The Shape of Night(45)

“You’ve turned into a poet!”

“And don’t I know it.”

We set to work, moving around the kitchen like longtime dance partners who know each other’s moves. This is, after all, how we met years ago, as two college kids working summer jobs in a Cape Cod restaurant. I was promoted from dishwasher to salads; he went from salads to broiler—Simon was always one step ahead of me. He’s ahead of me now too, cracking claws and extracting meat so efficiently that by the time I’m whisking sherry and egg yolks into the béchamel, he has already liberated a mound of succulent lobster meat from their shells.

I cloak the meat in the sauce and slide the lobster pie into the oven.

    Simon uncorks a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc and fills my wineglass. “Here’s to teamwork,” he says as we toast each other. “Is this recipe going into the book?”

“If you think it passes muster tonight. I scavenged it from a 1901 hotel cookbook. It was considered quite the gourmet dish in the Old Mermaid Hotel.”

“So this is what you’ve been up to this past month.”

“Testing old recipes. Writing. Immersing myself in the past.” I look up at the antique tin ceiling. “This house puts me in the right frame of mind to immerse myself in that era.”

“But did you really have to trek all the way up here just to write? And by the way, your book is now almost a year overdue.”

“I know, I know.”

“I really don’t want to cancel your contract, but Theo’s an annoying bean counter and he keeps asking when you’ll deliver.” He pauses, studies me. “You’ve never been this late for a deadline before. What’s going on, Ava?”

To avoid answering his question, I finish off my glass of wine. “Writer’s block,” I finally answer. “But I think I’ve finally broken through. Since I moved into this house, I’ve been writing like crazy—and it’s good stuff, Simon. The old creative juices are starting to flow again.”

“Where did they go in the first place?”

I see him frowning as I refill my wineglass. How much have I had to drink this evening? I’ve lost count. I set the bottle back down and say quietly, “You know it’s been tough for me these past few months. I’ve been depressed, ever since…”

“New Year’s Eve.”

I go very still and don’t say a word.

“Stop blaming yourself, Ava. You threw a party, and he drank too much. What were you supposed to do, tie him up and keep him from getting in his car?”

“I didn’t do enough to stop him.”

“He wasn’t your responsibility. Nick was an adult.”

    “I still blame myself. Even if Lucy doesn’t.”

“It sounds to me like you need to talk to someone about this. I know a very good therapist. I can give you her number.”

“No.” I pick up my glass and drain it in one gulp. “What I need right now is to eat dinner.”

“Considering how much you’ve had to drink tonight, I’d say that’s a good idea.”

I deliberately ignore his remark and pour myself more wine. By the time the salad’s been tossed and the lobster pie is on the table, I’m so irritated by what he said that I focus all my attention on the food, not on him. When did Simon become such a nanny?

He takes a bite of the lobster pie and sighs with pleasure. “Oh yes, this recipe must go in the book.”

“I’m glad to hear that something I’ve done meets your approval.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, Ava. I wouldn’t have signed you up for this book if I didn’t think you’d deliver. Which begs the question again, when will you deliver?”

“And that’s why you’re really here.”

“I didn’t spend five hours sitting in traffic just to say hello. Of course that’s why I’m here. And to check up on you, too. When your sister called me—”

“Lucy called you?”

“She hoped maybe I knew what was going on with you.”

I stare down at my wine. “What did she tell you?”

“She says you two hardly talk anymore and she has no idea why. She worries it was something she said, something she did.”

“No.”

“Then what? I always thought you girls were joined at the hip.”

I take a rebellious sip of wine to put off my answer. “It’s this book. It’s consuming me,” I finally say. “I’ve been struggling for months, but now it’s coming along. I’ve written six chapters since I got here. Living in this house has made all the difference.”

“Why? It’s just an old house.”

    “Don’t you feel it, Simon? There’s so much history in these walls. Think of the meals they cooked in that kitchen, the feasts they enjoyed in this dining room. I don’t think I can write the book anyplace but in this house.”

“And that’s the only reason you left Boston? To look for inspiration?”

I manage to look him straight in the eye. “Yes.”

“Well then, I’m glad you found it here.”

“I did.” And I’ve found a great deal more.