But she was here.

That was all that mattered.

And day by day, God willing, she would continue to improve.

“Could you take the casserole out of the oven while I . . . get the water, Dave? I already set the table.”

“I’ll be happy to.”

He pulled out two potholders, removed the baking dish, and set it on the table. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” He joined her at the refrigerator, taking the glasses as she filled them.

“I wanted to. I used to cook. I remember that. I’ve been wanting to . . . make you a real meal. I know you must be tired of all the . . . the bring-out . . . we eat.” Her forehead puckered. “Is that the right word?”

“I think you mean takeout—but you were close.” He helped her into her chair and took his place beside her. “Shall I dish this up?”

“Please.”

He scooped out a generous portion for himself, a smaller one for her. Her appetite had been another casualty of the accident that had changed both their lives. “I can’t wait to dig into this.”

“I hope it’s good.” She picked up her fork.

“It looks delicious.”

But it wasn’t.

As he chewed his first bite, it was obvious a vital ingredient . . . or two . . . or three . . . were missing.

“Oh, Dave!” Tears brimmed on her lower lashes. “It’s terrible.”

He set his fork on the table and moved beside her, dropping down on one knee to gather her into his arms. “Don’t be upset, Kimberly. It was a wonderful effort. A big step forward. Six months ago you wouldn’t have tackled a dish like this. I bet your next try will be perfect.”

“But I copied the recipe out, and I . . . crossed off the ingredients after I added them. How could it turn out . . . so bad?”

“Mistakes happen. Don’t worry about it.”

She eased back, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Sometimes I don’t think . . . I’ll ever get . . . better.”

“You are getting better. I see improvements every day.”

That wasn’t a lie. While the bulk of her recovery had happened in the first few months after she’d come out of the coma, and while progress had slowed, she continued to make incremental gains.

Would she ever be back to the way she’d been before the car had slammed into her as she’d hurried across the street to meet him for lunch at the Spotted Hen?

Unlikely.

But compared to her condition four years ago as she lay unconscious in intensive care while the doctors monitored her brain function and warned she could end up in a vegetative state, her level of function was miraculous.

“My boss at the library says . . . I’m improving . . . too.”

“There you go. The opinion of an impartial third party.” Thank God they’d been willing to let her come back in a part-time capacity doing simple tasks as she recovered. That, along with her gardening, gave her an incentive to get out of bed every day.