Chapter 287 The Way Caroline Cooked
Alexander didn't know how he hung up the phone.
He only remembered that Mark was silent on the other end for a long time, and finally responded softly, "Sir, I'll get right on it."
Alexander lowered the phone from his ear and looked down at the dark gray sweater in his hands, staring at it for a long time.
Then he carefully folded the sweater and placed it beside his pillow, lying down without even taking off his coat.
Alexander couldn't shake the feeling that when the truth finally came out, he didn't even know what he'd be facing.
But he couldn't worry about all that.
He really wanted to know what had happened in the past.
After some time, the sound of wind blowing through the leaves came in waves outside the window, and he fell into a deep sleep amid those soft rustling sounds.
He was woken by bird calls.
Alexander opened his eyes. Sunlight squeezed in through the gaps in the floral curtains. The room had a faint smell, like old wood mixed with dried flowers, with a hint of something else he couldn't quite place.
Alexander sat up and looked down to find the sweater still clutched in his hand. He'd held it all night, and the fabric was now wrinkled from his grip.
He refolded the sweater and placed it in the center of the pillow, then got up and pushed open the door.
Irene was already up, making breakfast.
Alexander's steps suddenly stopped.
The smell drifting from the kitchen made him unable to move his legs for a moment.
The smell was faint, so faint that someone else might not even notice it, but he noticed.
It was that first burst of fragrance when minced garlic hits hot oil, the spiciness mixed with a hint of sweet char. The moment tomatoes are added, the sour and sweet flavors are pushed up together by the heat, intertwining with the garlic aroma, becoming richer and more lasting.
Alexander's eyes suddenly burned.
He remembered this smell.
When Caroline cooked, the kitchen smelled exactly like this.
It wasn't anything special, just an ordinary home-cooked dish, but the aroma drifting from the kitchen right now was almost identical to what Caroline used to make.
This familiarity almost brought Alexander to tears. He stumbled to the kitchen doorway.
Irene stood at the stove with her back to him, busy working.
She quickly put the food onto a plate. Two place settings were already laid out on the table. When she saw Alexander standing in the doorway, her expression didn't change much. She just said flatly, "Have you washed up? If you have, sit down and eat."
Alexander washed up as quickly as possible and returned to sit at the table.
He almost eagerly picked up his spoon, scooped up some soup, and brought it to his mouth.
His hand suddenly froze.
The second year after Caroline married into the family, one day—for a reason he could no longer remember—he had punished her again, locking her in the basement for a whole week.
It was only when Liam came to tell him Caroline had a fever that he let Liam release her.
Alexander had no idea exactly what Liam did, when he went, or what Caroline did after she came out.
He only remembered that the next morning when he got up, he saw Caroline already in the kitchen.
Her wrists still bore marks from the handcuffs. She carried the last dish out from the kitchen.
When she heard footsteps, she looked up at him.
Alexander remembered that look.
It wasn't flattery, nor was it fear. She just looked at him quietly, as if asking, do you want to try it?
That day, for the first time ever, Alexander sat down and ate the breakfast Caroline made.
He only ate two bites, because that day he got a phone call and then turned and left.
That taste he would recall over and over in his dreams had now returned to his tongue.
Alexander suddenly didn't know whether he should cry or laugh.
He lowered his head, leaning close to the rim of the bowl, as if he could hold on to the soup's warmth and taste a little longer.
The soup was very hot, so hot that tongue went numb, but he kept drinking as if he couldn't feel it. Finally, he tasted something salty and bitter, and realized he had started crying at some point, his tears falling into the bowl.
"Irene."
Alexander put down his chopsticks, his voice terribly hoarse.
"The way she cooked tastes exactly the same as yours."
Irene's chopsticks paused.
"Of course it's the same."
She didn't look up, but continued to drink her soup.
"I taught her to cook."
Alexander looked up at her in a daze. Irene still didn't look at him.
"And she learned right here in this kitchen. How old was she then... sixteen, or seventeen? One day she suddenly came to find me and said, 'Irene, teach me how to cook.' I asked her why she suddenly wanted to learn, but she wouldn't say. That's how she was—she never spoke about what really mattered."
Irene put down her chopsticks and picked up the glass beside her to take a sip of water.
"If she wouldn't say, I wouldn't ask. I taught her for a whole year, starting with how to cut vegetables. At first she couldn't even peel garlic, getting garlic juice all over her hands, the skin under her nails turning red from the burn, but she never made a sound. Later she gradually learned, getting better and better. She learned things fast and had nimble hands. It was like that with knitting sweaters, with cooking, with playing piano. As long as she wanted to learn something, there was nothing she couldn't master."
"She studied for a year and learned all the dishes I knew. Then she stopped coming."
Irene's voice dropped lower.
"I only found out later that she thought she was going to get married soon. She was afraid that after marrying over there, if she couldn't cook, she'd cause trouble for them."
Alexander's fingers clenched suddenly.
Something was about to surface, but he didn't dare follow it all the way through.
"She studied for a year, and then... never mind." Irene shook her head and didn't continue.
The kitchen fell quiet.
"Irene." After a long time, Alexander finally spoke, his tone tentative. "In the future... could I come here to eat often?"
Irene looked up at him, then shook her head again.
"I'm old. I can't walk far; I can't stand for long, and my back won't take it. I can't wait on someone like you."
Alexander's fingers curled slightly. He was silent for a long time.
Irene thought he would give up. She pushed herself up from the table and started clearing the dishes.
"Then teach me how to cook." Alexander suddenly spoke again.
Irene's steps stopped.
She turned her head slightly to look at him.
Alexander also stood up, his voice almost pleading. "I want to learn. Everything she learned, I want to learn it all. Every dish she learned here, could you... could you teach me too?"
Irene didn't answer.
She placed the used plates on the counter, picked up the cloth by the sink, and started wiping the oil stains on the stove.
After a long time, she wrung out the cloth and hung it back by the sink, then turned to glance at Alexander, still saying nothing.
Irene walked past him and into the hallway.