CHAPTER SEVEN
By Monday, Nat and Michael had developed a domestic rhythm neither of them admitted was becoming familiar.
Michael ran before sunrise, showered at six thirty, and left for work at seven forty-five.
Nat usually woke when she heard the front door close, although she had learned not to speak to him before his run unless the building was on fire or she possessed information capable of preventing one.
He drank tea from the same dark blue mug each morning.
She used whichever cup was nearest, including one that said WORLD’S BEST DENTAL HYGIENIST despite having no connection to dentistry.
He kept his shoes aligned beside the door.
She left hers wherever she stopped needing them.
He placed mail in two separate trays on the entry table.
Nat initially objected to the labels, then discovered that her invoices no longer disappeared beneath grocery circulars and quietly withdrew the complaint.
The kitchen remained her territory, but Michael had acquired one pantry shelf. It held tea, oatmeal, almonds, two cans of soup, and a row of identical glass containers. Nat described the shelf as a model apartment staged for legumes. Michael did not respond.
Their written agreement remained attached to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a lemon. Neither had consulted it since the night of the flour incident.
At four thirty Monday afternoon, Nat was testing a lemon-herb dressing when Marisol Vega called to announce that she could not attend the evening’s restaurant tasting.
“I have a fever,” Marisol said. “Also chills, a sore throat, and the conviction that death is imminent.”
“You said that when you had food poisoning.”
“I believed it then too.”
Nat balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear while whisking olive oil into the dressing.
Marisol had been her editor for three years and had developed an illness approximately twice a year, each time with the expectation that her obituary would mention several inadequately appreciated professional accomplishments.
“The reservation is for two,” Nat said. “Can Simone change it?”
“The dining room is full. Bring someone.”
“Lena has a client launch tonight.”
“What about your fiancé?”
Nat stopped whisking.
She had spoken to Marisol briefly from Lena’s apartment the day the building was condemned.
At some point during that hurried conversation, she had mentioned the engagement because Mrs. Gable was checking references and Nat needed the story confirmed.
Marisol had been too concerned about the building to ask questions then and too ill to remember discretion now.
“He’s working.”
“The dinner is at seven thirty. Accountants stop working.”
“He’s a financial analyst.”
“Those sound like accountants with better tailoring.”
Nat looked toward the front room, where Michael’s desk stood unused during the day. “He doesn’t know anything about restaurant tastings.”
“He eats, doesn’t he?”
“That was my argument.”
“Then take him. Simone needs both seats filled, and Chef Baird is serving nine courses. One person cannot give useful notes on nine courses.”
“I can.”
“You should not.”
Marisol coughed with theatrical severity. “Tell your fiancé he is serving the culinary arts.”
The call ended.
Nat resumed whisking, but the dressing had separated. She poured it into a jar, added mustard, and shook it until cooperation was restored.
Michael arrived at six twelve. She heard the lock turn, followed by his shoes being placed precisely beside the door. He entered the kitchen carrying his portfolio and stopped when he saw her.
Nat had changed into a rust-colored wrap dress and arranged her hair in loose waves over one shoulder.
Her camera bag rested beside the table, along with a notebook and the engagement ring box.
She wore the ring only when Mrs. Gable or the Bells might see her.
During the day, it remained safely in the box so food preparation would not damage it.
“You’re going out,” Michael said.
“I have a restaurant tasting.”
He looked at the ingredients spread across the counter. “Then why are you cooking?”
“I needed to solve something before I left.”
“Did you?”
Nat held up the jar. “Dressing has accepted my authority.”
Michael set down his portfolio. “Is Lena going with you?”
“She was, but she has a client event. Marisol was supposed to replace her, but she is dying.”
His expression changed slightly. “Dying?”
“In the Marisol sense. She’ll be back at work Thursday.”
“I see.”
“The reservation is for two.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“You arranged the information in preparation for asking.”
“That is something I learned from you.”
Michael looked at his watch. “What time?”
“Seven thirty.”
“Where?”
“Linden.”
“The new restaurant on Mercer Street?”
Nat brightened. “You’ve heard of it.”
“I passed it last week.”
“Chef Elena Baird ran the kitchen at Archer for six years. This is her first restaurant under her own name.”
“I have a report to finish.”
“You can finish it after dinner.”
“I work more effectively without a nine-course interruption.”
“Marisol says you would be serving the culinary arts.”
“I do not know Marisol.”
“She gave you an excellent reference.”
“She gave you an excellent reference.”
“Which helped us get our apartment. Indirectly, you owe her.”
Michael considered the argument and rejected it. “No.”
Nat had expected that. She closed the distance between them and lowered her voice despite the fact that no one else was present.
“Our invented first meeting took place at a restaurant tasting.”
“That does not require us to attend one.”
“Mrs. Gable may ask follow-up questions.”
“We have already signed the lease.”
“She lives downstairs. The evaluation is ongoing.”
“That is speculation.”
“Fine. Come because I need a second palate.”
“You said you could evaluate nine courses alone.”
“I can. I would rather not.”
Michael glanced at the ring box. “Will people there believe we are engaged?”
“Only if I wear the ring.”
“Will you?”
“If Mrs. Gable sees us leave together, yes.”
“That expands the deception.”
“Mrs. Gable already believes it. Everyone else will assume the ring belongs to someone whose identity is none of their business.”
He looked unconvinced.
Nat softened her voice. “It’s good food, Michael. You may even enjoy yourself.”
“I enjoy myself.”
“I have seen you enjoy a floor plan.”
“There are other examples.”
“Name one.”
He did not.
Nat waited.
“I need fifteen minutes to change,” he said.
Michael emerged from his bedroom wearing a navy suit and a white shirt open at the collar.
The tailoring was understated, but it fit him too well for Nat to remain objective.
She had seen him in running clothes, work clothes, and flour-dusted pajamas.
None of those versions prepared her for the quiet confidence of a man dressed for an evening rather than an office.
She slipped the ring onto her finger. “You clean up nicely.”
“I was not dirty.”
“That phrase means you look good.”
“Then why not say that?”
“You look good.”
Michael’s gaze moved over her dress and lingered at her waist. “So do you.”
The directness of it unsettled her more than a clever answer would have.
Mrs. Gable was arranging flowers in the front hall when they came downstairs. Her eyes took in Michael’s suit, Nat’s dress, and the ring.
“You’re going out.”
“Nat has a work event,” Michael said.
“A restaurant opening,” Nat added.
Mrs. Gable smiled. “Like the night you met.”
“Similar,” Michael said.
“Enjoy yourselves.”
He placed one hand lightly against Nat’s back as they stepped through the door. The gesture was for Mrs. Gable, but his palm remained there until they reached the bottom step.
Linden occupied the ground floor of a renovated warehouse, with tall windows, pale wood tables, and an open kitchen glowing behind a wall of glass.
The restaurant was not yet open to the public.
Editors, food writers, photographers, and local hospitality figures filled the dining room, creating the controlled noise of people who knew they were being observed while eating.
A publicist named Simone greeted Nat with a kiss near each cheek. “Marisol said she was sending you with someone.”
“This is Michael Conroy.”
“Her fiancé,” Michael said before Nat could decide how to introduce him.
Simone’s eyes dropped to the ring. “Congratulations. Marisol didn’t tell me.”
“It’s recent,” Nat said.
“Three months,” Michael corrected.
Nat looked at him.
“Three months is recent,” he said.
Simone led them to a table near the open kitchen. “Chef Baird will speak before the first course. We have tasting cards, but please feel free to take your own notes. No photographs of the kitchen staff until after service.”
Nat thanked her and sat. “You introduced yourself as my fiancé.”
“It prevented a later inconsistency.”
“You could have said guest.”
“You wore the ring.”
“That was for Mrs. Gable.”
“Simone had already seen it.”
Nat smiled. “You’re becoming adaptable.”
“I selected the shortest explanation.”
“That is how adaptation begins.”
Michael opened the tasting card rather than respond.
The first course was a chilled cucumber soup with crab, dill oil, and thin slices of green apple. Nat tasted each element separately before taking a second spoonful with everything together. Michael watched her make three brief notes.
“What are you writing?” he asked.
“Temperature, balance, texture.”
“You decided all three from one bite?”
“The second bite confirms.”
He tasted again. “The apple is too sweet.”
Nat looked at him. “I think so too.”
“Is that unusual?”
“For someone’s first observation at his first tasting dinner? Yes.”
“I eat food every day.”
“That does not make everyone perceptive.”
The second course paired roasted carrots with whipped feta, pistachios, and a spice blend Nat recognized as za’atar. Michael asked how she separated personal preference from evaluation.