38. Cassian
CASSIAN
She comes to the bakery that Saturday — the last in November, the first under her terms. She orders the lemon scone.
I order, in fact, the black coffee without the almond pastry.
Inez, at the counter, registers the absence of the almond pastry with a small flicker of professional curiosity she has the good sense not to comment on, and Maren, in the booth across from me, registers that I have done the small specific thing she asked for at four o'clock on Wednesday in Davies' office, and she does the small considered thing with her mouth she does when she has, currently, noted a thing she is, currently, not, in fact, going to mention.
We do not, in this morning, talk about the side letter.
We do not talk about the board vote. We do not, Maren, talk about September.
We talk about the small heron in the lower marsh, which she has,in the last three weeks since the second Wednesday note, in fact, walked down the cliff path to look at on her lunch break, and about a cousin of hers in Sacramento who is,currently teaching a beagle to ring a small bell when he wants out, and about the fact that Inez, behind the counter, has, in nine years of running the bakery, never once, in fact, taken a day off.
The booth is the same booth. The booth is also somehow different.
I do not know how to phrase that for myself in the chamber of my head where I do, in fact, file these things.
I do not, this morning, file it. I let it be,the small dry humid morning warmth of a small white-walled bakery at ten thirty on a Saturday in late November, and I drink the coffee, and I do not, at any point in the morning, look at my phone.
She leaves at eleven seventeen.
She kisses me, this time, at the door — light, on the corner of the mouth, the kind of kiss you give a man you have, in fact, given a list of terms to,eleven days ago — and she walks out, and the small bell over the door does the soft green thing, and I sit at the booth for the count of three before I,am the only person in the booth.
She comes back to the bakery the next Saturday.
And the Saturday after that.
By the second Saturday in December, the booth is, a recurring thing.
Inez sets, on the table, two cups before we ask.
The lemon scone is, by the second Saturday in December, in a small wax-paper sleeve before Maren has, in fact, opened the door of the shop, and the black coffee is across the table from it without ceremony.
I do not, in any of the Saturdays, ask her to come to the property, ask her where she is sleeping, whether she is, in fact, still in the staff cottage, or in Livian's spare room, or, in the third Saturday — she mentions, in passing — at a small studio on the lower coast road she has just signed a six-month lease on without consulting anyone.
I do, on the third Saturday, the small careful thing of saying, "That is — that is good, Maren. Congratulations."
She looks at me. She does the small considered thing with her mouth. She says, "Thanks, Cassian."
She does not, in the third Saturday, tell me the address. I do not, on the third Saturday, ask.
Sebastian comes into my office at the firm on a Tuesday in mid-December at four o'clock, and he closes the door behind him, which he is,currently doing more often than he was,doing in September.
"Cassian."
"Sebastian."
"The Pereira candidate."
"Yes."
"She would like to come for a site visit on the eighteenth. That is,a Friday."
"All right. The eighteenth is fine."
"I am, in fact, also flagging — Cassian — that the eighteenth is,the Friday Livian has booked the small lower spa wing tasting menu for the lower-property staff."
"What time?"
"Seven."
"What time is Pereira?"
"Three."
"Then they do not,conflict, Sebastian."
"They do not conflict on a calendar, Cassian. They do, however,conflict on a person. Pereira will want the principal at dinner on the eighteenth."
I look at him. He looks at me. He has that small, careful expression he wore in the lobby on the September Tuesday I came in—an expression that belongs to someone who has already agreed to lose this conversation.
"Sebastian."
"Cassian."
"Tell Pereira that the principal is,at the lower spa wing, staff tasting menu at seven. Tell her that, if she would like to join the staff tasting menu at seven, she is welcome. Tell her the menu is, currently, sea bass."
"Cassian."
"Sebastian."
"That is,not the kind of pitch a candidate at her level — "
"Sebastian. That is,the pitch. If Pereira cannot eat sea bass with thirty members of the staff of the property she is considering running, then Pereira is not the candidate."
"All right, Cassian."
"And Sebastian."
"Cassian."
"Maren is going to be at the tasting menu."
"Yes."
"In her capacity, Sebastian, as a member of staff. Not,as my anything."
"Yes."
"Pereira, does not need to know that we have a Saturday at the bakery."
"Cassian."
"What."
"You — — have a Saturday at the bakery."
"Yes."
"You — Cassian — you have, currently, had a Saturday at the bakery for four consecutive Saturdays without missing one."
"Yes."
"You — — you have not, in four consecutive Saturdays, missed one for a deal."
"No."
"Cassian, the Friday before the third Saturday you,had Vance's office on the line at midnight Pacific."
"Yes."
"You hung up at eleven forty-five."
"Yes, Sebastian, I hung up at eleven forty-five because the bakery is at ten thirty on Saturday, and I do not, currently,drink the black coffee well for three hours."
"Cassian."
"Sebastian."
"I am — I am — — confirming a thing for you."
"What thing?"
"You are, currently,holding the Saturday."
"Yes."
"Cassian."
"What, Sebastian."
"I am glad of it."
"All right."
"All right."
He turns. He goes out. The door behind him closes with that small, soft click you hear from someone who has, at this moment, decided staying employed is the wiser choice.
The lower spa wing tasting menu on the eighteenth begins at seven.
Pereira attends. She eats the sea bass. She questions Maren at the long table, unaware she’s speaking to anyone but reception, and Maren replies in her clean, efficient way.
Pereira takes note. Her gaze cuts to me at the head of the table, her mouth tightening in that deliberate way Becca’s does. I don’t acknowledge it.
I do, in fact, the small new thing I am, currently, learning, which is to keep my hand on the stem of my glass at the table and not,on the inside of Maren's elbow under the table, which is, in fact, where my hand would,in September, in nine years, have gone.
She, at the long table, does notice. She does not, at the long table, say anything.
She does, on the small walk out to the lower service road at ten, after Pereira has gone back to the inn, the small unprompted thing of taking my hand.
The taking is, currently, hers. The hand is, currently, mine.
The lower service road is in a small soft December rain.
We walk the long way to the small studio she has the six-month lease on.She doesn’t give me the usual quick kiss at the corner of my mouth.
She kisses me fully, gently, with the quiet certainty of someone who made up her mind somewhere between morning and now, and then she steps inside.
She doesn’t invite me. I don’t test the boundary.
I walk the long curve of the coast road back to the inn.
In the morning I write to her.
Maren. Last night. The sea bass. Inês will take the offer. I will tell her on Monday. Pereira will,on the day she signs, in February, be the person who tells me no when no is the answer. I am glad. — C.
She writes back in the morning by hand and slips the note under the door of the inn before I am up.
Cassian. Yes. The sea bass was also very good. — M.
I read it in the small cane chair by the window of the inn room.
I allow myself the small careful thing of, in fact, smiling.
I have not, in nine years, written a sentence to a person who has,written back without first,requiring me to lift the cost of the writing.
I write to her, on the next cream sheet, the small dry thing. Inês is going to fix the wedding business. Davies, I think, is going to retire in three. — C.
She writes back, at noon, by way of Livian and the small staff cafeteria interoffice. Cassian. Davies will retire when he is told the heron is, in fact, a tricolor. — M.
I write back at four. Maren. I will not tell him. — C.
She does not write back to that one for two days, and when she does, on the small flat receipt pad from her cottage kitchen, the sentence reads, simply, in the small open hand I have, in three months, learned to read, Cassian. Come to the studio Saturday. After the bakery. — M.
I am,on the lower coast road, on Saturday after the bakery.
I knock on the door.
She lets me in.