He’d started buttering slices of bread while he talked, and at the mention of Griffin he faltered for a moment, his hands going slack. Then he started up again, with more energy.
“Can you put the pan over the fire, please? You’re lucky I’ve cooked over a fire before when we’ve been camping, otherwise who knows how these would turn out.”
Mattie didn’t respond as he chattered away, but he didn’t seem to need her to do so. He was filling the space with words so he wouldn’t have to think. She knew that. She placed the heavy pan on the fire on the same grate that she used to fry eggs.
He carried one plate full of cheese slices and buttered bread over to the fire. Mattie watched as he put the bread into the pan. It sizzled immediately, filling the air with the scent of browning butter, and C.P. laid a slice of cheese on each slice of bread.
“Gotta keep a good eye on it with a cast iron pan like this,” he said. “The bread could burn before the cheese melts. I need a spatula or something, and a clean plate for the sandwich.”
Mattie handed him the turner she used for the eggs and after a very brief time he flipped the two bread slices together and then took the sandwich out and put it on a plate.
“Ta-da!” he said, and handed it to Mattie before repeating the process twice more.
“I always make two sandwiches,” he said. “One isn’t enough for me. It would be awesome if you had some bacon and tomato. That’s the best way to make a grilled cheese—cheddar, bacon and tomato. Although sometimes I like to get really fancy and use mozzarella and prosciutto. Griff got this fig butter from Trader Joe’s and I put it on a mozzarella and prosciutto sandwich and it came out ah-may-zing.”
Mattie wasn’t really listening. She was staring at the sandwich he’d made for her—at the browned edges, the caramel-colored crumb, the ooze of yellow cheese over the side.
“Eat it before it gets too cold. Grilled cheese is one of man’s greatest inventions but it is not delicious when it’s cold.”
Mattie placed the sandwich on the table and sat down in her accustomed chair. She lifted the sandwich to her mouth, bit down, chewed slowly.
A moment later C.P. sat down across from her with his own plate. “How is it? Hey, are you crying? Is it that bad?”
Mattie shook her head, wiped her streaming eyes. “Been . . . so . . . long . . .”
“So long since you had a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“No. Yes,” she said. She wished she could explain. “So . . . long . . . since . . . sandwich. But . . . also . . . since . . . someone . . . made . . . for . . . me.”
Mattie was always the one who did the cooking. It was expected of her, even if she was sick or injured. William didn’t do women’s work.
But she remembered her mother standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, flipping sandwiches together just like C.P. had done, and when Mom put the meal in front of her it wasn’t just food to fill her up. It was love, love that made her mom buy the soup with the letters in it in the first place, love that had her standing at the stove cooking sandwiches when she was so tired all she wanted to do was shove two slices of cheese between bread and hand it to her daughter cold.
Mattie didn’t know how to explain to C.P. that she was crying because the sandwich reminded her of her mother, and of home, and William had made certain she would never have her mother or her home again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was strange having another man in the cabin. C.P. talked continuously, about everything, about things Mattie didn’t even understand. He talked about television programs she’d never seen on channels that she didn’t know existed, about countries he traveled to, about the things he studied at school, stores he liked to shop at, board games he liked to play, foods he liked to eat.
“A lot of Asians are lactose intolerant, they can’t even eat a grilled cheese or ice cream or whatever without getting a stomachache, but my grandfather—my mom’s dad—is actually French so I guess I got the French cheese-eating gene. Lucky for me. I went to France a couple of years ago, just backpacked around during the summer school break, and all I ate was cheese and pastries for two months. And wine, of course.”
Mattie had never had wine. She only had the vaguest idea of France, of where it was, of what its people were like.
The more C.P. ate, the more he talked. It was like filling his stomach released some kind of block in his brain, and he talked and talked and talked.
William never talked like this. He told Mattie what she needed to do, and sometimes what he planned to do for the day, or he gave her a list of chores they’d need to complete to get ready for the next season. He never chattered idly or talked about his likes and dislikes.
Mattie didn’t know what William would list as a like or dislike, in any case. He didn’t seem to like anything, not even the girl he wanted to own so much he’d taken her from her family in the dead of night.
The fire warmed the room and the food warmed their bellies and the terrors of the night seemed far away. They were safe inside four walls that kept the monsters at bay.
Mattie felt her head falling forward, her eyelids drifting at half-mast. She sat up with a start.
“Hey, you’re dead on your feet,” C.P. said. “I am, too, I guess. Why don’t you go get in the bed with Jen and I’ll sleep out here on this couch thing?”
Mattie hesitated. She didn’t know if she wanted to get into bed with a stranger. She also
