"In your case, all I have is memory."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"I can recall what Ernest told me about you."

My grandfather told Zack about me? "What did he tell you?"

Zack's smile lights his face. "He said you were stubborn." He pauses. I sure hope my grandfather had more to say about me than just that. Zack lets his smile widen. "He also told me that you're a great cook, and the cakes you decorate are works of art. Right after your accident, he told me his granddaughter needed to come to North Carolina."

"After my accident? You knew about it before I told you?"

"Like I said, we have no secrets here." My desire to reach up and touch one of his dimples catches me off guard.

After a pause, I say, "I guess not. Between Jonas and Ernest, you've probably heard more about me than you want to."

Zack laughs. It's a gentle laugh that seems to clear the air around us. "Actually, it only made me want to learn more."

I hear the others calling to and teasing each other and know that this time with just Zack is coming to an end very soon. "Ernest was a smart man," I say, because it seems like that is certainly worth noting.

Zack agrees. "He knew his granddaughter needed us."

The wind breathes over the campsite as Zack adds, "And that we needed her."

In a wild dash, Bubba comes running from behind a tree, jumps onto Zack's back, and claims with a loud cry, "Gotcha this time!"

Zack playfully wrestles the boy to the ground as Robert, Darren, Charlotte, and Rainy crowd around them to observe. When Zack tickles Bubba, the whole group laughs along with him.

"Are you all right, Miss Livingston?" Charlotte asks in her soft tone, barely audible over the noise. She stands near my elbow.

I realize I am the only one not laughing.

Zipping up my jacket, I nod, paste on a smile, and then purposely step back a few feet. I would like to borrow Rainy's sunglasses right now because I need to cover the look on my face.

This curly-haired, basketball-playing social worker has dodged past all the barriers I so carefully set up and taken up residence in my heart.

Maybe I am not allergic to men, after all.

thirty-nine.

Iawait my dinner guests. I have to be ready. Once the guests arrive, I will not have time to finish up any last-minute details that have gone unnoticed. That's because the doorbell won't ring; my guests-well, one of them, at least-will just open the door and storm through. He thinks he owns the place, or at least the pipes.

As I'm stirring the soup, watching it thicken, I hear a truck door slam and footsteps outside the cabin. Then, sure enough, in comes Jonas, a green bandana secured to his head. He's carrying a wrench. Zack follows. He's dressed in khakis and a blue cotton shirt.

"What's cooking?" asks Jonas. "I'm hungry as a bear."

I smile at the brothers and tell Jonas, "You know what it is. Take a breath."

He smiles his widest smile. "Oil soup." Then he nods, as though he approves and is grateful that I have listened to him when he suggested I make this soup and invite Zack over for dinner. When I included him in the invite, he shook his head. I told him that he'd brought Zack and me together; without Jonas we would never have learned so much about each other. At that, Jonas said, "I guess I could come along. You never know."

"Know what?"

"A pipe might need repair."

I don't believe I have had two guests I care more about. Well, maybe Jeannie and Sally. They visited last weekend and we took in the local tourist attractions, including a drive over the Parkway to Gatlinburg on Saturday afternoon. Sally said my driving had improved; I suppose she was right since my fingers were flexible once we arrived in the buzzing Tennessee town. No knuckles of concrete.

Jonas pops his Eagles CD into the player. Zack protests because he's not sure that his older brother should be acting so familiar in someone else's home.

"Jonas, don't you need to ask Deena?" he prods. He does this with the kids at The Center, too.

"No," says Jonas as the first line to "One of These Nights" starts to play. "She knows me." Then he announces he's going to check the pipes.

"But, Jonas." I am the one protesting this time. I enter the living room. "This is Saturday night. You don't work on Saturday."

"Don't work on Sunday, the Lord's Day. I have worked Saturday before. No sick day." He smiles, his teeth glistening like the first day I met him. It feels as if I have known him for years.

He swings his wrench and hums to "One of These Nights."

Then he winks at me. With his wrench swinging, he heads toward the downstairs bathroom.

Zack faces me.

Suddenly, I feel very awkward. Why are things so easy around Jonas and so difficult around Zack?

"Do you need me to help you in the kitchen?" he asks.

"Are you able to make a fire in the fireplace?"

He gathers some logs from the pile outside on the porch and starts a fire.

I stir the soup and see that the loaf of herb bread is almost done. I open the fridge, smile at the new lone lemon I bought the other day, and take out a bowl of salad. I add spinach leaves to the romaine lettuce and dried cranberries. Then I toss it all with almond slivers and my homemade poppy-seed dressing.

Preoccupied, I am startled when I notice Zack has been standing by the kitchen door, watching me.

I smile and place the salad bowl in the fridge again. "Seems we're always ending up in some kitchen."

"I've enjoyed our kitchen talks."

Well, they've certainly made me think-and be on my toes.

"Deena?" His voice is soft, hesitant.

"Yeah?" I move from the counter.

"Jonas thinks we should-"

"Get together one of these nights?" I surprise myself by my boldness.

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't know, Zack."

"Why?"

"Seems you've hugged lots of people in the kitchen."

"Like?" His face is puzzled.

I give him a knowing look.

The lines on his face ease as he says, "I mean, besides Rhonda. Lots of people?"

"Charlotte. Darren. Lisa. You even managed to give Bobby a hug, one that at least covered half of him." "You're jealous?"

He looks down and then slowly lifts his face to mine.

I swallow. Why is he standing so close to me when we are having this conversation? My knees feel weak, but I will not back down. I have to say how I feel. I mean, this is what he wants, right? I find my words. "I am. Just a little." I'm not smiling, because it is true. Zack seems to be part of everyone's life, and I have had so little time with just him.

"What do you want, Deena?" His smile has faded from his lips.

More time with just you. Would that be too forward of me to say? Mom would turn up her nose. "What do you you want?" want?"

"I'd like to be in a relationship... with you." He speaks slowly, like each word is coming from someplace deep.

I've heard of being honest, but this takes the cake. I swallow and mumble, "You would?"

"How about you?"

I don't know what to say. I look down at his shoes, then at my shoes. All I can see is Rhonda and him standing in the kitchen together. As though reading my mind-and I guess he can do this because he went to grad school for social work-he says, "Rhonda and I aren't together. We never were."

Jonas has let me know this, and so has Robert. Once again, Zack is assuring me that he and Rhonda are not, as the kids say, going out. Yet, there is so much more than just knowing where another woman stands in his life. There are many other components... time, truth, trust. These are small words, but each holds great significance for me.

When I look up, his face is right in front of me. I feel unsure, and yet sweet anticipation floods over me at the same time.

"I know it hasn't been long." His fingers encircle my arm just above my wrist; I feel warmth touch my scars.

"I want the three Ts," I tell him.

He gives me a pensive look. "The three Ts?"

"Yeah."

"What are they?"

His face is so close to mine.

"Something to do with cooking?"

I am glad for the opportunity to laugh. "Yeah, they stand for Teflon, tablespoon, and tarragon."

"Tarragon?"

"It's an herb." There's a French-grown variety and a Russian-grown one, and French is usually thought to be best in the kitchen. It's funny how studies at the culinary school can filter through my mind at the most unexpected times.

"I just wondered why there would be an herb when the other two are objects."

I note the tongs hanging by the stove and say, "Okay, Teflon, tablespoon, and tongs. Does that sound better?"

He looks into my eyes.

I'm not able to catch the harsh pain I once felt his eyes encompassed. All I see now is tenderness.

His hands move to my shoulder. His touch is so light, yet strong enough to make me take one step closer to him. As I put my head against his chest, his arms slip around me.

I let him finger my hair, slowly, caressing away pain, distrust, loneliness. Even the scars on my arms, legs, and stomach seem not to matter right now.

I could stay like this all night.

We hear Jonas over the music. He enters the living room and then the kitchen. I expect Zack to pull away from me like he did when Rhonda was clutching him.

"Well, it's about time!" Jonas's voice booms with excitement. He smiles at us, and then leaves the room again, his boots pounding over the hardwoods. "Who made the fire?" he calls as he enters the living room.

"No comments," Zack says over my head.

"Needs work," his brother shouts back. "Needs work!"

"Needs work," I repeat.

"Okay, okay. I heard him."

I step back a bit and look into Zack's eyes. To be truthful, to be trustworthy, to know that over time, with God's help, I have come from wanting to die in Georgia to embracing the sweetness of life in the mountains of North Carolina-those are the valuable things to know. I risk exposing my thoughts, something that I've found near impossible to do these past months in Bryson City. "I think we we need work, too." need work, too."

He looks as though my words have slapped him.

Immediately I want to retract what I said, but it's Jonas's fault, he gave me the idea.

"Work?" Zack clears his throat. "We need work?"

Goodness, surely he, of all the intelligent people I know, understands this. "Needing work isn't a bad thing," I explain. There are times even the best-looking cake could use a little more icing or a few more buttercream roses.

His eyes are hopeful. "But you do think there's potential?"

That's when I tell him what the three Ts really stand for. "Trust, time, and truth."