CHAPTER EIGHT #2
“No, Mom, the ceiling did not fall on me,” she said. “The building was condemned because part of the rear structure had shifted.”
A woman’s voice came through the laptop speaker. “That is not more comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Your father can drive out Wednesday.”
“We live four states apart.”
“He has a reliable car.”
A man spoke in the background. “Tell her I can be there Thursday if I stop overnight.”
“You are not driving four states to inspect an apartment I have already rented.”
Michael entered quietly and set the pie on the counter.
Nat sat at the dining table facing her laptop.
Her mother’s face filled most of the screen, while her father leaned into view from one side.
Both appeared to be in their early sixties.
Her mother had Nat’s brown eyes and expressive mouth.
Her father wore reading glasses pushed to the top of his head.
Nat noticed Michael and lifted one finger, asking him to wait.
“Is that the roommate?” her mother asked.
Nat looked behind her. “Yes. Michael, these are my parents, Susan and David Tremaine.”
Michael stepped into view. “Hello.”
Susan leaned closer to the camera. “You’re taller than I expected.”
“Mom.”
“I only saw part of him.”
David adjusted his position. “What do you do, Michael?”
“I’m a financial analyst.”
“Stable work,” David said approvingly.
“Dad.”
“What? It is.”
Susan ignored him. “How did the two of you meet?”
“At the apartment viewing,” Nat said.
Michael appreciated the truthfulness of the answer.
“And you decided to live together that day?”
“We both needed housing quickly. The apartment has two bedrooms, we checked each other’s references, and we wrote down the financial terms.”
“You wrote them down?” David asked.
“Michael did.”
David nodded again. “Good.”
“You have no idea what they said,” Susan told him.
“They wrote them down. That’s a start.”
Nat covered her face briefly with one hand. “This is why I waited to call.”
“You waited because you knew we would worry,” her mother said.
“I waited because there was nothing you could do from four states away except worry.”
“We could have helped.”
“You offered to cross half the country because a building inspector made me leave before dinner. I knew you would help.”
“Then why didn’t you call?”
Nat’s humor disappeared. “Because I needed to know I could handle it.”
Her parents became quiet.
Michael recognized the sentence. It was another form of the independence he had mistaken for impulsiveness.
Susan’s voice softened. “You don’t have to prove that to us.”
“I know.”
“Call anyway.”
“I will.”
They spoke for another ten minutes. Nat showed them part of the kitchen, introduced the rosemary plant, and avoided showing the ceramic rooster because her father had given it to her and would ask why she had ever considered leaving it behind.
Michael stayed out of view until Susan asked him to promise that the locks worked properly.
“They do,” he said.
“And the neighborhood is safe?”
“Yes.”
“Does the smoke detector work?”
Michael looked at Nat.
“Very well,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes, but her parents seemed reassured.
When the call ended, Nat closed the laptop and released a long breath. “Your lunch?”
“My mother knows.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Did she report you to the appropriate authorities?”
“No.”
“Then it went better than it could have.”
“She is concerned.”
“My parents just offered to conduct an interstate apartment inspection. Concern is flexible.”
Michael placed the pie container in front of her. “She sent this.”
Nat lifted the lid. “Peach pie.”
“She would like to meet you.”
Her hand stopped above the container. “Why?”
“You share an apartment with her son.”
“I thought this was easier without me.”
“Telling her was easier. She still wants to meet you.”
“Is it another evaluation dinner?”
“No.”
“Will there be questions?”
“Yes.”
“That makes it an evaluation dinner.”
Michael sat across from her. “She is bringing food Tuesday.”
Nat looked down at the pie. “Does she hate me?”
“She has not met you.”
“That has never prevented anyone.”
“She does not hate you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you are disorganized, work irregular hours, own unnecessary kitchen equipment, and underestimate task duration.”
Nat slowly lowered the lid. “You led with my strengths.”
“I also said you are resourceful, professionally disciplined, and dependable under pressure.”
“That is better.”
“She asked whether you make me laugh.”
Nat looked at him. “What did you say?”
“That you sometimes do.”
“Only sometimes?”
“You do not intend every statement to be humorous.”
“Neither do you, but some of your best work happens accidentally.”
Michael did not respond. Nat smiled, then took the pie to the kitchen for plates.
They ate at the table while she described the call with her parents. Her mother taught middle-school science. Her father owned a hardware store and had spent thirty-six years beginning home repairs on Saturday mornings without considering whether the necessary parts were available before Monday.
“They sound happy,” Michael said.
“They are.”
“Thirty-six years.”
“They’ve argued through at least twenty-eight of them.”
“About significant issues?”
“Sometimes. Mostly directions, thermostat settings, and whether Dad can estimate lumber without writing anything down.”
“Can he?”
“No. But he remains spiritually committed to the attempt.”
Michael finished the pie. “Your mother manages the finances?”
“They do it together. Mom pays regular bills. Dad handles the business accounts. Once a month they sit at the kitchen table and show each other everything.”
The answer connected too closely to his conversation with Elaine.
“Was that always their system?” he asked.
“As long as I can remember. Why?”
“No reason.”
Nat seemed to understand anyway. She did not make a joke or offer reassurance he had not requested. She simply gathered the plates and carried them to the sink.
Michael opened his portfolio and removed a folder. “You mentioned at Linden that your cookbook proposal has been under consideration for three months.”
Nat turned. “You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“My agent says publishing moves slowly.”
“It does. However, your proposal may not present the strongest available business case.”
She leaned against the counter. “You haven’t seen it.”
“I have seen your website.”
“When?”
“Monday.”
“How much?”
“Six months of content, advertising disclosures, public traffic estimates, and sponsorship frequency.”
Nat stared at him. “You conducted an audit of my career after our almost-date?”
“It was not an audit.”
“What was it?”
“Preliminary analysis.”
“That is less romantic than stalking but more thorough.”
“I was curious.”
The final word changed her expression.
Michael opened the folder. “Your audience growth appears stronger than the proposal figures you mentioned at dinner. If your agent used trailing twelve-month averages, the presentation may understate current engagement.”
“You got that from my website?”
“Some of it. I need actual numbers.”
Nat returned to the table and opened her laptop. “What kind?”
“Monthly unique visitors, repeat-visitor percentage, newsletter subscriptions, click-through rates, sponsor conversions if available, and revenue by source.”
“That sounds like an audit.”
“It is analysis.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Only if your records are poor.”
She sat beside him rather than across the table.
Their shoulders nearly touched as she opened the website dashboard and began pulling reports.
Michael showed her how to separate seasonal spikes from sustained growth.
Nat explained which recipes drove newsletter sign-ups and why traffic for holiday desserts did not convert to regular readership at the same rate as weeknight meals.
They disagreed about whether an article titled Soup for People Who Have Given Up represented a repeatable content category. Nat demonstrated that it had produced her highest email open rate of the winter. Michael adjusted the projection.
At nine thirty, they were still working.
At ten fifteen, Nat made tea without asking whether he wanted any and placed the dark blue mug beside him.
At eleven, Michael rebuilt the proposal’s audience-growth table while Nat rewrote two paragraphs explaining her platform. She read the new version aloud. It was sharper, clearer, and supported by numbers she had possessed without understanding how powerfully they worked together.
“This is good,” she said.
“The data was already there.”
“But I wasn’t seeing it.”
“You see different things.”
Nat looked at him. “That sounded almost complimentary.”
“It was.”
The directness quieted her.
They had been sitting close for hours. Her perfume had faded, leaving the scent of shampoo and peach pie. One strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, and Michael had to stop himself from reaching toward it.
Nat glanced at the clock. “We just spent four hours together without Mrs. Gable, a flour emergency, or a contractual requirement.”
Michael looked at the agreement attached to the refrigerator.
“This is not covered,” he said.
“No.”
“Do you want to stop?”
Nat’s eyes held his.
“Not yet,” she said.
Michael turned back to the laptop, though neither of them resumed typing immediately.