“But Sowell Bay is your home.”
To Tova’s horror, her eyes well, stinging. She sets her jaw, willing the tears away. Evenly, she explains, “Mr. Mack, I am a practical person, and this is a practical solution. I’m not a young woman. I’m, well . . .”
Her gaze drifts to the boot. Ethan’s follows, and Tova would swear that, under his big beard, his chin is trembling. She places a hand on his freckled forearm, the wiry hairs tickling her palm. His skin is surprisingly warm.
“I’m not moving right this minute, Ethan.” Technically, this is true. It will take some time for the house to sell. For Charter Village to review her bank statements, eighteen-dollar photos, and black-ink-printed forms.
“Aye” is all Ethan says.
“And it’s the right plan,” she adds. “Who else will take care of me?”
The question hangs in the air for a long moment. Finally, Ethan says, “Well, this is an important application. You don’t want those pens, then.” He nods at the two-pack. “Those are rubbish.” After running a searching finger along the display, he pulls off a different package, this one with a flashier logo. “Cadillac model, right here.”
“I’ll take it, then. Thank you.”
“Anytime, love.”
She clears her throat. “How much?”
He bats a hand. “Like I said. Won’t let you pay for a pen. It’s on the house.”
“No, no.” For the second time today, Tova removes a twenty from her pocketbook. “Ring them through later and you keep the rest. For making the recommendation. Thank you.”
“If you want to thank me,” Ethan blurts, “perhaps you’d join me for tea sometime.”
Tova freezes. “Tea? Here?” She glances at the deli.
“Well, no, not here. The tea here is shit, to be honest. But it could be here, if you’d like. I hadn’t actually worked that part out yet.” Ethan bites his lower lip and drums his meaty fingers on the register. “Somewhere else, then? Or not at all, perhaps. Never mind. Rubbish idea.”
“It wasn’t a rubbish idea.” Tova is astonished to hear the colloquialism come out of her mouth. Is this how Janice picks up her sitcom talk? Before she can stop herself, she finds herself replying, “Certainly, we can have tea sometime. Or coffee, perhaps.”
Ethan shakes his head. “You Swedes and your coffee.”
Tova feels herself flush, wondering if she ought to make a joke about him being a Scot, but before she can come up with one, he hands her a scrap of paper, the same one that he scribbled on. In blue ink on the back, he’s written his telephone number.
“Give me a ring, love. We’ll set something up. Before you . . . go.”
Tova nods, then ducks out of the Shop-Way, astounded at how difficult it’s suddenly become to breathe normally.
IT’S PAST TEN now, and daylight has finally drained from the sky. On her way home, Tova makes an unplanned turn.
One more errand today.
The aquarium’s parking lot is empty, except for a dilapidated camper, the same one that was parked in front of Jessica Snell’s office earlier. Perhaps the owner is a fisherman. She scans the pier, looking for a figure with a pole, but it’s empty.
Hobbling up to the front door, she pauses. Terry had forbidden her from coming to clean, naturally, but he hadn’t expressly instructed her not to use her key for a social call. In fact, when she’d tried to give the key back, he’d insisted she hang on to it, which she’d taken not only as an affirmation of her trustworthiness but also as a vow of confidence in her resilience. You’ll be back before you know it, Terry had said.
The same force that drew her to Will’s headstone earlier today has led her here. To . . . communicate. To notify the octopus of her plan to move to Charter Village. Although neither Will nor Marcellus the Octopus can understand her, both deserve to know. And, less urgently, he might lead her to a solution for this mess she’s gotten herself into with Ethan Mack and his tea. Unless she ought to keep that to herself; perhaps if she pretends it never happened, the invitation will simply vanish? She can practically see how Marcellus’s shrewd, knowing eye will glare, how his sucker-lined arm will waggle, scolding. Tova clicks her tongue at her own behavior. Pretending to speak with the insentient. She’s ten times worse than Mary Ann Minetti and old Mrs. Kretch put together.
The door clinks open. Everything else aside, she must admit she’s curious about how the place has fared, hygienically speaking, in her absence.