“I’m sure she’s a pro at finding her way around unfamiliar kitchens.”
“She’s not very friendly—though if the food is good, I won’t hold it against her.”
“Probably just preoccupied.” He looks tired, I realize.
“How was your day?”
“Good, good.” He crosses the room and gives me a quick kiss. “How about yours? Have you been writing?”
“Not really today.” It feels good to be honest. Then I realize he’s talking about the notepad in my hand. “Oh, this. It’s just a dream from yesterday. That kind I keep having.”
“The fire dream? In the hotel?”
“Yes. But this one had an odd new detail. There was a man in the room with me and he told me to wait.”
Guy smiles ruefully. “Should I be worried?”
“Honey, don’t be silly. Dreams aren’t literal. But there was something about this man that seemed significant. I’m not sure why, though.”
He takes a deep breath, and I sense him measuring his words before he speaks them.
“Dr. Greene really thinks this is a good idea?”
“Definitely. She says that though most of our dreams contain just garbage from the day, recurring ones are worth paying attention to. It can be the unconscious trying to send a message.”
“I just worry this is stirring everything up for you.”
“Actually I don’t mind that happening. It may help me remember.”
“But couldn’t it be a blessing not to remember? Maybe this is your brain’s way of sparing you the horrible details.”
“I want those details. The car crashed, a man burned to death, and I still don’t completely understand why.”
He touches my shoulder with his hand.
“You’ve made such progress, Bryn. I want you to keep moving forward, not getting dragged back.”
Could the dream journaling—or whatever it’s called—be dragging me back? Is this the reason I’ve felt even more lethargic since moving here?
“I’ll check in with Dr. G about it when we talk next week, okay?”
But even as I say it, I know I want to continue with my notes. I sense the man in the room has something worth hearing.
“That sounds smart,” Guy says. “I’d better go change.”
I stuff the pad into the drawer of a wicker side table, sit for a few minutes to summon my strength, and then wander back to the main part of the house. In the dining room I find the blond chef standing arms akimbo, surveying the table. I follow her gaze. With a start, I notice that she’s refolded all the napkins—turning them from simple rectangles into stiff bishop caps in the center of each place setting. And then I see the vases. They’re not on the table anymore. Instead, they’ve been herded off onto the side table, like children not allowed to mingle with the adults at a party.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She half turns toward me, as if I don’t deserve her full attention. “Doing? I’m getting the table ready.”
“But I’ve already set it.”
“We usually set the table, or at least dress it up a little.”
“But why did you move the flowers?”
Now she makes a full turn toward me. Her lips are pursed in an almost defiant pout, and her gray eyes assess me coolly.
“We don’t set our tables with flowers. The scent overpowers the smell of the food.”
I’m almost speechless that she’s moved things around without checking with me. And her dumbass rule about the flowers.
“Please put them back,” I tell her. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with flowers on a table.”
“Of course.” Her tone is like a shrug. As she moves the flowers back to the table, she appears both unfazed and unapologetic. Guy enters the room a moment later, and she doesn’t acknowledge him, just slips quietly back into the kitchen through the swinging door at the rear of the room.
He waits until she’s gone before he speaks.
“Is something the matter?”
“That woman, Eve,” I say, my voice lowered. “I don’t know what her problem is.”
“What do you mean?” His brow furrows.
“She redid the table after I’d spent so much time on it. And she acted impertinent when I asked her about it.”
He’s taken aback, I can tell. A second later, though, I realize his reaction seems centered on me.
“Bryn, the caterer is supposed to set the table. She’s probably annoyed you usurped her job.”
I can’t believe he’s taking her side and not mine.
“It’s not always the caterer’s job,” I say. “And once she’d seen I’d done it, she should have asked me before changing anything.”
He throws up his hands.
“I can’t seem to win with you, Bryn,” he snaps. “One minute you need bed rest, and the next minute you’re annoyed if someone’s helping. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
I can feel my jaw drop in shock. I lift my eyes, trying to form a response. As I do, I see the swinging door to the kitchen shudder. As if a hand has touched it.
As if someone has been standing next to it, listening.
Chapter 4
I glance back at Guy and then turn away, my anger flaring.