The Things We Keep(39)

Angus shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. If Mother was here, she’d say it was impolite not to respond when someone spoke to you, but in this case, she’d be wrong. A quiet shrug, no big deal, was the nicest response he could possibly give.

I try for a laugh. “I guess I’ll have to start shopping at Bent & Dent.”

His eyebrows shoot up and his glance touches mine for a heartbeat. “Why? Because one woman who didn’t have her facts straight assaulted you while you were trying to do your job?”

“Because,” I say to my lap, “I’m not strong enough to go through that every week.”

We crunch onto the driveway of Rosalind House. Angus shuts off the engine but doesn’t get out. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” he says. “Of course your daughter has lost more than her home and her money. Obviously you have, too.”

Now I’m the one to shrug. Mostly because I don’t trust myself to speak.

Angus lifts his hand, and for a second I think he’s going to touch my cheek, but he stops a few inches short. “How’s the face?”

“Fine,” I say, though it’s starting to throb again. I glance in the mirror. There’s a fairly distinct hand mark. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Are you all right to go inside? I can take the groceries in if you’d rather hang out here for a while.”

“No,” I say. “Let’s just go in.”

Angus insists on carrying the bags, and I follow him toward the house.

“What were you doing at Houlihan’s, anyway?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think a gardener could be interested in organic food?”

It is, I realize, exactly what I’d thought. Angus rolls his eyes but with a smile.

We arrive in the kitchen, and Angus sets the shopping bags on the counter.

“I needed saffron,” he says. “That’s why I was at Houlihan’s. I’m entertaining tonight, and I’m making paella.”

“Seafood paella?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice, but I think I fail.

Angus looks a mixture of irritated and amused. “Is there any other kind?”

Actually, there are other kinds. Paella Valenciana. Paella mixta. But I don’t point that out. Instead I start unloading the groceries. Pak choy. Roma tomatoes. Risoni. Mushrooms. No sign of the hot dogs or frozen peas I’d feared. “If you’re making paella, just make sure you don’t skimp on the—”

“Sofrito?” he says. “Don’t worry, I know.”

We lock eyes. As I look at him, I get the feeling that, although I’ve seen Angus many times before, I’ve never actually seen him.

“I’m cooking for my sister,” he says. “She knows her paella. And she’d never let me skimp on the sofrito.”

Keeping my head down, I nod. His sister. The sister who would never have babies because of Richard.

“Well,” he says. “I’d better … get back to the garden.”

“Do you know Anna and Luke very well?” I ask as he wanders toward the door, and it has only a little to do with the fact that I want him to stay a bit longer.

“I’ve known them as long as they’ve been at Rosalind House,” he says.

“What were they like? When they first arrived, I mean.”

He thinks for a minute. “They were a lot more lucid. Almost like regular people, if you didn’t press them too hard to do anything complicated. Luke’s speech wasn’t great, even back then, but mentally, he seemed pretty sharp. They both did.”

“Eric tells me that … they were friends?”

Angus nods. “More than friends, I think. I’m not sure if they were together, but they were certainly always together, if you know what I mean.” Angus smiles and his eyes go faraway. “You know what was sweet? I don’t know if Eric told you, but Anna is terrified of dogs. She was bitten, I think, when she was a kid. But Luke, he loved dogs. During pet therapy, he always had a dog on his lap or at his feet. But after Anna came to Rosalind House, Luke started staying inside with Anna, away from the dogs.”

“Pet therapy?”

“It’s a volunteer group; they come every other week with dogs and rabbits and kittens for the residents to pet.”

“And Luke stopped going outside with the dogs so he could stay inside with Anna?”

Angus nods. “Sweet, right?”

I exhale. “Yeah.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that, though,” he says. “They’ve degenerated a lot. Mostly they just sit around, staring off into space.”

“If I had dementia,” I say, “or any kind of disease, I’d want the person I loved within arm’s reach as much as possible.”

Angus gives me a quizzical look. “I didn’t say they were in love.”

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I guess. But even if they loved each other once, they can’t really love each other now, can they? How can you love someone you don’t remember?”

I shrug, because I have no idea.

Angus smiles. “Pretty heavy, huh, for a Tuesday afternoon?”

I smile back. “Yep.”