CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bernie put the kettle on at three.
Not three-fifteen, when she usually arrived. Three. Because the water took four minutes to boil and the steeping took three and he wanted both cups ready when she walked in—hers on the left side of the counter where she always set her bag, his on the table where he’d already be sitting. He’d been thinking about this since noon, which was longer than a man should spend thinking about tea.
The cane was by the chair where the walker used to be. He'd graduated to it on Monday—the physical therapist had watched him cross the living room twice and said he was ready. The knee was better. Not good, not yet, but better. He could get from the chair to the kitchen without stopping. He could make his own tea if he got to the kettle before she did.
He didn't need Margo to come three times a week anymore. Probably.
He knew this. He suspected she knew it too, because Margo noticed everything—she'd noticed the cane replacing the walker, she'd noticed him getting up from the table without bracing. She noticed and she kept coming and he was not going to be the one to mention it.
The kettle clicked. He poured both cups and set hers on the left side of the counter. He settled into the chair at the table with the flamingo cards in their box and the tally on the fridge—MARGO 3, BERNARD 2, which was embarrassing but also meant she’d kept coming back, and he’d take the losses.
The front door opened at three-twelve. Three minutes early. She was always early.
She came in with a bag—paper, heavy, something that smelled like it had been in an oven—and stopped in the doorway.
She was looking at the cups.
“You made the tea,” she said.
“I can make tea.”
She set the bag on the counter. “You’ve never had the tea ready.”
“I’ve made tea my entire life. I just haven’t made it while you were here because you do it before I can get to the kettle.”
That wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was that he’d liked watching her make it—the way she moved through his kitchen like she’d drawn the map herself, reaching for the kettle without looking, pulling mugs from the shelf she’d reorganized. He’d liked being the person she made tea for. But he’d wanted, just once, to be the person who made it for her.
She picked up the mug and took a sip. He watched her face. She didn’t say anything about the temperature, which meant he’d gotten it right.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked.
She smiled as she emptied the bag. “Oh, just a chicken.”
“What kind?”
“Roasted. Lemon and thyme.” She pulled a foil-wrapped bird out of the bag and set it on the counter. “Garlic under the skin.”
His hands went still on the table.
She’d made his mother’s chicken. He’d mentioned it once, a while ago, between the Florida conversation and the paintingquestion, a passing thing about his mother Helen’s roasted chicken that he’d said the way he said most things, without expecting anyone to hold onto it. Margo had held onto it. She’d gone home and made it and brought it wrapped in foil.
“That’s Helen’s chicken,” he said.
“You mentioned it. It sounded good so I thought I’d try.”
“I mentioned it once.”
“I have a good memory.” She set two plates on the counter and started unwrapping the foil. “Are you going to help or are you going to sit there?”
He got up from the chair and came to the counter. He stood beside her and pulled the foil back and the smell came up—lemon and thyme and roasted skin—and for a second he was his mother’s kitchen on Elm Street as a boy and it was a Sunday and the windows were open.
“Margo—”
“Don’t make a thing of it. It’s chicken.”
“It’s not just chicken.”
