All the Beautiful Lies(22)
“I know that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what happened to him.” He had spoken too loudly, and Alice put her head down, staring at the perfect slivers of onion on the cutting board. When she looked up again, Harry could see bright spots of red on her cheeks.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a lot to take in this morning, and right now I just want to make dinner and not think about it. It’s enough that he’s not here, and now to know that . . . that . . .” She turned away, her shoulders beginning to shake, and Harry went and gave her a hug. She sobbed into his shoulder while he stroked her back.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “Dinner tonight sounds great. What time?”
She pulled away from him, and with a look of almost childish joy on her face she said, “Seven o’clock? Maybe a drink at six thirty? Have you had lunch? I can make you a snack.”
Harry accepted an apple, which Alice cut into slices and put on a plate for him, then he went up to his room.
He didn’t come back down until six thirty. He unpacked some more things, looked through his father’s books, picking out an Ed McBain novel he hadn’t read before, one of the 87th Precinct books called Sadie When She Died. He didn’t think he’d be able to read, but he tried anyway. He kept thinking about how it had felt to hold Alice in his arms while she cried, the way her body had shaken, and the feel of her skin against his. He tried to stop himself from imagining the hug suddenly becoming sexual, one of her hands sliding down into his jeans, her telling him that it would be the only thing that would help her grief. He started the book, reading a page without understanding any of the words, then started again, and managed to get into it. He’d read half before he realized it was nearly six. He showered and went downstairs. There was music playing—a David Bowie album, the one with “China Girl” on it—and something was cooking in the oven.
Alice had changed her clothes. She wore a long dress, in a fabric that looked hand dyed. It was scoop necked and cinched at the waist. “What can I do to help?” Harry asked her.
She’d been assembling a salad and she jumped a little when he spoke. “Nothing, nothing,” she said. “No, actually, you can make us each a drink. Do you mind? A martini for me.”
Harry went to the side table in the dining room, where the booze was kept. It was obvious that Alice wanted some semblance of a normal evening, despite the fact that her husband was dead. Harry decided that it might be a good thing. He’d read a book this afternoon, so maybe life just needed to go on. And if Alice relaxed enough, then maybe she’d open up to him. He still thought she was holding something back.
He found a large bottle of Plymouth gin, his father’s favorite, and Harry, who’d watched his father drink his single, large martini every night at six on the dot, knew how he liked it. Shaken very cold, no vermouth, and served in a tumbler with three cocktail onions.
“How do you like your martini, Alice? Same as my father?”
“Yes, but with olives. And about half the size of the drinks your father used to make, please.”
Harry made the drink, got a beer for himself, then asked again if she needed any help and was told to take a seat on one of the stools around the island. There were snacks out—baby carrots with hummus, and crackers with port wine cheese.
“Your friend Paul is so nice,” Alice said, turning away from her salad, and sipping at her drink.
“It was great he came. He skipped graduation, you know?”
“No, I know. It’s good to have a friend like that. They’re easier to make when you’re young, you know, than in real life. Let me tell you.”
The timer made a tinny buzz, and Alice pulled a large baking dish from the oven. “It’s chicken cordon bleu casserole,” she said. “Have you had it before?”
“No, but it sounds delicious. My appetite, though—”
“Oh, I know. I haven’t been able to eat a thing.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, I just wanted to cook, just to have some semblance of . . . normality. Keep myself busy.”
Alice turned back to the casserole, poking at it with a fork, while Harry finished his beer. There was a silence, and Harry tried to think of something to say that didn’t revolve around his father’s death. He remembered the stranger at his father’s funeral, and said, “I saw this girl at the memorial service yesterday. She had dark hair down to her shoulders, and was wearing a grey dress. She didn’t come through the receiving line.”
Alice frowned. “Was it Ginny Wells?”
“No, I know Ginny. This girl was there alone, toward the back of the church. And she had a red purse with her. I just didn’t know who she was, and it’s strange, because I thought I actually saw her Friday when I arrived here. Out on the street.”
“Out on our street?”
“Yeah. I think I saw her from my window upstairs.”
“That’s odd.”
“That was why I was asking. I’m sure it’s just one of Dad’s customers.”
“Most of his customers were old men like he was, but I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing her. Should we eat in the dining room?”
Alice let Harry bring the hot casserole and the salad to the long dining room table, constructed from renovated barn wood. There was a trivet waiting on the table, and he put down the casserole, large enough to feed an army. Places had been laid with wineglasses and two forks—one for the salad, Harry supposed.