“That’s not too much effort?”
“Touché,” Sam said. “Come back to the kitchen. Maybe with us gone, Wally will nap.”
Meena followed him through the short hallway to the kitchen. Beyond were a few doors. Likely bedrooms. The kitchen was a little bigger than hers, with a small round table against the windows that overlooked the back garden.
“What’s your preference?” Sam asked.
“There’s no need to . . . espresso.” She was here to talk to Sam, apologize about yesterday, thank him for taking care of her. She could do that over coffee. “I stopped by to say I’m sorry. I know they shoved me into you yesterday, making my drunken state your problem. And I just . . .”
“You weren’t a problem.” Sam grinned. “I enjoyed drunk Meena.”
She groaned. “My tolerance is no match for theirs.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t pace yourself. It was the one piece of advice I gave you at Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Meena said. “We were having spiked hot chocolate, and the next thing I know I’m capping off the night with an Irish coffee.”
“You had fun.” Sam handed her a small teacup of espresso.
“I did.”
She shifted. She had to get through the hard part.
“I, um, also wanted to say sorry for, if, uh, I tried to kiss you.” Meena mumbled out the words while staring out the kitchen window.
She looked back when he placed his hand on top of hers. “There is nothing to apologize for or be embarrassed about. You had a good time. Don’t feel bad about that.”
His palm was warm against her hand, and she stilled so he wouldn’t remove it. She wanted to stay like this, feel him on her skin.
“You told me about the notes,” Sam said. “The ones Neha left you.”
“You didn’t read them.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to since you handed them to me in a liquored-up state.”
She flipped her palm over and squeezed his hand. Feared he would remove it from hers.
“I want you to read them,” Meena said. “Fill in some of the blanks.”
“What do you know so far?”
It was snowing harder now, and the grass was quickly disappearing from the white coating.
“She mentioned her work, that her husband left her, the relationship she had with the aunties . . . why she left the apartment to me.” Meena braced herself. “I’m not . . . she . . .” The words were stuck in her throat. The word mother didn’t fit Neha.
Sam said nothing. His face was clear of any emotion. He didn’t prod her or urge her. Simply waited for her to continue, for her to decide what she wanted to say and not say. It comforted her.
“I’m . . . she was my birth mother.”
His hand tensed in hers. She let it go, sat back, and crossed her arms. They had been friends, Sam and Neha, and he was likely shocked. He might feel betrayed or angry with Meena for not telling him sooner.
He ran his hand through his hair. “Is that what she wrote?”
“Not in so many words,” Meena said. “She isn’t one to spell things out. She goes on tangents, speaks in circles, implies. I’ve reread them. It’s the most obvious connection, even though I didn’t want to admit it.”
“She didn’t come out and say so, though.”
“I’m a smart person. I put it together. She left me this apartment. She wrote notes to help me get to know her. It all fits,” Meena said. “I was adopted, Sam. My parents were white, I didn’t look like them. I didn’t know what my ethnicity was, but I knew I wasn’t theirs. And a place like this doesn’t just go to a stranger. Didn’t Sabina say each apartment gets passed down to the next generation?”