“And this,” she said, touching the scar on my throat. “This must have been very bad.”
“That was just six months ago.”
“I didn’t know owning things could be so dangerous.”
“The danger is an unavoidable by-product.”
“Of owning things?”
It seemed to be working that way with the warehouse. “I used to be police.”
“But not now.”
“No.”
Silence while we both thought our own thoughts. “Why did you come?”
“Because you invited me.”
Her laugh, a silvery, delighted squeal, like the laugh of a six-year-old thrilled by some childish wickedness, astonished me. I sat up. She poked me with her elbow. “To Seattle.”
“To sort out my real estate problems. To get out of Atlanta for a while. To see my mother and meet her new husband.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, ‘ah’?”
“She’s a somebody, isn’t she?”
“You met her?”
“I saw her, at the hospital. Everyone paid attention. And then there were all those no-mentions of you in the press. Tell me about her.”
She has hands like mine, I wanted to say. “Her name is Else Torvingen.” It suddenly occurred to me to wonder whether she had changed it when she married. No. She hadn’t changed it when she married my father. “She’s the Norwegian ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s.”
“The court of—The ambassador to England? She got the job because she’s rich?”
“She’s not rich.”
“But you are.”
“From my father. They divorced when I was thirteen. He died three years ago. He left me—It was a surprise. The amount.” It still was, sometimes.
“So what’s she doing here?”
“Semi-official trade negotiation. Computers, mainly. And seeing me.”
“But you—”
“Live in Atlanta. Yes. Like Dornan.”
The tension ran through her like a current. She pushed herself away, got up, and found her robe. She stood by the window, looking out.
“Kick?”
“I’m having dinner with him tomorrow.”
I got up and stood a little behind her. I wanted to pull her to me, cradle her, but I knew she would pull away.
“That’s Queen Anne Hill,” she said, pointing south across rooftops to three radio towers blinking with red lights. It looked better from this perspective. “And down there is Gas Works Park. During the day, seaplanes come and go, landing on Lake Union.”
“Kick.”
“You should come here and see that sometime before you go away, back to Atlanta.” Her arms were wrapped around her body. I couldn’t tell if she was cold or feeling defensive.
“Kick,” I said again. “Kick.” She turned slowly. “I’d like that, like to go to the park. I like you.”
“He’s a kind man.”
“Yes.” I held out my arms, and she stepped in and I held her.
THE SMELL of baking woke me a little after nine. I dressed and went downstairs. Kick was taking a tray of muffins from the oven. Her hair was damp. I hadn’t even heard the shower.
She looked a little tired, but the smile she flashed was bright: it was morning; all doubts and revelations of the night before were done. “Banana raisin oatmeal rice flour muffins. Invented fresh this morning. But you woke up too soon. They have to cool.”
“I should go shower.”
“Do it later. Open the windows, would you?”
She disappeared into the living room, and a moment later oboe music flowed through the kitchen.
Sunshine and baking had made the kitchen and dining room warm. A house fly explored the windowsill, back and forth, like a confused, hunch-backed old man. I pushed up the two side windows but it couldn’t get out because of the screens. The breeze was cool and soft on my face.
She had cleaned up the kitchen, moved the table back in place, showered, dressed, and baked while I’d lain naked and blissfully unaware. I had relaxed completely. I had a nasty feeling that I knew why.
The kitchen began to smell of… “What is that?”
“Nutmeg. And smoked salmon—it should be haddock, but I didn’t have any.” She opened a plastic tub. “And brown rice. And—pass that dish, would you? Thanks—boiled egg.”
Kedgeree.
She stirred, turned down the heat. “You remember where the napkins and silverware are.”
I laid the table. Now that I wasn’t dazed with drugs or hormones, I saw that it was an old piece, solid cherry carcass, with a polished mahogany veneer. I found cork place mats piled on the stretcher of a battered-looking secretaire in the corner, gave us two each. Green cotton napkins. Knife, fork, spoon.
She dished onto two plates. Carried them to the table. Nodded at the kettle, from which steam was still easing, which I took to mean Make the tea. A small teapot, some green tea, and two beautiful mugs stood ready. I brought the pot and mugs to the table. Put a mug each on a place mat, got out another for the pot. Sat.
Albinoni streamed as clear as the sun into the dining room. The old mahogany glowed like bronze. The flatware winked. The smoked salmon in the kedgeree was flecked with nutmeg and nestled amid nutty, moist rice. Kick wore blue and grey.
Soon I’d be flying back to Atlanta with Dornan.
“You look as though you don’t know if you’re in heaven or hell.”
“Kedgeree is my favorite breakfast food.”
She smiled, as playful as an otter. I leaned over and kissed her. The fly ran back and forth. I poured tea for us both. This was where I asked her what she was doing tonight, but I already knew. The silence grew. The otter slowly submerged.
“Will I see you on the set this afternoon?” I said.
“I’ll be busy.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. We have location shots.” The otter popped back up. “But tomorrow is another day. Now I have to eat and run.”
She ate at lightning speed, with clean, deft movements of fork to mouth, cup to mouth, napkin to mouth and then plate, and rose from her chair like an acrobat, with no visible effort.
“You take your time.” She kissed me, not a millimeter of lip in the wrong place, not an ounce of weight on the wrong leg, perfectly balanced. She scrutinized me for a full two seconds, but gave no hint of what she thought. “Let me know how you like the muffins. Drop the latch on your way out,” she said, and left.
I finished my kedgeree, poured more tea, and listened to the rest of Albinoni.
TEN O’CLOCK. Sixty-nine degrees, light breeze, cheerful pedestrians. I drove carefully.
She had left me in her house. I could have done anything: stolen her things, searched out her secrets, fingered through her most personal possessions, spat in her milk. But she knew I wouldn’t. She probably knew I would look for airtight tubs to put away the remainder of the kedgeree; find a tin for the muffins; make sure the kettle was unplugged; rinse the dishes and turn on the dishwasher; make the bed. Turn off the CD player. Check that the lights and oven were off. Leave my cell phone number on her table. Just as she had known that I liked food with different textures. Just as she had known that I liked to wrap my arm around her waist and hold her tight against me as she moved. Just as I knew nothing of what she thought, or why.
I pulled over on Westlake, dialed her number, and after three rings got the machine.
“It’s Aud. It’s… There’s a fly. In the dining room. It can’t get out. You’ll probably have to take off the window screens. You’ll need a ladder to get at them from the outside. I can do it, if you like.”
Or she could just open the front door and shoo it out. Or catch it in her hands. I imagined her small hands cupping the fly. The scent of her fingers.