“No,” I say. “Let’s just go in.”
Angus insists on carrying the bags, and I follow him toward the house.
“What were you doing at Houlihan’s, anyway?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think a gardener could be interested in organic food?”
It is, I realize, exactly what I’d thought. Angus rolls his eyes but with a smile.
We arrive in the kitchen, and Angus sets the shopping bags on the counter.
“I needed saffron,” he says. “That’s why I was at Houlihan’s. I’m entertaining tonight, and I’m making paella.”
“Seafood paella?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice, but I think I fail.
Angus looks a mixture of irritated and amused. “Is there any other kind?”
Actually, there are other kinds. Paella Valenciana. Paella mixta. But I don’t point that out. Instead I start unloading the groceries. Pak choy. Roma tomatoes. Risoni. Mushrooms. No sign of the hot dogs or frozen peas I’d feared. “If you’re making paella, just make sure you don’t skimp on the—”
“Sofrito?” he says. “Don’t worry, I know.”
We lock eyes. As I look at him, I get the feeling that, although I’ve seen Angus many times before, I’ve never actually seen him.
“I’m cooking for my sister,” he says. “She knows her paella. And she’d never let me skimp on the sofrito.”
Keeping my head down, I nod. His sister. The sister who would never have babies because of Richard.
“Well,” he says. “I’d better … get back to the garden.”
“Do you know Anna and Luke very well?” I ask as he wanders toward the door, and it has only a little to do with the fact that I want him to stay a bit longer.
“I’ve known them as long as they’ve been at Rosalind House,” he says.
“What were they like? When they first arrived, I mean.”
He thinks for a minute. “They were a lot more lucid. Almost like regular people, if you didn’t press them too hard to do anything complicated. Luke’s speech wasn’t great, even back then, but mentally, he seemed pretty sharp. They both did.”
“Eric tells me that … they were friends?”
Angus nods. “More than friends, I think. I’m not sure if they were together, but they were certainly always together, if you know what I mean.” Angus smiles and his eyes go faraway. “You know what was sweet? I don’t know if Eric told you, but Anna is terrified of dogs. She was bitten, I think, when she was a kid. But Luke, he loved dogs. During pet therapy, he always had a dog on his lap or at his feet. But after Anna came to Rosalind House, Luke started staying inside with Anna, away from the dogs.”
“Pet therapy?”
“It’s a volunteer group; they come every other week with dogs and rabbits and kittens for the residents to pet.”
“And Luke stopped going outside with the dogs so he could stay inside with Anna?”
Angus nods. “Sweet, right?”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that, though,” he says. “They’ve degenerated a lot. Mostly they just sit around, staring off into space.”
“If I had dementia,” I say, “or any kind of disease, I’d want the person I loved within arm’s reach as much as possible.”
Angus gives me a quizzical look. “I didn’t say they were in love.”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“I guess. But even if they loved each other once, they can’t really love each other now, can they? How can you love someone you don’t remember?”
I shrug, because I have no idea.
Angus smiles. “Pretty heavy, huh, for a Tuesday afternoon?”
I smile back. “Yep.”
“Well,” he says, “I’d better—” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.
“Okay. Thanks again for your … help today, Angus.”
“No problem.”
He starts toward the door and I turn my back, tying on my apron and then grabbing a canister of flour from a high shelf. As I lift the lid, a tiny cloud of white powder puffs out and scatters, absorbed into the air.
“Oh, Eve?”
I nearly launch right out of my skin. When I turn, Angus is still there. “Yes?”
“I do my grocery shopping every Tuesday afternoon. If you ever want some company—or a bodyguard!—just let me know.”
And then, without waiting for a response, Angus strides away. And whatever it was that had been on my mind just a moment ago floats up into the air and vanishes, just like the flour.
*
That afternoon, while I’m attempting to iron one of Bert’s shirts, Mother calls.
“I’m picking Clem up from school today,” she says in her no-nonsense voice. “And I’ll keep her overnight so you can go to Book Club.”
I laugh-cough. “Book Club?”
“It’s tonight, isn’t it? The third Wednesday of the month?”