CHAPTER SIX
Nat woke Saturday morning to the unfamiliar quiet of the brownstone and the smell of cardamom still lingering in the kitchen.
For several seconds, she did not remember where she was.
Sunlight stretched across the bedroom floor, catching on half-open boxes and the turquoise lamp she had placed on the windowsill because she could not yet find the table it belonged on.
Then she heard the soft thud of a door closing somewhere below and remembered everything: the condemned apartment, Mrs. Gable, the lease, and Michael’s thumb brushing flour from her cheek at two in the morning.
She lay still beneath the sheet, annoyed that the last memory had survived with greater clarity than the others.
The apartment appeared empty when she entered the hallway. Michael’s bedroom door stood open, revealing a neatly made bed and an unoccupied desk. His running shoes were gone from the mat beside the front door.
On the dining table, the plate from the night before had been washed and returned. Her note rested beside it with one word written beneath her message in Michael’s precise handwriting.
Effective.
Nat picked up the note. She had expected good, possibly acceptable, and would not have been surprised by a detailed observation concerning texture. Effective was somehow more Michael than any of them.
She wrote At what? beneath it and propped the note against the sugar bowl.
The recipe itself needed another test. The first rolls had tasted good, but the dough had spread more than she wanted and the orange glaze lacked enough acidity.
By eight thirty, Nat had adjusted the liquid, added more zest, and placed the second batch in the oven.
She set up a photography area on the kitchen table, arranging a pale linen cloth, a ceramic plate, and two oranges beside the window.
The process looked casual only from a distance.
Nat checked the direction of the light, adjusted the white reflector board, polished the edge of the plate, and tested six camera angles before the rolls left the oven.
She had built her career by making work disappear from the finished image.
Readers saw a warm kitchen, a golden pastry, and perhaps a dusting of sugar caught in morning light.
They did not see the tripod balanced on a stack of cookbooks, the rejected batches, or the seventy-four nearly identical photographs required to produce one effortless-looking result.
She was brushing glaze over the warm rolls when the doorbell sounded downstairs.
Nat glanced at the clock. Michael had said his run generally lasted fifty minutes. He had been gone nearly an hour, but he had a key. Mrs. Gable might be expecting a delivery, and Nat did not want to interfere with the building’s front door.
The bell sounded again.
She wiped her hands, checked through the living-room window, and saw a woman standing on the front step with a large fern in one hand and a cardboard box at her feet. Before Nat reached the stairs, Mrs. Gable opened the door below.
The woman introduced herself, and Mrs. Gable’s voice brightened.
“Caroline Conroy? Michael’s sister?”
Nat stopped halfway down the stairs.
“That’s right,” the woman said. “He told me he’d moved in, but apparently giving me the apartment number exceeded the limits of our relationship.”
“You’ve come to see the newly engaged couple.”
The fern shifted sharply.
“The what?”
Nat closed her eyes.
Mrs. Gable looked up and saw her on the stairs. “Natalie, your future sister-in-law is here.”
Caroline followed her gaze.
She had Michael’s gray eyes, but none of his reserve.
Surprise moved openly across her face as she looked from Nat to the ring on Nat’s left hand.
She was several inches shorter than her brother, with dark hair pulled into a smooth ponytail and one hand resting against the visible curve beneath her loose green blouse.
Nat came down the remaining steps. “Hello.”
Caroline stared at her. “Hello.”
Mrs. Gable smiled. “Come in. You must have been delighted when Michael told you.”
“He must have called while I was asleep.”
Nat looked toward the front door, willing Michael to appear. The sidewalk remained empty.
“Michael is out running,” she said. “He’ll be back shortly.”
Caroline looked at Nat’s ring again. “I imagine he will.”
Mrs. Gable lifted the box from the front step before either of them could stop her. “Let me help you take these upstairs.”
“You don’t have to,” Nat said quickly.
“Nonsense. Family should not stand in the entry.”
Family was precisely what Nat wanted to keep in the entry until Michael returned with an explanation, a spreadsheet, or a procedure for reversing time.
Mrs. Gable carried the box. Nat took the fern, and Caroline followed them upstairs in silence. The moment they entered the apartment, Mrs. Gable began pointing out features as though Caroline were inspecting the home on behalf of the entire Conroy family.
“The bedroom overlooking the courtyard is Michael’s preference, I understand. Natalie uses the kitchen for her writing. They have already brought such warmth to the place.”
Caroline looked around. “They certainly moved quickly.”
“They had been searching for the right home.”
“Had they?”
Nat nearly dropped the fern.
Mrs. Gable set the box beside the sofa. “I’ll leave you to become acquainted. Eleanor and Walter will be pleased to know one of the family has visited.”
Caroline waited until the front door closed before turning to Nat. “Who are you?”
“Natalie Tremaine.”
“I gathered that from the future-sister-in-law portion of the morning.”
“This is difficult to explain.”
“Are you engaged to my brother?”
Nat looked toward the stairs again. “The answer depends on how much legal weight you give a handwritten agreement.”
Caroline placed one hand on the back of a chair. “I’m six months pregnant, I drove across town before breakfast, and I have just learned my brother may be engaged to a woman whose name I did not know ten minutes ago. Please use ordinary words.”
“We’re roommates.”
Caroline’s gaze dropped to the ring.
“Roommates with a complicated rental arrangement.”
“You’re wearing an engagement ring.”
“It came with the complication.”
“Did Michael give it to you?”
“Yes, but not in the traditional sense.”
The front door opened downstairs.
Michael’s footsteps sounded on the staircase, steady at first and then slower when he saw Caroline standing in the living room.
He wore a charcoal T-shirt and black running shorts.
His hair was damp, his breathing only slightly elevated, and the sight of him stripped of his usual work clothes distracted Nat at the least useful possible moment.
“What are you doing here?” he asked his sister.
Caroline folded her arms. “Apparently meeting your fiancée.”
Michael looked at Nat.
“Mrs. Gable answered the door,” she said.
His expression tightened. “Where is she?”
“Downstairs.”
“Does she know Caroline is my sister?”
“She introduced us.”
Michael closed the apartment door, then looked at Caroline. “I can explain.”
“I hope you can do more than Natalie did. She has been explaining for five minutes and I now understand less.”
“We are not engaged.”
Caroline stared at him. “Mrs. Gable called her my future sister-in-law.”
“The owner rents only to engaged or married couples.”
Caroline’s expression changed as the relevant pieces began to connect. “You pretended to be engaged so she would give you the apartment.”
“Yes.”
“To someone you just met.”
“Yes.”
“And now you live together.”
Michael glanced toward the front door. “Keep your voice down.”
Caroline lowered it without reducing its intensity. “Have you suffered a head injury?”
“No.”
“You won’t buy a kitchen appliance without reading six months of consumer reviews, but you entered a fake engagement with a stranger?”
“The housing situation required an immediate solution.”
“This is not a solution. It is the beginning of a documentary in which neighbors describe how polite you seemed.”
Nat set the fern on the dining table. “Lena made a similar observation.”
Caroline looked at her. “Who is Lena?”
“My best friend.”
“Does she know?”
“Yes.”
“So I am the last woman in either of your lives to learn about this.”
“Our mother does not know,” Michael said.
Caroline turned back to him. “Mom thinks you moved into a one-bedroom apartment near the office.”
“I did not say it had one bedroom.”
“You allowed her to believe it.”
“I told her I had secured suitable housing.”
“That is exactly how you lied when you broke her serving platter.”
“I was eleven.”
“You said it had become structurally unsound.”
“It had.”
“Because you dropped it.”
Nat looked between them. Michael’s controlled expression remained in place, but something in his eyes had changed. He was no longer the highly organized stranger from the apartment viewing. He was a younger brother being dragged backward through family history, and he disliked it.
“Caroline,” he said, “Mom cannot know yet.”
Her anger eased enough to reveal hurt beneath it. “How long were you planning to keep this from us?”
“The arrangement is temporary.”
“You signed a lease.”
“For one year.”
“That is not temporary when you’re lying to your mother.”
“I do not intend to lie to her for a year.”
“What do you intend?”
Michael did not answer.
Nat stepped closer. “This began because my apartment was condemned. I had nowhere to go, and Michael had to be out of his apartment by Friday. Mrs. Gable scheduled us for the same viewing and refused to consider either of us separately. I said we were engaged before Michael agreed to anything.”
Caroline looked at her brother. “And then?”
“He said no,” Nat admitted. “Several times.”
“I evaluated the available options,” Michael said.
“You mean she wore you down.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Nat said.
Michael’s gaze shifted to her.
“Not emotionally,” she added. “Logistically.”
Caroline sat in the leather armchair and rested both hands on her stomach. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I am safe,” Michael said.
“I was talking to Natalie.”
He became completely still.