We drank.
Conversation moved around us in overlapping lines. My father described a set of iron balcony rails he’d salvaged from a house in the Lower Garden District and made them sound like the bones of saints. My mother asked Thiago whether his landlord was reliable and, before he could answer fully, told him the warning signs of a man who would delay roof repairs indefinitely.
Celeste listened to it all with open amusement and then informed Thiago that if his mother moved to the city, she was not to be placed in a building with indifferent plumbing. Jules offered three names of neighborhoods and rejected two of his own suggestions before anyone wrote them down.
Dominic ate in composed silence for stretches, speaking only when he chose.
Continuing to work with The Guardians, Thiago fielded phone calls from Eamon and text messages from Michael. He would have assignments that would cause him to disappear into other people’s crises for a week or more.
I still worked for Dominic. I ran the house as always.
After dinner, the table broke the way good tables do, reluctantly, and by degrees. Celeste and Dominic took their wine to the salon. Jules followed with the saxophone. My father drifted toward the courtyard to inspect the lemon trees and deliver unsolicited opinions about terracotta. My mother remained in the kitchen long enough to help me stack the plates.
When the room had narrowed to only Thiago and me, he said, “Your father just told me the southern wall would benefit from more shade.”
“He says that about every wall he loves.”
“He also believes one of the lemon trees has character.”
“It does.”
We worked in a companionable rhythm. My pre-dinner anxiety had faded. I rinsed. He dried. The windows over the sink were open to the courtyard, and the evening had cooled.
Dominic was playing the piano again. It wasn’t “Saints.” It was something quieter.
I handed Thiago another plate. “What’s your next assignment?”
“Three days in Houston next week. Low drama, according to Eamon, which means medium drama in reality.”
“And after that?”
“I come home.”
I dried my hands on the towel and turned toward him fully. “Good.”
His mouth shifted slightly at one corner. “That’s all I get?”
“That depends. Are you fishing?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s unbecoming.”
“It hasn’t stopped me yet.”
I stepped close enough to smooth the front of his shirt. “You moved to my city,” I said. “You took an apartment in the Marigny, and you let Dominic hand you advice about locksmiths. Now, you’re considering moving your mother here. I’d say the fish is already on the dock.”
He laughed softly, then touched my wrist, thumb resting against the inside where the pulse sat close to the skin.
From the salon, Jules began playing his saxophone, joining Dominic once more.
“We should go in,” Thiago said.
“In a minute.”
He tilted his head. “You’re hiding.”
He kissed me then, quick and certain, in the middle of the kitchen with the dish towel still in my hand and the last of the plates drying on the rack. Not enough to start anything. Enough to confirm something.
