Forgive and Forget(18)

He padded down the hall to the bathroom, and after washing up, shaving, and running a comb through his disheveled hair, he got dressed, smiling at the feel of his own clothes—the only thing connecting him to the man he was. They fit perfectly, from his dark jeans and charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt to his black socks and boots. He looked himself over in the mirror. Not much color in his wardrobe, but it felt right. The clothes were good quality, and his jacket a designer brand. Suddenly, a thought struck him. They’d taken his wallet but left a really expensive jacket behind.

With a frown, he looked down at his boots. They were worth a few hundred, easy. Why not take the boots? He couldn’t have had much in his wallet. Not more than what the boots and jacket were worth combined. What had he been doing in a garden, anyway? It was a strange place to end up, not to mention get mugged. Maybe he should check his jacket. Joe had mentioned there was no ID or anything on him, but maybe he missed something.

Tom found his jacket and sat down on the couch with it, carefully inspecting every pocket both outside and inside. He patted the sleeves and felt up the lining. He had no idea what he was looking for, but if he could just find something, he might have a lead. The motions seemed familiar to him.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he went over his jacket inch by inch, checking every stitch, every inch of fabric. His heart sank when all he found were traces of dirt and pink flower petals inside his right pocket. Dammit. With a heavy sigh, he threw his jacket on the couch cushion beside him. For a moment, he thought he might have found something, no matter how minimal.

Well, he wasn’t going to learn anything new moping around on the couch. He stood and walked to the kitchen when he heard the lovely melody of an old jazz song. He laid his head against the chipped wood of the door with a smile, letting the lyrics of some sweet love song wash over him. Just the thought of Joe made his insides go all warm again. Amazing. The man didn’t even have to be in the room and he managed to lift Tom’s spirit. Why?

This thing he had going on with Joe, it was strange. He shouldn’t feel this way about someone he’d known for such a small amount of time. Joe had every right to be cautious. Slowly, he pushed the swinging door open and peeked inside, biting his lip to keep himself from chuckling at the sight of Joe bouncing along to the tapping cymbals and vivacious brass, a tray of muffins in his mitted hands and a blue-and-white-striped apron tied around his waist, the color making his eyes seem more blue than green. Slipping inside, Tom watched Joe for a bit before speaking. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Jesus!” Muffins shot off the tray in a desperate attempt to escape, landing on the floor. Joe gazed down at the little scattered breads, lips pursed. “I dropped my muffins.”

“Man, I’m so sorry.” Tom quickly got to cleaning up the mess. “I’ll help you bake some more.” He tried not to laugh at the truly leery expression on Joe’s face. As if Tom had suggested they secretly use his baked goods as a means to smuggle illegal contraband out of the country.

After a quick shake of his head to snap himself out of it, Joe smacked Tom’s hand away. “Stop sneaking up on me like that, and maybe I’ll let you help. Hopefully, the extent of your culinary prowess is better than Donnie’s.”

Having collected what was left of the rogue baked goods, Joe stood and Tom followed him over to the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen where Joe replaced his food gloves with new ones.

“I take it the kid’s not the greatest cook,” Tom said. Not that he was any kind of expert himself. Or was he? Something told him he did okay, but wasn’t really any kind of chef. He loved food as much as the next guy, but the thought of sweating away over a hot stove didn’t appeal to him.

“Have you ever seen bread spontaneously combust?” Joe asked casually. Tom shook his head. “Well, I have. I tell you, it’s heartbreaking. I’m still trying to figure out how he did it.”

Tom laughed, leaning his elbows on the table only to get a light smack on the arm.

“I prepare food on here. Go wash up to your elbows. And stop with the face.”

Rubbing his arm as if it was sore, Tom’s brows rose inquisitively. “What face?”

“That face.” Joe pushed the tip of his index finger against the end of Tom’s nose, his eyes narrowed. “The puppy face.”

“I have a puppy face?” Somehow he was pretty sure puppy was not a term often associated with him. Tom tried not to let too much of his amusement show. Joe would probably whack him again. He cleared his throat and nodded very somberly. “I’ll uh, keep that in mind.”

Deciding it was best to let Joe get on with whatever he was doing, Tom did as Joe asked and washed. When he was done, he pulled a stool over to the end of the table, content to just watch until he was given something specific to do. He noticed the multitude of ingredients scattered about. He would never have guessed it took all that to make a pie. There was flour, brown sugar, lemon juice, a collection of little bottles that appeared to be extracts, smaller containers with powders of which Tom could distinctly smell cinnamon—a scent he was coming to associate with Joe and loving more every minute. There were scores of different sized ceramic bowls and wooden utensils. To one side of Joe was a piecrust he must have made while Tom was asleep, and in front of him a big bowl of red fruitiness.

“What’s that?” Tom asked curiously.