She props her elbow on the marble counter and rests her chin in a hand. “How can I help?”
“Take this.” I hand her the vodka smoothie.
“Okay.”
“Now go sit over there”—I gesture at a couch—“sip your smoothie and admire my mad skills.”
She laughs. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. You can also admire my drinks.”
Giggling, she sits on the couch in an elegant motion and takes a sip of the smoothie. Her eyes widen. “Wow. This is great.”
“Told you.”
“Do you have any music?” she asks.
“On the shelf behind you.”
She walks to the MP3 player paired to the Bluetooth speaker system in the mansion. Sipping her vodka smoothie, she checks the selection. It’s fairly eclectic and all over the place, mostly because I like almost every kind of music. Each has its own charm. And sometimes Kristen adds something to the list if she has something she particularly likes.
Finally, Elizabeth makes a selection and returns to the couch. Coldplay’s “The Scientist” comes from the speakers, and I almost slice the tip of my left index finger as the skin around my eyes grows hot and tight.
Wouldn’t it be awesome to be able to apologize in five minutes, figure out how and why things went so tragically wrong, then be given another chance to start fresh?
The hot lump in my chest eases when the song ends. But Ed Sheeran’s song about the perfect girl isn’t much better.
How the hell do I have so many sappy songs? They aren’t my type.
Kristen.
She has to be the one who put all those damned songs on our music accounts. I take back that crap about each type of music having its own charm. Some songs are designed purely to torture you, make you feel like shit.
I’m almost tempted to turn the damned player off, but Elizabeth seems to be listening intently. Do the songs have a special meaning for her? Is her subconscious mind recognizing them, even though she doesn’t consciously remember?
Doing my best to tune them out, I finish making our dinner. “Here or outside?” I ask.
“Outside,” she says with a bright smile.
I breathe more easily. No speakers outside.
“I’ve been inside for so long,” she continues. “That hospital, ugh.”
“You weren’t awake to suffer through it,” I joke as I carry the plates out. She brings utensils and napkins.
“Just because I have no memory of being there doesn’t mean I’m happy about missing out on the beautiful scenery on St. Cecilia.”
Her words pierce me, each one like a shard of glass and a nasty omen.
She gives me a rueful smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Look, I’m fine now. One of the nurses told me what you did to pull me out of the water. I would’ve died without you.”
“That’s the least I would’ve done for you,” I say. I set the plates on the intimate round table just big enough for a couple. “Let’s dig in.” I pull out a chair for her.
She sits down and places a napkin over her lap, her motions delicate. I watch her move with bemusement. A lot of women I know tend to fall into two camps. One is very direct or more on the tomboy side, something unfortunate in women aspiring to climb higher in their careers, because being feminine is still considered undesirable in corporate America. Or they’re outright cloying—trying too hard to be coy and seductive. Elizabeth is as dainty as they come, but nothing about her makes me think she’s the kind of woman you could walk all over.
She takes a bite. “This is really good.”
“Of course. I’m an excellent cook.”