. “At times, yes. My father would play the guitar, soft Spanish style songs that filled our home with music. My mother would dance, tall and slender, with long black hair and bright red lips. And they’d laugh, often. Yes, Chloe, you would have found enough in my childhood to warrant the belief in fairy tales.”
Chloe lifted the container from the bench and gradually began to add the gnocchi to the boiling water.
“Yet you speak of it with a hint of disdain?” She prompted deceptively.
His brows lifted at the question, but he nodded. “It is not ideal for a child to feel they are the most adult person in the house.” He shook his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. “From paying bills to buying food, my parents were far too caught up in the enchantment of life to go through the motions of something so boring as grocery shopping or checking my school work.”
Chloe’s gaze drifted thoughtfully to Ellie. “Children change you,” she said. “At least, that’s been my experience.” She grinned up at him. “Imagine how footloose and fancy free they must have been before they had you!”
He grimaced. “I can’t even think.”
Chloe stirred the creamy mushroom sauce once more, and then leaned against the bench. “The gnocchi just needs a few minutes to cook,” she explained.
“And you?” He queried, silkily, as though she hadn’t spoken.
“And me, what?”
“You said children change you. How has Ellie changed who you are?”
“Oh.” She bit down on her soft lower lip. “Well, for one thing, Ellie holds a mirror up to who I am. I look at the decisions I’ve made through the filter of her making the same mistakes, and it scares me.” She lowered her voice. “If she had married someone like William, I’d have kidnapped her and taken her out of the country.”
He didn’t laugh. In fact, he could understand the sentiment. “My sister, Eleanor, was involved with a man I despised. A man who wasn’t good for her, and certainly wasn’t good enough for her. But she thought herself in love, and no matter how I encouraged her to leave him, she dug her heels in.”
“Do you regret not kidnapping her?” Chloe asked, the gnocchi forgotten as she got lost in the landscape of his dramatic face. All hard ridges and planes, shadows and darkness. She wanted to map it using only her lips.
