“I thought about this on several flights.”
“That is proper,” Rosa said.
“Once during an awards ceremony.”
“More proper.”
“Someone was receiving an award for documentary filmmaking.”
“Pie remains important.”
Annie nodded solemnly.
“I feel understood.”
The ease of the evening unsettled me more than the awkwardness had.
Annie had returned as Savannah Brooks, openly and without an escape plan if somebody recognized her. She was eating pie with Hank and Rosa while Captain Pancake committed violence beneath the table.
Nobody was pretending she was ordinary.
Nobody was treating her like she had arrived from another planet either.
Annie caught me looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a thoughtful nothing.”
“I was wondering whether pie has affected your judgment.”
“It has improved several areas.”
“Do not make commitments under pastry conditions.”
“I’ll wait until breakfast.”
After dinner, we walked back to my house.
Annie carried the hat by its brim, letting it swing beside her leg. The evening had cooled enough that the road no longer felt like an oven, and the breeze carried the smell of salt and someone grilling fish several houses away.
Her fingers brushed mine.
The first time might have been accidental.
The second was not.
I let our hands fit together.
Annie did not comment on it. Had she said anything about symbolic progress or expanded communication privileges, I would have pushed her into the nearest hedge.
We walked for a while before she spoke.
“That was nice.”
“You sound surprised.”
