Something was starting. She could feel it the way she felt paint—not with certainty, but with instinct. A direction, not a decision. A door opening.
She locked up and walked home through the November dark. The patio was behind her, empty and waiting for whatever came next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
She should have told Bea.
Anna knew this even as she set the table—two places, the good napkins, which were just the regular napkins folded better than usual because Joey’s influence had apparently reached into her home.
Michael was coming for dinner. At the house. Their house—hers and Bea’s. The house that had been Sam’s and was now theirs, the place where Bea’s art covered the walls and Bea’s books filled the shelves and Bea’s college brochures lived in a drawer that Anna pretended she didn’t reorganize when Bea wasn’t looking.
She’d invited him Tuesday, at the Shack, after close. They’d been going over event logistics—capacity, menu, timeline—and Anna had said “we should finish this over dinner” and Michael had said “the Shack closes at three” and Anna had said “I meant at my house” and the words had come out before she could examine them.
Michael had looked at her for a long moment. Then he’d said “what time” without inflection, without exclamation, without anything except the careful neutrality he brought to everything.
“Seven,” Anna had said. “Thursday.”
Thursday. Tonight.
Bea was at Stella’s. Study session. She’d be home by eight, she’d said. Anna had done the math—Michael at seven, dinner served quickly, conversation about the party, and he’d be gone before Bea got back. Clean. Simple. Nobody had to know.
She was making pasta. Aglio e olio—garlic, olive oil, chili flakes, no dairy. She’d learned it in Florence from a woman named Flavia who ran a trattoria near the Ponte Vecchio and fed Anna lunch every Tuesday for a year. The trick was the garlic — golden, not brown, and the pasta water had to be starchy enough to make the sauce cling. She’d practiced twice this week. Both times were good. Tonight’s would be better.
The knock came at seven. Three raps, evenly spaced. Michael knocked the way he did everything.
Anna wiped her hands on the dish towel and opened the door.
He stood on the porch in a pressed shirt—a different one, darker blue, which meant he’d changed after work. He carried a bottle of sparkling water and a folder.
“You brought work,” Anna said.
“I brought the list of event possibilities. And water.” He held up the bottle. “I wasn’t sure what to bring when you can’t bring wine.”
“Sparkling water is perfect.”
He stepped inside. Anna watched him take in the house—Bea’s paintings on the hallway wall, the bookshelf by the stairs, the kitchen visible through the doorway. Sam’s house, made theirs. He looked at it the way he looked at spreadsheets—absorbing, cataloguing, filing.
“Bea’s work?” he asked, stopping at a small canvas near the kitchen. Watercolor. The beach at sunset, loose and warm.
“From Florence. She was fifteen.”
“It’s good.”
“She’s better now.”
They went to the kitchen. Anna put the pasta water on and started the garlic. The smell filled the room—olive oil and heat and the sweetness of garlic just before it turns. Michael sat at the table and opened the folder, then closed it. Opened it again. Closed it.
“You don’t have to work,” Anna said, watching the garlic.
“I know.” He left the folder closed. “The pasta smells good.”
“It’s aglio e olio. I learned it in Florence.”
“Dairy-free.”
“Dairy-free.” She stirred the garlic. “That’s not why I made it.”
“I know.”
