Chapter 35
My mood is subdued for the rest of the evening. I don’t want to be, but I’m irked at Sam for inviting Kalina to dinner on Friday without discussing it with me first. We’ve been together long enough that I’m sure he senses my displeasure, but he lets it be, which is probably wise.
In bed that night, I lie awake and analyze my feelings, even as Sam sleeps with his back to me and snores.
I like to think that I’m self-aware enough not to let unfounded fears get the better of me.
But when it comes to Kalina, I’m not so sure.
I keep seeing that hug in my mind’s eye.
The way she leaned in and pressed her cheek against his.
The faintly seductive smile that played on her lips as she bade him farewell.
It haunts me when I close my eyes, and when I finally fall asleep, Kalina follows me there, too.
Over the next few days, I do my best to purge the suspicious thoughts from my mind.
I trust Sam, and Kalina is our neighbor.
Would she really be so brazen as to make a play for him when her apartment is less than twenty feet from ours?
And even if she did, Sam would never reciprocate. He loves me, and I’m secure in that.
On Friday morning, I go shopping. What started as a small and informal dinner has since turned into a full-blown formal affair.
On Thursday evening Sam ran into Frank and Dr. Burgess at the mailboxes in the lobby and extended an invitation to them, which they happily accepted.
The thought of spending a whole evening with the doctor, and in my own apartment at that, fills me with dread.
The man gives me the creeps. But that’s not Sam’s fault.
He has no idea how I feel about Burgess.
Maybe if I’d told him, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
But it’s too late. I now have six people coming for dinner, including the odious Dr. Burgess, and nowhere near enough food or drinks in the house.
To make matters worse, this is the first real dinner party we’ve ever thrown.
None of our previous apartments were suitable for such events.
Not that it mattered. The few people we counted as friends were more comfortable meeting in a bar than sitting around a candlelit table sipping a fine Bordeaux.
No pressure there, then, I think to myself, hosting a bunch of neighbors who are also practically strangers.
I grab my keys and purse and leave the apartment.
There’s an organic market and deli on Newbury Street that I’ve been meaning to check out, anyway.
In the elevator, I go over the shopping list on my phone.
I’ve spent days fretting about what to serve, especially since Sam informed me that Kalina is vegan.
Which is why, after a lengthy conversation with my mother—who wasn’t a whole lot of help since her idea of a dinner party is not the same as mine—and a couple of hours of searching online, I settled on a menu that covers every eventuality.
A salad of baby greens with pear and a lemon-mint vinaigrette.
Two types of pasta—regular fettuccine and zucchini noodles—in a vegan pesto sauce and paired with arugula, roasted cherry tomatoes, and chickpeas.
Shaved Parmesan and grilled shrimp, both on the side.
I also pick up a couple of crusty French bread loaves.
I haven’t decided on dessert yet, but I’ll find something.
Satisfied, I slip the phone back into my pocket as the elevator reaches the ground floor. When I step out, I’m surprised to find the lobby empty. The doorman, Angelo, is not at his desk, and there’s a small plastic sign sitting on the counter: I’m helping another tenant, but I’ll be right back.
I’m halfway across the lobby, heading for the exit, when I hear a door close. I glance toward the noise, expecting Angelo. But instead, I see Catherine, who’s coming out of the only apartment on the ground floor. She turns toward the elevator, face flushed.
“Catherine, is everything all right?” I ask, starting toward her.
Her eyes dart in my direction, but she doesn’t answer. Instead, she picks up the pace and steps into the elevator, walking right past me like I’m not even there.