A sound penetrated the apartment. Banging. Knocking. “Are you expecting more company?”
“No.” Reeti lifted the lid of a saucepan filled with fluffy rice. “Just us.”
“That’s a lot of food for two people,” I said.
She smiled ruefully. “Blame my parents. My mother always makes enough for langar—community meal—at temple. And my father cooks for a restaurant full of people, so...” She shrugged. “You can take leftovers home.”
I thought of Glenda’s modern kitchen, the half shelf that had been designated as mine in the refrigerator.
“Unless you eat all your meals with the family,” Reeti added.
So far I’d made the girls lunch, twice. And last night, when their parents went out, I heated soup and fixed grilled cheese sandwiches for the three of us. Despite watching all six seasons ofDownton Abbey, I wasn’t exactly sure of my place in the Nortons’ household. Was I a guest? Was I the help? Or was I something in between? “We don’t really have a routine yet,” I said. “But I’d love to have leftovers. Thanks.”
Another thump from the hall outside.
“Did you hear that?”
Reeti sprinkled something green on the chicken dish. “It’s just the neighbors.”
Her building was divided into four large apartments set above the street, two upstairs and two down. “Are they okay?”
“Yes. Shit. No. I should check. The lady across the hall is ninety-one.”
She banged the lid back on the pot, stalked through the apartment, and flung open the door. “What are you doing?”
A man’s voice came up the stairs. “The banister is loose.”
I stopped. That voice... Did I know that voice?
“Did you call maintenance?” Reeti asked.
“I did.” Cool. Clipped. Passionless.Tim Woodman.
“And?” Reeti prompted.
I edged to the doorway. Reeti was leaning over the landing rail. Below her I could see the top of Tim’s head, his thick, dark hair, and then his shoulders, filling out his dress shirt.
“Bernie tried installing a bracket, but there’s too much distance between the wall and the railing. It’s not secure. I made a standoff block to attach the bracket to the rim joist.”
“I just love it when you talk carpenter,” Reeti said. “I’m getting handyman fantasies.”
His face was wooden.
“You did it for her, didn’t you?” I said to Tim. “Your ninety-one-year-old neighbor.”
“Mrs.Kinsella,” Reeti said. “Aw, that’s so sweet. Come up when you’re done.”
“I don’t...” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to me. “Perhaps for a moment.”
While Reeti dished up, I set another place at the table. Five minutes later, Tim knocked politely on the open door.
“Come in,” Reeti called.
He stopped on the threshold, his gaze traveling over the table. One hand rubbed absently at his chest. “You’re having dinner.”
“Weare having dinner. Consider it thanks for fixing the banister.”
“I don’t need to be rewarded for taking a simple safety precaution,” he said stiffly.
