“Well, you had me hooked from the first page,” I say. “In fact, I learned a lot from you.”
“Oh?”
I cross my legs, nervous. “Yes, about how we’re shaped by our childhood. I knew that, I suppose, but the way you talked about it—and not just downstairs, but in the papers you’ve published, your lectures. Let’s just say you’ve opened my eyes in a new way.”
Sam stops chewing and something changes in his expression. “When did you see my lectures?”
My face flames. “I googled you, after you came to see the space,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “Needed to make sure you weren’t on the Most Wanted list. I saw the two lectures you gave, on YouTube. I was impressed.”
He smiles and finishes his steak. “Well, that’s nice of you to say.” He sets his napkin next to his empty plate. “And thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
I stand, reluctant to leave, and take the tray from his lap. “You comfortable?” I ask, setting it on the cart. “You like your room?”
“Very much,” he says, settling back on his pillows. “Except for that wallpaper. I don’t know what kind of drugs the designer was on, but man, that shade of yellow is giving me a headache.” I fish the pills from the pocket of my blue apron. Sam’s right. The wallpaper is quite dismal. I should have recognized that myself. “And one more thing Albert?” Sam says, as I count out two pills. “I’m sorry for how I acted the other night.”
I pause. “You’re what?”
“I’m sorry. You’ve been good to me, and you’re right, I was rude to you. I’m working on being a good guy, and I don’t always succeed. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“It’s . . . it’s okay,” I stammer.
“No, it’s not. And it’s permissible to have feelings about what I did. I can handle it.”
I hesitate. “I made a specialty cocktail for you,” I say. “It took nearly the whole morning to perfect it.”
“And not only did I reject it,” Sam says, “I was also rude about it.”
“The look on your face,” I say. “It was just like my father.”
“I’m sorry, Albert. I hope you know that.”
“It’s fine, Dr. Statler. Thank you for saying so.”
“And if it’s okay . . .” Sam extends his hand. “I can do it myself.”
“Of course,” I say, handing Sam the pills. He drops them into his mouth and sinks into the pillows as I push the cart toward the door, feeling something I haven’t felt since moving into this house.
Happiness.
Chapter 33
Annie stares at the timer on the oven display, her chin resting in her hand, counting along with it. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.
She drops the Visa bill on top of the others—four now, the latest one arriving today—and gets the oven mitts. She checks under the foil and then quiets the timer. A honk sounds from the driveway. She snaps the oven door closed and goes to the living room window.
“Evening, Mrs. Statler,” Franklin Sheehy calls from the driveway as she steps out onto the porch in her bare feet.
“What happened?” she asks, too anxious to bother correcting him. “Did you find something?”
Sheehy gives a curt shake of his head. “No, ma’am. On my way home, and thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.” The motion light on the porch clicks off, casting them in shadow. “I imagine things can feel a little desolate out here.”
“That’s nice of you,” she says, removing the oven mitts. “You want to come in?”
He nods and mounts the stairs. “Nice place you got,” he says, stepping into the living room and looking around at the beamed, vaulted ceiling and massive stone fireplace along the far wall. “I bet they don’t have houses like this in the city.”
“No, they don’t,” she says, conjuring the last place they lived—a one-bedroom apartment off Washington Square that Sam was provided as a member of the NYU faculty, which he’d invited her to move into three weeks after they met. They’d just finished eating dinner when he left the room, returning with a cheap plastic shopping bag with an “I love NY” logo.
“What is this?” she asked when he set it on the table in front of her.
“If I wanted you to know what it was when I handed it to you, Annie, I wouldn’t have wrapped it.”