It is supposed to sound sensual, but it all sounds ridiculous, coming out of my mouth. I’d spent the last hour going back and forth about whether I should even be going ahead with my date at all. But every time I pick up the phone to cancel, Anna’s voice speaks to me. And I put the phone down again.
At 7:30 P.M. on the dot, I pick up my phone again. It’s late notice, but I’ll fake an illness or something. But before I can dial Angus’s number, it starts to ring.
My heart flies into my throat. I’d received two phone messages today, one only an hour ago, from Ms. Donnelly at Clem’s school. Her message simply said to call her back, but her voice was clipped—the voice of a determined debt collector. She must know something. I picture her at her desk behind her thick glasses, circling our address in red pen, and I want to curl up and cry. But when I look at the phone, it’s Mother’s number on the screen. I exhale in relief.
“Clem?” I say.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you having a good time at Nana and Papa’s?”
“Yeah.” She giggles. “Papa keeps saying he’s not ticklish, but he is.”
In the background, I hear Dad insisting that he is not, in fact, ticklish. This is followed by loud (obviously false) laughter on his part and real laughter from Clem. It warms my heart.
“Clem?”
“Yeah?”
A crackling sound, like a radio between channels, blasts into the room. The buzzer.
“What’s that?” Clem asks.
“Oh, a delivery, probably,” I say quickly. “Anyway, Nana is dropping you home early in the morning, so I’ll walk you to school, okay?”
“Okay.”
I exhale. I’d been expecting some protest at the word “school,” but she seems in good spirits. “Okay. Have sweet dreams, hon.”
“I will. Bye, Mom.”
With a racing heart, I buzz Angus inside. Then I glance in the mirror. I wish I’d gone for the jeans and soft black sweater instead of the cleavage-hugging red wrap-dress, but it’s too late now. I peel open the door, and Angus is standing there, holding a brown bag full of produce and a small bunch of pink roses.
“Hi,” I say. So much for my sensual welcome.
“Hi,” he says.
I smile. We stand there a minute.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Oh! Sure.” I giggle and open the door farther. What is it about Angus that makes me behave like an imbecile every time I see him? “You can put the bags in the kitchen over there. Thanks again for getting the groceries.”
Angus heads straight to the kitchen, and I follow. “Where I come from, you don’t ask a woman if you can make her dinner and then ask her to buy the groceries.”
Angus unloads the bags onto the bench and I quickly realize that with Angus and all his groceries in the kitchen, there’s not enough room for much else. Including me. I stand there awkwardly for a moment until Angus clears a small amount of bench space and pats it.
I hesitate.
“Go on. I like having someone to talk to while I cook.”
I continue to hesitate until Angus grips my waist and lifts me onto the bench. He immediately starts to unpack the bags, nonchalant, but the gentle gesture leaves me scrambling for breath for several seconds. Angus doesn’t seem to notice. I watch him pull items from the bags. Parsley. Spinach. Potatoes. His hands, I notice, are impressively clean. I suppose I’d have expected a residue of dirt that was impossible to remove, but his gardener’s nails are cleaner than my own.
“Shall I open this?” I say. I gesture to the beading bottle of white wine on the counter.
“I’ll do it,” he says, fishing out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. I slide off the bench and reach around him for glasses. For a delicious instant, my front presses lightly against his back.
“How was your—?” I start, at the same time as he says, “Long day?”
“Sorry,” we say in unison, and then, “You go. No, you go.”
Angus pours our drinks, and I take a large gulp of wine. Then another. Angus and I usually have a fairly easy, comfortable relationship at work, but what if we are a disaster socially? If this evening goes awry, I can kiss our comfortable work relationship good-bye! I watch Angus as he reaches for my chopping board. His expression is pleasantly neutral, but then, he has the advantage—having a meal to prepare, busywork to keep his hands occupied and his head from overanalyzing it all.
“Nice place,” he says after a lengthy silence.
“Yes,” I say, surveying the expanse of brown décor. “I’m sure brown is coming back into fashion—I’m just a little ahead of the trend.”
Angus chuckles. “I love what you’ve done with the kitchen,” he says, taking a piece of whitefish out of a cool bag and resting it on the chopping board. I laugh and give him a friendly punch. He catches my fist and holds it for a long moment. A pulse of electricity runs through me.
“What are you cooking?” I ask, breaking the charged silence.
“Sea bass. And potatoes.”
I smile again. No jus. No ancient grain salad or Vietnamese greens. Just fish. And potatoes. Which, if done properly, is a meal entirely unto itself.
Angus finds a peeler in a drawer and declines my offer to help. In my kitchen, he seems so confident, so relaxed. His peeling hand is completely steady and smooth as it glides over the potato. But when I look down at my own hand, holding my wineglass, I notice it’s shaking just the tiniest bit.