She knocked softly at his door, for it wasn’t her home, after all, and it would be rude to simply barge in. It was unlocked, as usual, and as soon as she entered she was struck by the wonderful smells coming from his kitchen. Without even bothering to wipe her feet she hurried down the hall to investigate.
The kitchen door was open. He had his back to her, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and was preoccupied with the contents of the frying pan before him. Garlic and shallots, she guessed from the smell, and he was cooking them in the fat from a heap of browned chicken pieces that now sat on a plate by the cooker.
He peered at a note he’d tacked to the cupboard door next to the cooker, then uncorked a bottle of vermouth, added a splash to the pan, and jumped back when the drippings hissed at him. She stood at the kitchen door and watched him cook and let her heart grow full at the sight.
“Walter,” she said.
He turned his head a little, just so she could see he was smiling. “Hello, there.”
“Will you turn off the cooker? Just for a moment.”
He did so, and then he turned around to face her properly. She took the spoon from his hand, set it on the counter, and hugged him close.
“How?” she asked wonderingly.
“I’ve watched you make it often enough.” His arms came around her, returning her embrace. “I even remembered your wishing for vermouth that one time, and how it would make the entire dish taste better.”
“That is why you had all those questions for me. I thought you were simply being a journalist.”
“I was. But I was also learning.”
“Why tonight? Why not wait for Friday? I usually make it on Friday.”
“I know, but today is March third.”
“And?” she asked, puzzled.
“You told me once that you came to England on March third. That’s a year ago today. I thought we ought to mark the occasion in some way.” And then, his voice a little uncertain, “What do you think?”
“It looks and smells wonderful. Where did you get the olives and—”
“Prunes and fennel seeds? From Marcel Normand in Shoreditch. He even sold me an orange. It was a little dried out, so he decided to bend the rules.”
Looking around him, she spied a small bottle next to the cooker. “Is that olive oil?”
“It is. According to Monsieur Normand, the stuff from the chemist’s is fit only for the greasing of motorcar engines.”
“Do you need any help?”
“Not in here. I’ve come this far—I want to see if I can turn out something worth eating. But would you mind setting the table? Just push all the papers and books down to the far end. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. Oh—and there’s one more thing.”
She tilted her head back, curious about what he meant, and he bent down and kissed her until she was deliciously dizzy.
After supper they did the washing up together, and then they sat on his big, comfortable sofa, drank the black coffee he had made in his little espresso pot, and they told each other of their respective days. It was getting late, and she would ask him to walk her home before too long, but it had become their habit to listen to Walter’s favorite pieces of music on his gramophone after supper. He had strong opinions about music, and some of the pieces he played were not at all to her taste, but one concerto had been echoing through her mind for days.
“The music with the cello—you played it several times last week. What was the name of the composer? You told me but I have forgotten.”
“Edward Elgar.”
He found the record, set the needle arm onto the spinning disc, and a swell of music filled the room. The melody was plaintive and swooning, the chords insistent, haunting, mournful. Miriam held her breath, waiting for her favorite part, a rising thread of sound so anguished and expressive that tears always sprang to her eyes.
Normally she was able to blink them back, but now they overflowed, cascading down her cheeks, and though she knew she ought to wipe them away, she did nothing. This time she wept and let him see. She could hide nothing from him.
A heartbeat later he was kneeling before her, so tall that it put them eye to eye. He touched his brow to hers.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Please. I can’t bear it.”
“I never meant for this to happen. Any of it. But there you were in the street, rescuing my shoe. Rescuing me.”
“No,” he said. “You rescued yourself. Never forget it.”
“I was so sure I would be alone. That it would be easier, better, after what I had lost. It comforted me to know it.”