Chapter 18: Pancakes for One

Maggie's POV

I woke at six to the smell of butter and the sound of a spatula.

For a moment I did not know the ceiling.

Then I remembered I was in my own bed, with the baby asleep in the bassinet by the wall.

A man was cooking in my kitchen.

I put on my robe and went down.

Caleb stood at the stove in yesterday's shirt.

A bag of flour and a carton of eggs from the diner sat on the counter.

The back of his neck was red.

"I didn't want to wake you," he said, without turning.

"You made pancakes."

"I made pancakes."

"In my kitchen."

"Your stove is better than mine. It has a real flame."

I sat down at the table and he set a plate in front of me.

Three pancakes, with butter and a little pitcher of syrup he had brought across the lane in his coat pocket.

I looked at them.

I had read about a hundred and one breakfasts, made for somebody else.

I had never once been handed one.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing."

"You've got the face."

"What face?"

"The one you made at the school."

"It's nothing," I said. "It's just the first time."

He sat across from me and did not say anything clever.

He poured his own coffee and waited until I had taken a bite.

It was a good pancake.

It was light and a little too brown at the edges, and I ate all three.

"Don't count them," I said, when the plate was empty.

"I'm not counting."

"Good."

"I'm remembering," he said. "It's different."

I put my hand over his on the table.

We stayed that way until Poppy woke up and told us she had opinions.