Chapter 13
CLAIRE
On Thursday evening, I took off the third top I’d tried and finally put the first one back on.
It was a thin dark blue sweater, its neckline showing my collarbones. In the mirror, I gathered my hair up, then let it fall again. My phone vibrated on the bed. Mia had sent a photo of Nora at her dining table, adding cheese to a very flat-looking flatbread.
“There’s hope for our dinner,” my sister wrote.
I sent her a thank-you, looked up and saw my own smile in the mirror, and pressed it flat with my fingers. I was only going out for dinner. But I’d even changed my earrings, which made that explanation hard to believe.
We’d chosen the restaurant together. Ethan had sent me two places, and I’d picked the one near the old street, then asked if he minded small tables. He’d said as long as there was room for my dinner. I’d stared at that “my” for a while before telling him there had to be room for his too.
When I arrived, he was standing just inside. He wore no tie, his coat draped over his arm. Turning to see me, he stopped with his phone halfway to his pocket.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello.” He finally put the phone away. “You look beautiful.”
The compliment came so quickly, as though he hadn’t had time to choose a safer opening. I looked down to unbutton my coat, my cheeks warming.
“I thought you might say it’s been a while.”
“I saw you Tuesday,” he said. “But I didn’t dare say it Tuesday.”
As I handed my coat to the server, I couldn’t help looking at him again.
We sat by the window. The table really was small, his water glass right beside my menu. I moved things twice without managing to make room for us both. Ethan simply stood his menu upright.
“Now it looks as if I’m taking a test and hiding my answers.”
“What are you planning to copy?”
“I’ll see what you order, then act as though I chose mine ages ago.”
I wanted to laugh but pressed my lips together.
When the server came, he really did wait until I’d ordered fish before asking for beef stew and admitting he was hungry.
So was I. The session at lunchtime had run long, and by the time I ate my sandwich, it was cold and soggy.
When I told him, he asked what kind of session it had been.
“The book group. Yesterday’s argument spilled over into today. Two people came back specifically to find me.”
“For the book?”
“To prove each other wrong. It’s a mystery. They catch the killer at the end, but one reader insists the victim’s wife should have been arrested too.”
“What did she do?”
“Told the killer where her husband hid his money.”
“Did she know they were going to kill him?”
“No. So the other reader says the most she can be blamed for is marrying the wrong man.”
Ethan pushed the breadbasket between us and paused. “Sounds as though I’d better choose my words carefully tonight.”
I finally laughed aloud. His eyes brightened as he watched me. He didn’t use the moment to say something more intimate, just asked why the wife had told the killer.
I explained that the wife thought she was helping repay a debt. Ethan asked for more water, then turned back without losing the thread.
“Then why didn’t she call the police after she learned the truth?”
“That’s where they started arguing,” I said. “You’ve put your finger on it.”
“I’ve always been good at finding the killer.”
“Are you sure you want to say that to me?”
He slowly set down his bread. “I could rephrase.”
“You dog-eared the last page once, then told me the killer had given himself away.”
“He had.”
“On the second-to-last page.”
“A little late in the book.”
I laughed hard enough to nearly knock over the menu. He steadied it, laughing too. His cuff slipped back, and I found myself looking at his hands, the shallow paper cut on his thumb.
“Who did you guess this time?” he asked.
“The wife.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I was wrong,” I said.
“Does your group know?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m honored.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ll protect your secret.”
My knee touched his under the table. He didn’t move closer, but I drew my leg back a little, my heart beating absurdly fast. When the fish arrived, I looked down as I shifted my plate and heard him ask what else I was reading.
I told him I was reading a travelogue about a woman making her way along the coast alone. He seemed surprised. He remembered how I used to complain that travel writers were always turning a wrong turn into a revelation about life.
“This one does it too. But after she takes a wrong turn, she discovers the inn she booked is on the other side of the bay. I really wanted to know how she was going to get there before dark.”
“You looked up a map for her?”
“I did.”
“Could she make it?”
“By boat, yes. It took her three pages to admit she’d taken a boat.”
He laughed. I told him that these days I sometimes liked books where very little happened. After work, I didn’t have to worry about who still hadn’t died. He asked for the title and took out his phone to note it down.
“You don’t have to read the whole thing just to talk to me.”
“I want to see those three pages,” he said. “The next time I take forever to tell you something very simple, you can just ask me where the boat is.”
Later, I pushed the crisp potatoes left on my fish plate toward him. He took one with such familiar ease that we might have eaten together like this last week. I paused. He noticed, his hand stopping at the edge of the plate.
“Did you want more?”
“No. I’m full.”
He ate the potato and signaled for the dessert menu. I was grateful he hadn’t tried to explain what that gesture meant. We ended up sharing a baked pear, and I ate most of the ice cream. He put down his spoon and said he’d apparently ordered a serving of warm fruit.
When the check came, I insisted on paying my share. He glanced at the card I held out, said all right, and picked up his coat. I slipped the receipt into my bag, my fingers still cool from the glass.
The wind had dropped since I’d arrived. My car was only a block from the restaurant, but I glanced the other way. A bookstore along the street still had its lights on.
“Walk down there and back?” he asked.
I nodded.
Our hands brushed as we walked. At the bookstore window, I mentioned a book I was waiting to borrow.
“Let’s stand farther away,” he said. “It might be able to tell how much you want it.”
I nudged him, my ears warm under his gaze.
Handwritten staff recommendations were taped to the glass.
He bent to read the lowest one, and I leaned in with him, our shoulders resting lightly together.
I caught the familiar scent at his collar and forgot where I’d been in the line.
He turned to ask whether I could read it, his voice very close.
“No. Your shadow’s in the way.”
He moved aside a little. Only then did I realize I hadn’t really wanted him to.
Back at the car, I found my keys but didn’t open the door right away. He stood a step from me and said the evening had gone quickly. I murmured agreement, then felt that wasn’t enough.
“I thought so too.”
“What about next Saturday?” he asked. “If you’d like, we could find somewhere else for dinner.”
The evening breeze brushed my neck. I thought of the baked pear, of him solemnly explaining that the killer had given himself away near the back of the book.
“I’d like that,” I said.
He smiled, his happiness unguarded. I carried it with me as I drove away. When I reached Mia’s to pick up Nora and my sister asked how dinner had gone, I didn’t even stop to work out an answer.
“Well,” I said. “Really well.”
The next morning, I was pouring coffee in the kitchen and already choosing what to wear the following Saturday in my head.
By the time I realized it, I’d poured too much milk, and the coffee had risen to the rim. I set down the carton and looked at his goodnight message from the night before. I’d said goodnight too and added a thank-you for dinner.
I didn’t regret dinner. But already I wanted the next evening, and the one after that. I knew how easily I could begin keeping time free for him again. I didn’t know how I’d bear another disappointment.
After lunch, I called him myself.
He said my name brightly. I looked at the windowsill and tried not to make it sound as if something had come up.
“I’d like to cancel next Saturday for now.”
The other end went quiet. After a few seconds, he asked, “Did something last night make you uncomfortable?”
“No. I was happy last night.”
“We don’t have to eat. We could just take a walk. I was really looking forward to it.”
“I was too.”
“Then why are we canceling?”
I sat down. “Because I’m already planning what to wear. I thought we could have one dinner and see how it went. Now I’m thinking about next Saturday, and the one after that.”
“I want those evenings with you, Claire.”
“So do I.” My fingers tightened around the phone. “I spent years keeping evenings free for you. I don’t know how to start doing it again without ending up back where I was.”
He said nothing. I heard a chair move and thought he might have sat down too.
“I kept thinking about you after I got home,” I said. “I’m not ready for us to be that close again all at once.”
“So you don’t regret going.”
“No. I don’t regret that dinner.” I paused. “I just need to take things a little slower.”
The silence went on until I glanced at the screen to make sure the call was still connected.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Not Saturday.”
I rubbed at the dried patch of milk on my mug. I wanted him to say something else, though I didn’t know what I could bear to hear.
“I’d already started looking at restaurants,” he said.
My throat tightened. “I liked the one we went to.”
“Me too.”
“I laughed until my face hurt.”
He gave a soft laugh at the other end.
After the call, I leaned back and unclenched my hand. I still had my own shift that afternoon and a book waiting to be finished. I didn’t have to decide right now when I would see him again.
That evening, sorting through my bag, I found the restaurant receipt. One corner of the thin paper was creased, and it showed my share of the baked pear. I smoothed it and put it in the drawer of the little table.
After closing the drawer, I stood for a while, still remembering him looking at the empty plate and saying “warm fruit.”
I was already beginning to want to see him again.