“My husband has a vacation house up on the hill. We’re from Manhattan.”
“Oh. The city.” She says it like it’s a filthy word, a cuss word. “I’m Trisha. I’ve owned the shop ever since my brother, Butch, died, oh’s about ten years ago now. He had a bad heart, got it from his daddy.” She flips up the Formica countertop and shimmies behind me to the deli counter. “Funny, right, that he was called Butch? That was his name long before he became a butcher. Now it’s just me, sometimes Sheena, she’s my cousin, but mostly it’s me. I’m a cashier, a butcher, a cook, and a housekeeper. I don’t do too bad, though, ya think?” I shake my head, taken aback by the sheer number of words she’s been able to get out in such a short amount of time. Her voice is sweet, bubbling over the house in housekeeper. She dons an apron and a pair of gloves and hustles into the back room. The heavy wooden door swings shut behind her. When she reappears, she’s holding two purple-red, thick slabs on brown butcher paper and her eyes are gleaming.
“Don’t they look beautiful?” She means it, too, and this baffles me. I’m not the kind of person who would ever describe raw meat as beautiful. I nod and try to look impressed. She wraps it up, ties it with string, and weighs it.
I like Trisha. I mean, honestly, you can’t help but like Trisha.
She brings the steaks to the counter. “Do you need anything else? Some salad? Greens?”
“Do you have wine?” I ask hopefully. I have no idea what Henry keeps in his house.
“We can’t sell it, darling, but I’m never without it.” She holds up a finger and scurries into the rear room, through that swinging wooden door again. When she returns she’s holding a bottle of rosé, with a plain white label Table Red. Henry will die, he’s actually going to die. She must see my face because her cheeks flush, round and pink, and she falters. “Oh, I know it’s not what you’re used to but—”
“No, it’s completely fine. I will love it. Who doesn’t love rosé?” I give her a wide, friendly smile. “You know, I do need more than just steaks. What else should I make for dinner?”
She busies herself behind the deli counter, rationing out couscous salad and some simple grilled vegetables: mushrooms, peppers, and onions. My mouth waters.
“I think you have the makings of a wonderfully romantic meal for two.” Her apple-cheeked smile is back, resilient Trisha. You can tell she bounces. “Where’s your house, darlin’?”
I tell her. Her eyes light up.
“I know that place! I walk there every day, usually ’bout six or so. Gotta lose these last twenty pounds. God, my baby is thirteen and you’d think I would have done something about it by now.”
I nod, averting my eyes from her sloping breasts and full belly. She rubs one chubby hand over her midsection and stands up straight. She rings me up. “Twenty-three ninety-two.”
“This would cost double in the city,” I say with a sly wink. She taps my hand.
“You’re funny.” She writes something in a journal next to the cash register, her bright pink nails clicking against the metal spiral binding. On impulse, I want to invite her to eat with us. Henry would kill me; he likes neither impulse nor dinner guests.
I open my wallet to pay the tab, and the heat crawls up the back of my neck, flushing my face. My credit card is gone.
? ? ?
“That reporter, he returned your wallet, yes?”
We have finished eating, one remaining small sliver of venison on a ceramic platter between us. The pine farmhouse table is littered with supper castoffs: half-empty wine and whiskey glasses, crumpled linen napkins. The dining room is dimly lit by flickering tapers and I am sleepy drunk. I have all but forgotten the missing credit card and I blink twice instead of answering him.
When I arrived home Henry called the bank immediately, shrugging it off with only a nebulous murmur of admonishment. When he hung up, he rubbed my back, between my shoulder blades. “You probably just left it at the diner. I’ll leave you cash.” He patted my head. Instead of being grateful, I swatted Henry’s hand away. It was all so patronizing.
It’s a blessing and a curse, having someone like Henry. On one hand, I could sit and drink a glass of wine, let him sweep in on his white horse, wave his giant hands, and fix it all with his booming voice. Take his cash, tuck it into the satin folds of my purse with a demure smile, as though I were a kept woman. On the other hand, lately, I’m tired of simply letting things happen.
“Cash? Yes, he brought it back.” I cross and uncross my legs.
“Interesting.” Henry taps his fork against his plate, a quiet ting in the silent room. The silence up here, hovering on the top of this mountain, kills me.
“You think he took it?” I’m incredulous. That had never crossed my mind.
Henry shrugs. “I’d have no idea, Zoe. We don’t know the man.”