The Shape of Night(44)

“I didn’t want to get distracted. I’ve been in the zone.”

“What, the twilight zone?”

“Research. Writing.”

“Yes, I read the chapters you sent me.”

“What do you think?”

“They’re good.”

“Just good?”

“Okay, okay. They’re fucking great. What you wrote about oysters made me so hungry I went out and gorged on two dozen, washed down with a martini.”

    “Then I did my job right.”

“When do I get to read the rest of it?”

I look at the pile of clothes, which are still lying on the floor where I dropped them last night. The ghost has distracted me. How can I write when every moment I stop to sniff the air, hoping to catch his scent?

“The book is coming along,” I assure him. “This house has been the perfect inspiration.”

“Ah yes, Brodie’s Watch. That’s why I’m calling. I want to see it.”

“Of course. I can send you some photos. I’m not the world’s best photographer, but—”

“I want to see it in person. I was thinking this weekend.”

“What?”

“It’s ninety-two degrees here in the city and I need to get out of Boston before I melt. Look, Ava, you’ve been MIA for months now, and Theo insisted I check on your progress. He signed your advance check and now he wants reassurance that you’re back on track to deliver. If I leave by noon Friday, I should be up there around five-ish. Or do you have a date with a hot lumberjack that evening?”

“I, um…” I have no excuse, none at all. All I can say is: “That would be fine.”

“Good. I’ll take you out to dinner, if you’d like.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Then I’ll cook dinner. Or you cook. I’m just keen to lay eyes on this sea captain’s house. Besides, it’s time to think about marketing strategies. Based on the chapters you’ve sent me, this book is going to be about far more than food. You’ve given it a true sense of place, Ava, and now I want to see Brodie’s Watch for myself.”

    “It’s a long drive, just to see a house.”

“I’m coming to see you, too. Everyone’s been asking why you haven’t been around lately. Why you’ve vanished.”

If only I could vanish. If only I could melt away into these walls like Captain Brodie. Turn invisible so that no one can see what I’ve become. But I’ve known Simon for years, since long before he became my editor, and I know that once he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it.

“If you’re arriving that late in the afternoon, you’ll probably want to spend the night here,” I say.

“I was hoping you’d offer.”

“Is Scott coming, too?”

“No, he’s playing the dutiful son and he’s off to see his mother. So it’ll just be you and me. Like old times.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”



* * *



—

It’s five P.M. on the dot Friday evening when my doorbell rings.

Simon stands on the porch looking as natty as ever in his striped oxford shirt and red bow tie. In all my years of working with him, I’ve never seen him without a bow tie, even while working in restaurant kitchens, and he’d look positively undressed without it.

“There’s my gal!” He pulls me in for a hug. Thank god Simon’s hugs aren’t fraught with undercurrents of sexual tension; this is a brotherly embrace, from a man who’s been happily married for a decade to his husband, Scott, and he has absolutely no interest in me as a woman. He steps into the house, sets down his leather weekender bag, and tilts up his nose, sniffing. “What’s that I smell? Lobster?”

“I swear, you’re like a bloodhound, Simon.”

“I like to think I’m more like a truffle pig. Able to sniff out a fine Bordeaux from a mile away. So what’s the preparation tonight? Boiled and boring, or something special?”

    I laugh. “For you, something special, of course. I’m just on the first step of the recipe. If you’d like to freshen up, the guest room’s at the top of the stairs.”

“First I want to see what’s cooking.” He leaves his leather bag in the foyer and heads straight into the kitchen. Simon comes from a long line of cooks, no doubt dating back to some ancient ancestor in animal skins who stirred a pot of mastodon stew, and he gravitates, as always, to the stove. “How long?” He doesn’t have to explain the question; I already know what he’s asking.

“They’ve been in there for fifteen minutes. Your timing’s impeccable.” I turn off the stove and lift the pot cover, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. Only that morning, I’d been aboard the Lazy Girl with Ben’s lobsterman friend Captain Andy and watched these four crustaceans pulled green from the sea. Now they are a brilliant, mouthwatering red.

Simon reaches for one of the aprons hanging on the kitchen hook and swiftly ties it on. “Next step in the recipe?”

“You shell. I make the béchamel.”