She pulled away from him, and with a look of almost childish joy on her face she said, “Seven o’clock? Maybe a drink at six thirty? Have you had lunch? I can make you a snack.”
Harry accepted an apple, which Alice cut into slices and put on a plate for him, then he went up to his room.
He didn’t come back down until six thirty. He unpacked some more things, looked through his father’s books, picking out an Ed McBain novel he hadn’t read before, one of the 87th Precinct books called Sadie When She Died. He didn’t think he’d be able to read, but he tried anyway. He kept thinking about how it had felt to hold Alice in his arms while she cried, the way her body had shaken, and the feel of her skin against his. He tried to stop himself from imagining the hug suddenly becoming sexual, one of her hands sliding down into his jeans, her telling him that it would be the only thing that would help her grief. He started the book, reading a page without understanding any of the words, then started again, and managed to get into it. He’d read half before he realized it was nearly six. He showered and went downstairs. There was music playing—a David Bowie album, the one with “China Girl” on it—and something was cooking in the oven.
Alice had changed her clothes. She wore a long dress, in a fabric that looked hand dyed. It was scoop necked and cinched at the waist. “What can I do to help?” Harry asked her.
She’d been assembling a salad and she jumped a little when he spoke. “Nothing, nothing,” she said. “No, actually, you can make us each a drink. Do you mind? A martini for me.”
Harry went to the side table in the dining room, where the booze was kept. It was obvious that Alice wanted some semblance of a normal evening, despite the fact that her husband was dead. Harry decided that it might be a good thing. He’d read a book this afternoon, so maybe life just needed to go on. And if Alice relaxed enough, then maybe she’d open up to him. He still thought she was holding something back.
He found a large bottle of Plymouth gin, his father’s favorite, and Harry, who’d watched his father drink his single, large martini every night at six on the dot, knew how he liked it. Shaken very cold, no vermouth, and served in a tumbler with three cocktail onions.
“How do you like your martini, Alice? Same as my father?”
“Yes, but with olives. And about half the size of the drinks your father used to make, please.”
Harry made the drink, got a beer for himself, then asked again if she needed any help and was told to take a seat on one of the stools around the island. There were snacks out—baby carrots with hummus, and crackers with port wine cheese.
“Your friend Paul is so nice,” Alice said, turning away from her salad, and sipping at her drink.
“It was great he came. He skipped graduation, you know?”
“No, I know. It’s good to have a friend like that. They’re easier to make when you’re young, you know, than in real life. Let me tell you.”
The timer made a tinny buzz, and Alice pulled a large baking dish from the oven. “It’s chicken cordon bleu casserole,” she said. “Have you had it before?”
“No, but it sounds delicious. My appetite, though—”
“Oh, I know. I haven’t been able to eat a thing.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, I just wanted to cook, just to have some semblance of . . . normality. Keep myself busy.”
Alice turned back to the casserole, poking at it with a fork, while Harry finished his beer. There was a silence, and Harry tried to think of something to say that didn’t revolve around his father’s death. He remembered the stranger at his father’s funeral, and said, “I saw this girl at the memorial service yesterday. She had dark hair down to her shoulders, and was wearing a grey dress. She didn’t come through the receiving line.”
Alice frowned. “Was it Ginny Wells?”
“No, I know Ginny. This girl was there alone, toward the back of the church. And she had a red purse with her. I just didn’t know who she was, and it’s strange, because I thought I actually saw her Friday when I arrived here. Out on the street.”
“Out on our street?”
“Yeah. I think I saw her from my window upstairs.”
“That’s odd.”
“That was why I was asking. I’m sure it’s just one of Dad’s customers.”
“Most of his customers were old men like he was, but I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing her. Should we eat in the dining room?”
Alice let Harry bring the hot casserole and the salad to the long dining room table, constructed from renovated barn wood. There was a trivet waiting on the table, and he put down the casserole, large enough to feed an army. Places had been laid with wineglasses and two forks—one for the salad, Harry supposed.
“White wine okay?” Alice said, entering with an unopened bottle.
“Oh, sure.”
“Can you open it up and pour us some, Harry, and then we’ll finally eat.”
Despite having lost his appetite again after that morning’s visit from the detective, the food tasted good. It was clear that Alice was not in the mood to talk about serious matters. She asked Harry rapid-fire questions about his future plans, all of which he deflected. She picked at her food and took small sips of the wine, her pale cheeks becoming flushed.
“And what about a girlfriend?” she asked, after bringing him a butterscotch sundae from the kitchen. “Anyone special you left behind?” The words sounded rehearsed.
“No. Not really.”
“Boyfriend, then?” Harry thought she was trying to sound casual, but she punctuated the question with an odd laugh, and her flushed cheeks had become almost mottled with red.
“No, I don’t have one of those, either.”
“I hope I didn’t . . . I just wondered because I thought maybe Paul—”
“Yes, Paul is gay.”
“I’m prying.”
“No. It’s fine.”
They were silent for a moment. Harry asked, “Did my father wonder?”
“Wonder what?”
“Did he wonder if I was gay? Is that why you were asking?”
“If he did wonder, he never brought it up with me. And honestly, you knew him. More interested in what was happening in one of his books than what was happening around him. And he wouldn’t have cared. You know that, too.”
Harry finished his dessert. Alice was drinking the dregs of the wine, and rubbing her finger absentmindedly on the wooden table, her eyes slightly glazed over. In the light from the flickering candle, she looked not a whole lot older than Harry. Her skin, except for around her eyes, was entirely unlined. She tapped her finger on the table and shifted her gaze, catching Harry watching her.
“You look tired,” he said. “Let me clean up, since you cooked the dinner.”
She sat up straight. “No, I’ll clean. I want to. You can help me bring the dishes into the kitchen, but that’s it. I insist.”
Harry did as he was told, leaving Alice cleaning dishes in the large double sink. He said good night and was turning to go when she reached out a hand. He took it and felt a slight tug, and she leaned over and kissed Harry on the cheek. Her skin was slightly damp from the steam of the hot water. “Thank God for you, Harry. I don’t know what . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“Thanks again for dinner, Alice.”
“And, Harry, one more thing. I talked with John today and he really needs you to help him out in the store tomorrow. Could you . . . Do you mind?”
Harry said he didn’t mind.