Chapter 22
A shriek shot Simeon up from his recliner.
What was that? Abigail?
He sprinted to the hallway, registering the open bedroom door just as sharp, staccato beeps pierced his ears. The smoke alarm.
“Abigail!”
“Help! Simeon!” The voice came from downstairs, and he hurtled toward it.
A thin, smoky haze hung in the air at the bottom of the steps, and Simeon’s stomach dropped.
“Abigail!” He raced toward the kitchen. The smoke was thicker in here, and flames climbed from a pot on the stovetop, reaching for the range hood. Abigail was at the sink, filling a bowl with water, her eyes wide as she stared over her shoulder at the fire.
“Don’t!” Simeon careened toward her and knocked the bowl out of her hand.
It landed in the sink with a loud clang, and Abigail screamed. “We have to put it out.”
Simeon lunged for the cupboard where they kept the pots, shoving things out of the way to grab the lid he needed.
“Be careful,” Abigail yelled as he moved close enough to slam the lid onto the pot. Immediately, the flames disappeared, and Simeon turned the burner off. He watched the pot a second longer to make sure it wasn’t going to flare up again.
Then he turned and without thinking crossed the room and pulled Abigail into his arms. “You’re all right,” he murmured, though he didn’t know whether he was trying to comfort her or himself. “You’re all right.”
She was trembling, but he felt her head bob against his chest. He tightened his arms, suddenly realizing it was the first time he’d held his wife in weeks. He never wanted to let go, even though the smoke still lingered in the air and the alarm kept up its shrill, persistent rhythm.
He tried not to think about what could have happened if he’d gotten down here a minute later and she’d thrown that water on the grease fire.
“Do you think we could make that noise stop?” Abigail asked after a few minutes.
Simeon nodded, his chin brushing the top of her head. But he held on for another minute before making himself let go. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you go sit in the living room? It’s probably not as smoky in there.”
“I have to clean this up.” Abigail gestured toward the scorched cooktop. Above it, the range hood appeared to be melted on the edges. And the pot was definitely done for.
“It’s still too hot.” He took her hand and pulled her gently toward the living room. “I’ll take care of it later.” He led her to the couch and made sure she sat. “I’ll be right back.”
He moved through the house, opening every window he could to let the smoke out. Then he grabbed a towel and stood under the smoke alarm, fanning at the smoke until the beeping stopped. He fanned another few minutes to make sure it wouldn’t start up again, but most of the haze of smoke seemed to have dissipated.
He returned to the living room and dropped onto the couch next to Abigail, who had set her knitting in her lap but wasn’t doing anything with it.
“That’s one way to wake a guy up,” he said.
Abigail giggled, and he turned his head toward her with a grin. He didn’t ever want to go through anything like that again, but he couldn’t regret making her laugh.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her smile fading.
He sat up and leaned toward her, letting his hand fall on the couch a few inches from her knee. “It was an accident. What were you doing?”
She sighed and looked away. “I wanted to make breakfast for you. To make up for ruining my birthday yesterday.”
“Abigail.” Simeon lifted his hand to her knee, not removing it until she looked in his direction. “You didn’t ruin your birthday. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”
He’d spent half the night thinking about it. And he’d concluded that as much as he wanted to be the one to help her, maybe he was too close to the situation. Maybe they needed to bring in someone else.
“You didn’t—” Abigail started, but he jumped in.
“I did. And I’ve been thinking—” He folded his hands in his lap so he couldn’t accidentally wrap them around hers. “Maybe we should see a counselor.” He caught his breath, unwilling to exhale. He’d suggested counseling to her a hundred times before the accident, and she’d always refused. But maybe now . . .
Her forehead crinkled. “I thought you were a counselor.”
Simeon let out a breath on a small laugh. That wasn’t a no. “I am. But even counselors need counseling sometimes. I just really want to . . . help you. But I think sometimes I’m getting in the way instead of . . .”
Abigail’s hand fell on top of his. “You’re not getting in the way,” she said quietly.
He swallowed, letting himself free his thumb to rub it over the back of her hand. “So what do you think about counseling?”
“Do you think it will help me get my memories back?”
Simeon sighed but met her eyes. He wasn’t going to lie. “I don’t know. But I think it will help us cope better.”
Abigail nodded. “Then I think we should do it.”
“Good.” He grinned at her. “I love you.”
She winced and stood, her hand skipping out of his. “I’m going to go put the food away.”
Simeon blinked at his empty hand, then stood as well, once again brushing off the hurt of not hearing her say the words. “I’ll help you.”
Abigail’s smile was small but genuine, and he followed her to the kitchen. She moved immediately to the table, which had been set for two, with a bowl of cut fruit, a pitcher of orange juice, and full mugs of coffee.
Simeon eyed the spread, his heart lightening. She’d gone through all of that effort for him. She picked up the bowl of fruit and carried it toward the fridge, but Simeon intercepted her, plucking the bowl out of her hands. “I’m starving.” He turned her back to the table. “Let’s eat.”
“There’s only fruit,” Abigail protested.
“I’ll get us some cereal. Go sit down.” He gave her a gentle nudge, and she obeyed.
Simeon grabbed a box of cereal, some bowls and spoons, and the milk. “There.” He set them on the table. “Breakfast is served.”
They were quiet for a moment as they passed cereal and milk and fruit back and forth. Then Simeon gave thanks for the meal—and for Abigail’s safety—and they dug in.
“Out of curiosity, what were you making?” Simeon gestured over his shoulder at the stove.
“I was trying to make donuts.” Abigail paused with a spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth. “I thought it would be kind of like knitting. What did you call it—procedural memory?”
He nodded.
“But I guess cooking doesn’t work that way,” Abigail added.
Simeon took a bite of cereal, thinking. “It should,” he finally said.
“Then how come—”
“Well.” Simeon couldn’t help the laugh. “You were always a terrible cook.”
Abigail blinked at him a moment. Then her laugh joined his, which only made him laugh harder.
Every time one of them would get their laughter under control, they’d look at each other and start in all over again.
By the time their laughs eventually trickled off, Abigail was grabbing her ribs. “Just so you know, laughing like that with broken ribs is not a good idea.”
“Sorry.” But he wasn’t. After the fear and tension of the morning—of the last several weeks—it had been exactly what they needed.