CHAPTER FOUR
Michael arrived at Lena’s apartment at precisely five o’clock carrying a bottle of wine, a bakery box, and a small navy-blue shopping bag that he refused to explain.
Howard met him at the door.
The terrier had spent most of the afternoon barking at delivery trucks, hallway noises, and a plastic grocery bag that moved whenever the air conditioner turned on.
Nat expected him to greet Michael with similar outrage.
Instead, Howard sniffed one polished shoe, circled his legs, and sat directly on his left foot.
Lena stared down at the dog. “Traitor.”
“He seems calm,” Michael said.
“He is gathering information.”
Michael looked at Nat. “That appears to be a household practice.”
Nat stood near the dining table with one earring in place and the other still in her hand.
She wore a deep blue dress she had borrowed from Lena, who was shorter through the waist and considerably more optimistic about zippers.
Nat had spent ten minutes negotiating herself into it and another five deciding whether breathing was essential for dinner.
Michael’s gaze moved over her and stopped.
It was not dramatic. He did not drop the wine or forget his name. He simply became very still, and the quiet appreciation in his expression lasted long enough to warm Nat’s face.
“You’re early,” she said.
His eyes shifted toward the clock on Lena’s wall. “It’s five.”
“Exactly. That’s early in ordinary life.”
“It is the time we agreed upon.”
“I know. I wanted to observe you doing it.”
“You saw me arrive at ten twenty-nine yesterday.”
“That was only one data point. Now we have a pattern.”
Michael seemed to search for a response, then handed the bakery box to Lena. “I brought dessert.”
“What kind?” Lena asked.
“Lemon tart.”
“Did you make it?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t trust people who arrive in suits and also bake.”
“I am not wearing a suit.”
He had changed from his work clothes into dark trousers and a pale gray shirt with the sleeves buttoned at his wrists. The absence of a tie should have made him appear less formal. Somehow it merely suggested he had scheduled informality between other obligations.
Lena opened the bakery box, inspected the tart, and nodded. “Acceptable.”
“We’re taking it to Mrs. Gable,” Nat reminded her.
“I know. I’m confirming that it deserves to go.”
Michael shifted the wine to his other hand. “May I come inside?”
Howard remained seated on his shoe.
“That depends on whether your emergency contact checks out,” Lena said.
Nat closed her eyes. “You contacted his emergency contact?”
“He listed his sister on the questionnaire.”
“You contacted my sister?” Michael asked.
“I found her online.”
“Caroline’s accounts are private.”
“We have a mutual connection.”
“You found a mutual connection in less than a day?”
Lena smiled. “You’re beginning to understand what I do.”
“She didn’t contact her,” Nat said, although she was no longer certain.
“I didn’t,” Lena admitted. “But I know where she works, when the baby is due, and that she thinks you need to loosen up.”
Michael looked genuinely unsettled. “She posts that publicly?”
“She commented on your mother’s birthday photograph.”
“I don’t want to know anything else.”
“Then stop bringing me names.”
Howard finally moved, allowing Michael to enter. Nat took the wine and placed it beside the tart. “You said you had questions before dinner.”
“I do.” He looked at the clock again. “We have forty-one minutes before we need to leave.”
“It’s a five-minute walk.”
“I included travel time.”
“For one city block?”
“I also included time to recover from anything that happens here.”
Lena pointed at him. “That is the first sensible thing you’ve said.”
Michael set the navy shopping bag on the table. “Before we review the dinner, there is a practical issue.”
Nat glanced at the bag. “Is that for me?”
“It is intended to solve a problem.”
“Michael, gifts are rarely described that way.”
“It is not a gift.”
“Then what is it?”
He removed a small box from the bag. The velvet covering was dark blue, and the shape was unmistakable.
Lena stopped pretending not to watch.
Nat looked at Michael. “You bought a ring.”
“I purchased a temporary visual aid.”
“That is considerably less romantic.”
“It is also more accurate.”
He opened the box. Inside was a narrow gold-plated band set with a small oval clear stone.
It was simple, tasteful, and far more convincing than the silver ring Lena had finally removed from Nat’s swollen finger with dental floss, cooking oil, and language neither of them would repeat in front of Mrs. Gable.
Nat lifted the ring from the box. “How did you know my size?”
“I asked Lena.”
She turned. “You gave him my ring size?”
“He gave me his emergency contact.”
“You exchanged personal information without me?”
“Welcome to engagement.”
Michael ignored Lena. “The ring is costume jewelry. I retained the receipt, and the expense will be included under shared costs if we proceed with the lease.”
Nat looked at the tiny stone catching the light. “How much was it?”
“Seventy-eight dollars.”
“You paid seventy-eight dollars for a fake ring?”
“The twelve-dollar options appeared visibly fake.”
“The whole engagement is fake.”
“That is why the evidence should not be.”
There was logic in that, but the sight of him holding the open box unsettled her in a way logic could not address.
This was a prop, no different from the wine or their invented anniversary.
Yet it was also the first ring a man had ever selected specifically for her, even if Lena had supplied the size and Michael planned to enter the purchase in a column marked shared expenses.
Nat tried to slide it onto her finger. Michael stopped her.
“Your knuckle is still swollen.”
“I can manage.”
“The previous ring required an extraction procedure.”
“Lena watched a video.”
“That does not make it a procedure.”
“It does if there are instruments.”
Michael took the ring from her. “May I?”
The question, softly asked, changed the room.
Nat placed her hand in his.
His fingers were warm, as they had been when they met, but now she was prepared for it. He supported her hand carefully, angling the ring over the tender knuckle without pressure. The band slid into place and settled against her skin as though it belonged there.
For one suspended second, neither of them moved.
Then Howard sneezed.
Lena folded her arms. “He objects to symbolism.”
Michael released Nat’s hand and closed the empty box. “Does it fit?”
“Yes.”
“Comfortably?”
Nat flexed her fingers. “It’s perfect.”
His gaze met hers. Something quiet passed between them before he looked toward the dining table. “We should review.”
They spent the next half hour working through the questions Mrs. Gable was most likely to ask.
Michael had printed their invented relationship history and highlighted the sections where their previous answers differed.
Nat objected to the phrase areas requiring correction and changed it to creative variations. Michael changed it back.
Lena listened from the kitchen while making coffee.
“Where was your first kiss?” Michael asked.
Nat looked at the document. “We didn’t include that.”
“It is a predictable question.”
“Not from a landlord.”
“She asked what attracted us to each other during an apartment showing.”
“Fair point.” Nat considered the invented tasting dinner. “Outside the restaurant.”
“Too general.”
“Beside your car.”
“I took a car service.”
“In real life or in our story?”
“In the story. Parking is difficult in that neighborhood.”
“You have invented transportation but not a kiss?”
“Transportation affects chronology.”
“Fine. We kissed beneath the awning while we waited for your car.”
“It was raining,” Lena called from the kitchen.
Michael turned. “Why?”
“Atmosphere.”
“Rain would explain why we waited beneath an awning,” Nat said. “It also gives us a reason to stand close together.”
Michael wrote it down. “Light rain or heavy?”
Lena appeared in the doorway holding her coffee. “If Mrs. Gable asks about precipitation levels, leave.”
They agreed on light rain.
The proposal story required further adjustment.
Michael disliked the idea that he would propose spontaneously after a burned dessert, arguing that a proposal should involve preparation.
Nat pointed out that their fictitious Michael had been in love for nineteen months and might have experienced an emotion without scheduling it.
“I experience emotions,” he said.
“Name one.”
“Frustration.”
“That one is visible.”
“I also experience concern.”
“Frequently about schedules.”
“Schedules are a legitimate source of concern.”
Lena sipped her coffee. “I believe you two are ready.”
“We haven’t finished,” Michael said.
“You’re arguing with the intimacy of people who have been married for years. Mrs. Gable will never notice that none of the facts make sense.”
They left at five fifty-one. Michael carried the tart and wine, Nat carried the nervous certainty that something important had shifted when he placed the ring on her hand, and Lena remained in the doorway with Howard tucked beneath one arm.
“Text me when you leave,” she told Nat.
“I will.”
“If he tries anything, Mrs. Gable probably owns a cast-iron skillet.”
Michael glanced back. “I can still hear you.”
“That was intentional.”
The windows of the brownstone glowed warmly in the early evening. Mrs. Gable answered the door in a burgundy dress with a lace collar, examined Nat’s ring without comment, and accepted the wine as though evaluating a diplomatic offering.
“Supper is in the dining room,” she said. “The Bells are joining us.”
The Bells lived on the third floor. Eleanor Bell was a tall, graceful woman in her late sixties with silver hair cut to her chin and an emerald scarf arranged artfully around her shoulders.
Her husband, Walter, was shorter, broad through the chest, and wore suspenders printed with tiny yellow ducks.
They had been married forty-three years and began disagreeing before introductions were complete.
“Forty-four in October,” Eleanor corrected.