“Does an omelet appeal? Or pasta? I can whip that up pretty quickly.” The omelet sounded good, but she didn’t want to admit it, so she shook her head.
“We’re fine,” she insisted. She called for pizza, and he didn’t interfere. She asked him what he wanted, and he said a large with everything on it except anchovies, which sounded good to her too. And she ordered a small pizza margherita for Salima, and she called her when they arrived. Salima came out of her bedroom and sat down at the kitchen table. Simon watched her mother serve her a slice on a plate and set it in front of her, and the three of them ate their pizza and said not a word.
After dinner, Salima went back to her room, and to bed a little while later. Blaise had told him she’d check Salima’s insulin pump herself, so he didn’t go in to see her. And Simon could see the light on in Blaise’s office for a long time, but he didn’t disturb her. He stayed on his computer for a while, read two more e-mails from Megan that sounded increasingly desperate, didn’t answer her, and finally went to bed. It had been a long, stressful day. And he was well aware of just how unwelcome he was in their home.
When the alarm went off at four o’clock the next morning, Blaise felt like she’d been beaten with a stick. The past few days had taken their toll. The shocking news of Abby’s death, her funeral, the school closing, Simon in the house. And Salima to take care of for the next few months. It was overwhelming. The one thing she was grateful for was that Simon knew all the protocols for Salima’s blood tests, monitoring her insulin pump, checking it at night, and dealing with her diabetes. He knew exactly what he was doing, which was a relief. But everything else he did unnerved her. His very presence in her home felt like an intrusion and rubbed her the wrong way. She was trying not to let it upset her, but it did. And she didn’t want to let Salima know how much. Salima disliked him enough already, and it would only make matters worse. Salima had objected strenuously to Simon moving in with them. And Blaise had told her they had no other option and she had to make her peace with it. She had to please her mother, but grudgingly. And Blaise couldn’t deal with a war in her home and didn’t want to. They were stuck with Simon, for now anyway, and had to make it work, like it or not. And Salima didn’t love it.
Blaise got out of bed slowly, not quite ready to face the day and all the stress she knew was waiting for her at work: Susie Q, and all the projects Blaise was working on and hadn’t finished when she left in a rush three days earlier. She would have to deal with all of it today. She took a shower instead of a bath, trying to wake up, even though she wet her hair. The hairdresser on the set could deal with it when she got there. And her shoulder-length red hair was still wet when she walked into the kitchen half an hour later in a crisp white shirt and gray slacks, and no makeup. She needed a cup of coffee desperately, and had the newspapers in her hand when she walked in, and nearly screamed as she saw Simon at the kitchen table. He stood up and handed her a cup of steaming-hot coffee, just the way she liked it. He had noticed the way she took it the day before. Two sugars, no cream. She wanted to thank him, but she couldn’t as she took the cup from him. She didn’t want to talk to anyone at that hour, and he could see it instantly on her face.
“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I couldn’t sleep, and Salima said you have breakfast at five o’clock every day. I figured I’d make myself useful.” He didn’t tell her that the bed was much too small and his legs hung off the end. He didn’t want to complain. It was hard enough having him there, and he knew it. Whatever he did, right or wrong, he wasn’t Abby. For Salima, it was a felony. For her mother, an unwelcome invasion. The barbarians were not just at the gate, they were in her home, and her kitchen. He could read it in her eyes.
“I like making my own,” she said simply, as she sat down at the kitchen table, opened the papers, and didn’t say another word. He felt as though he had committed a crime making her coffee. She never thanked him, she didn’t want to encourage him to do it again, and he had gotten the message, he wouldn’t. He planned to stay out of the kitchen in the morning from now on. He had read her loud and clear, and he had to admit it was early. And he was a creature of habit too, so he respected that in her.
He heard the front door close when she left for work, and the apartment was silent. Salima was still asleep. The housekeeper didn’t come till ten. And Eric called him at eight.