“This is lovely,” I say.
“Oh, thanks. If you want, you can take your shoes off.” She gestures to a rack by the door. “But fair warning, the floors might be a bit dusty.”
Dusty floors? Carol? I kick off my shoes, intrigued by the possibility of dirt in a Silver house.
It feels good to release my feet. I set my espadrilles down by her tennis sneakers and a pair of flip-flops.
“Red or white?” Carol asks. “Or I could make negronis.”
“Whatever you prefer,” I say. “I’m easy.”
Carol sticks her hands on her hips and surveys me. “But what do you want?”
I consider the question. “Red.”
Carol nods. “Me too.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and I make my way around the living room. I want to take it all in. This place Carol resided—resides—in, even briefly.
There are small remnants of her everywhere—a pile ofNew Yorkers on the coffee table, a vase of half-dead flowers, a sweater tossed over the chair by the dining nook. Intentioned clutter.
I pick up the sweater and hold it to my nose, breathing her in.
“I opened a bottle of Montepulciano,” she says. She comes around the corner and catches me with the sweater.
“Soft,” I say.
“Oh, thanks. I’m newly obsessed with stitching and fabric. I can’t tell if it makes me look like my grandmother, but I like the feel of the materials. Here.” She hands me a glass. I take it.
“Have you been crocheting?”
“Knitting,” she says. “A bit. It’s enjoyable to do something just because.”
“I know what you mean. I brought a camera here, and I’ve been taking some photos.” I take a sip of the wine. “Maybe that’s my vocation.”
Carol laughs. “Well, I’ll tell you, knitting definitely isn’t mine.”
My mother knew fabric—textures and textiles and materials. She could hold a sweater in her hands and tell you what she thought it should cost.You won’t knit, I think.But you’ll use this, all of it.
“I’m going to start dinner. You can take your wine out onto the patio?” She gestures toward the French doors that lead outside.
I look down into the kitchen. “Could I help you?”
She smiles. It feels warm, so very safe and familiar. “I’d like that.”
One side of the kitchen is wide open, leading into the living room, and I perch on a stool opposite Carol as she takes ingredients out of the bag, refrigerator, cabinets. Olive oil and flaky salt and tomatoes and fresh lemons. Ricotta and pancetta.
“Do you cook?” she asks me.
“No,” I say. “Not really, I’m not very good.”
She shakes her head. “You’re too self-deprecating.”
“I swear,” I say. “I’m very bad at it.”
“The difference between being good and bad at something is just interest,” Carol says. “Would you like to learn?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
