Читать книгу The Black Butterfly - Shirley Reva Vernick - Страница 7

Chapter 2

December 19

It’s a dangerous business going out your front door.

—J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Slumped on the subway to Logan Airport, I squinted at the blue-cold day outside and felt frozen to my graffitied plastic seat. There were a few other people in the car, newspapers and paperbacks pressed to their faces. They looked like headless bodies to me, holding their books and papers up not to read but to cover the holes at the tops of their necks. I shouldn’t have been surprised. No one with a head on their shoulders would be going where I was.

To distract myself, I dug through my duffel until I found the book I was halfway through reading, The Adonis Murders. I love murder mysteries, the more harrowing the better. In fact, I spend so much time at The Poison Pen, a used mystery and suspense bookstore in Central Square, I’m on a first name basis with the owner, Bea, and her resident Yorkie, Laptop. This novel, recommended by Bea herself, was about a string of barbaric murders where all the victims were handsome young men, and it described the corpses in such excruciating detail, I had to skip some passages. Now I was at the part where the detective was receiving death threats at his girlfriend’s house, and it felt like the perfect accompaniment to my already dark mood. I opened to the turned down page and plunged in.

At the Airport Station stop, I got off and caught the shuttle the rest of the way to Logan, walking into the terminal—waddling, really, under the weight of my duffel bag—early enough to swing by the coffee bar. Not to buy a five dollar half decaf extra soymilk single shot of almond cappuccino like a normal sixteen-year-old. On my budget, all I could do was inhale and hope some secondhand caffeine was floating through the air. I just stood there, visualizing wakefulness, wishing I were somewhere else, and that’s when it happened. It, as in the one thing that could make this day even worse. It, as in Chad Laramy.

Chad is the choicest guy in school: sparkling eyes straight from Tiffany’s, black hair hanging irreverently past his ears, a swimmer’s body. He’s a year ahead of me in school, but we’re in the same creative writing class. Not that being in the same room together five days a week means he knows who I am or would ever dream of saying hi to me. Still, in my current natural state (no makeup, no blow dry—hell, I couldn’t even remember if I’d put deodorant on this morning), the thought that he might vaguely recognize me was nothing short of terrifying. I tried to move out of the way before he got in line for coffee, but I ended up bumping shoulders with him.

“Whoops,” he said. “Sorry.”

“No, my fault,” I said, hoping there was still time to duck away.

His eyes narrowed. “You look familiar. Do I, do we –”

“Mr. Doyle’s writing class.”

He flashed his orthodontically perfect smile. “Yeah, that’s it. Patty, right?”

“Penny, actually.”

“Right. Penny.”

“You, um, start your short story yet?”

“Naw,” he yawned with out-partying-all-night contentment. “I’ll probably whip it out on the plane ride home.”

“Me too,” I said, even though I’d been working on it for two weeks now. “Well, I liked your last piece, the one about finding your old finger paintings in the attic.”

“Thanks,” he said, but at this point he was looking past me, not at me, like he was hoping to spot someone more interesting in the terminal to talk to. I wished he’d put me out of my misery and leave, but he just stood there, and I didn’t like the silence.

“So…” I fumbled, “you going somewhere for the holidays?”

“Yeah,” he said brightly. And why wouldn’t he be cheerful? He was surely going on a real vacation. “I’m on my way to Aruba,” he said. “You?” Now he was looking straight at me.

Damn, he had to ask. It was bad enough that I had to go to Islemorow. Did I have to confess it to Chad Laramy? “I, I’m going to the islands too,” I said.

“Really, which one?” But he was already looking away again. “Oh wait, there’s my girlfriend and her mom. Finally, ready to board.”

“See you back at Mr. Doyle’s then,” I said.

“See ya, Patty.”

As he walked away, all I could do was wonder: why was it that the only boys who liked me had tails and a litter box? Apparently, that was not for me to know.

I boarded the plane only to discover that it wasn’t really a plane. It was a glorified kite. I’d never flown before, and I’ll admit I was feeling a little jittery. Well, jittery isn’t quite the right word—scared sick is more like it.

…Okay, I told myself once my teeth stopped chattering. Okay, we’ve taken off, and I’m not in the fetal position. I can get through this, I can. After all, what choice do I have, right?

Somehow, we made it safely to Augusta, Maine, even though I swear the propeller outside my window wasn’t rotating. I caught lunch at a vending machine in the airport lobby—M&Ms, the peanut ones (for protein)—and then headed for the puddle jumper that stopped in Waterville, Bangor and Bar Harbor before finally dropping me in Jonesport, where I had to catch a ferry to the island.

The sun was setting on Islemorow by the time the ferry docked, and it was beyond cold. The wind whipped little ice swords at me, and my nostrils froze together in a futile attempt to keep the arctic air out. Thank God the inn’s driver was waiting for me at the wharf. He was easy to spot since he was the only one there.

Unfortunately, the driver was in as rotten a mood as me. “Black Butterfly?” he grumbled, winding down the window of his snug minivan, not making eye contact.

I nodded. He didn’t look much older than me—eighteen maybe. Wearing no jacket over his thermal shirt, he had longish dark hair, eyes far apart, and a small growth of stubble. His jaw kept flexing, sending little muscular ripples across his cheeks. I found myself wondering what he looked like when he smiled, but no, he wasn’t going to be doing that any time soon. Instead, he crammed a fistful of Cheetos into his mouth. “Put your things in the trunk.”

Wait a minute, wasn’t that his job? I took a step forward to give him a piece of my mind, but what came out of my mouth was, “Could you open the trunk then?” So much for assertiveness.

He heaved an irritated sigh, brushed a Twinkie wrapper off his lap, and rolled out of the car. He was tall and lean in his black jeans.

“Get in,” he said after watching me stow my bag. “Don’t try to open your window—it’s stuck.”

“No problem,” I said, climbing into the backseat. Like I was going to want more 20-below air slapping me in the face.

“And the seat belts are broken.”

“I’m in hell frozen over,” I whispered to myself.

“Huh?” he asked as we took off.

“Nothing.”

I wiped the frost off my window and looked out at the ragged heaps of snow and bent trees passing by. The road curved sharply at one point, and a few houses appeared. Now, in case you’re picturing some quaint New England scene here—shingled cottages with shutters and brick chimneys and tire swings hanging from trees—let me set you straight. These houses looked like trailers minus the wheels, and the yards were piled with rusted cars, broken refrigerators and other junk. I spotted a couple of dogs snooping around an upside down table, and then we were driving through woods.

“How many people on the island?” I asked.

My driver rolled his tongue around his mouth like he was trying to get a piece of Twinkie out from between his teeth. “Depends,” he said, peering at me through his rearview mirror. “This time of year, a couple hundred, give or take. Summertime, you can double that easy.”

Did he hold my gaze in the mirror for an extra second? Or was it just my imagination? No matter, it didn’t matter. Still, I smoothed my hair, which was turning into a frizzy brown mess as the ice melted off it, before pulling myself back into the conversation. “So what do the yearrounders do? For a living, I mean?”

“They catch lobsters,” he said, and I knew he wanted to add a duh. “Or fix the lobstermen’s boats. Or sell food and cigarettes to the lobstermen. Or marry them.”

The road twisted again, taking us past an old building that looked like a cross between a diner and a bookshop, or maybe between a convenience store and a library. The pink neon sign said the place was called the Grindle Point Shop. I prayed that it was walkable from the inn. I was going to need something to do during my forced two-week isolation, and maybe the Grindle Point Shop was it.

We drove a short way on, at which point the junk food addict behind the wheel decided to turn on a CD. Loud. Then, just when I thought I’d rather walk the rest of the way, the Black Butterfly Inn appeared before us.

Set back a hundred feet from the road, the inn was a three-story battleship in a sea of snow—grey, weathered, a mishmash of eaves and gables. The front door and windows were crowned with pointed arches straight out of some medieval abbey. From the steep roof, multiple chimneys released tongues of smoke that quickly dissolved into the bitter evening. Maybe the inn was supposed to look like a castle or a church—it was definitely commanding, but in a grim, stiff way, not at all charming or welcoming. If buildings had faces, this one would be puckered up in a frosty snarl, its icicle-shaped holiday lights only making it look colder.

“It’s nicer on the inside,” my driver said, eyeing me again in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but somehow it was consoling to learn that the inn didn’t dazzle absolutely everyone at first glimpse. Maybe the Black Butterfly scowled at all its visitors. Maybe it even scared some of them. Or maybe this guy was taking pity on the girl who was obviously starting to snap. Either way, I had to admit I appreciated the gesture. And the eye contact.

He drove up the narrow circular driveway but couldn’t reach the top because a truck was blocking the way. The truck, a shiny silver job souped up with black racing stripes and oversized chrome wheels, looked out of place against the gothic exterior of the inn. In bold blue print on the tailgate, it said Mike’s Heating and Plumbing—there when you need us.

“So he finally got around to coming,” my driver said, parking directly behind the pickup. “About time.” I hoped that meant we’d have heat and water tonight.

A plump woman in a bathrobe and faux fur slippers was standing on the wraparound porch, waving energetically at us. Her hair was a wild shade of red from a bottle, and it matched her lipstick. When I stepped out of the minivan, she ran down the front steps, skirted the pickup, and flung her pudgy arms around me. “Penny!” she cooed. “Penny, at last!” Then she took a step back to examine me. “You’re Viv’s child, all right.”

I gave her my best rendition of a knowing smile.

“I’m Bubbles,” she said. “Blanche really, but everyone calls me Bubbles and so should you. I see you’ve met my son George.”

I clamped my jaw to keep it from dropping open. “Yes, we’ve met. Thanks for the ride, George, and for the tour. That was sweet of you.” He pretended he didn’t hear me.

Part of me felt sorry for George. If this was his family’s business, then he was probably a lifer, sentenced to carting people around in the snow and eating meals out of cellophane bags for the next 60 or 70 years. Talk about lousy luck. But another part of me resented the twit for not letting on who he was. He was the son of the owner. He was the son of my mother’s friend. I was going to be spending two weeks with his family. What possible reason could he have for hiding his identity from me? “Mutant,” I added under my breath.

That, he heard. “Pardon?” he asked.

I tossed him a big fake smile.

“Let’s get you in out of this cold,” Bubbles said. “Oh look, it’s starting to snow again.” She looped her arm through mine and led me to the stairs in short, slippered steps. I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Not dizzy like on a roller coaster, where the downs are always followed by ups. More like the free fall, where it’s one freakishly terrifying plummet the whole way. What was I walking into, and why wasn’t anyone rescuing me?

I have a new philosophy.

I’m only going to dread one day at a time.

—Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown in “Peanuts”

George was right about one thing: the inn was nicer on the inside, a lot nicer. The lobby didn’t look like any lobby I’d ever seen—no front counter, no tourist posters from the local chamber of commerce, no vending machines. It was more like a den from a fancy house. The paneled walls were hung with oriental rugs of red, gold and blue, and several stained glass skylights studded the cathedral ceiling. A lush brown sectional couch wrapped itself around the fireplace, where a fire crackled and danced. Something about the last bits of daylight mingling with the flames made the air itself seem to flicker and swim.

“Surprised?” teased Bubbles, shaking a set of sleigh bells that rested on a small desk in the corner.

“I live in an efficiency apartment,” I explained. “I’m not sure what to do in a place with working thermostats and chairs that don’t fold.”

She chortled, apparently thinking I was joking. “Glad you like it.”

When did I ever say I liked it? I hated this place, hated it. I hated being here, I hated Mom for sending me here, I hated myself for agreeing to come, and no fancy decorations or pretty lights were going to change my mind.

“Here’s Vincent then,” Bubbles said as an older man answered her bell. “He’ll show you to your room, and we’ll get acquainted over dinner, how’s that? Vincent, the Lilac Room for Penny, please.”

Vincent was a pillowy man with a full head of silver hair framing his baby blues. He wore painter’s pants and a down vest, and his belt buckle was a silver and turquoise fish. “Welcome, Miss Penny,” he said, picking up my duffel bag.

I followed him across the lobby, through an arched doorway, and into a parlor. This room was bigger and brighter than the lobby—creamy walls with framed mirrors, a marble floor, plenty of recessed lighting. Cushioned armchairs haphazardly lined the walls, and a horseshoe of sofas filled the center of the room.

A girl around my age was sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, looking out the bay window. She was pretty—light eyes, light hair, light skin—but I decided not to hold that against her. I was just glad to see there was another guest, someone I might be able to pass some time with on this iceberg. When she looked my way, I nodded and gave a little smile, but instead of smiling back, she jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room. Just my luck—a bizarro. I followed Vincent, wishing the marble tiles beneath my feet would give way to a secret tunnel back to Boston. Regrettably, they only gave way to a curved staircase.

As we climbed to the second floor, Vincent asked, “Do you have plans for your stay?”

Yes, I wanted to say, I’m planning to die of boredom and loneliness. But I answered, “I brought a couple of books along. And I have a writing project to finish for one of my classes.”

“What are you reading?”

“Right now, a thriller.”

“Thriller. Say, did you know Alfred Hitchcock stayed here when he finished Psycho, back when the Black Butterfly was new?” he asked. “And Stephen King’s wife takes a room almost every Labor Day weekend with her daughter.”

“You mean, some mothers actually take their daughters with them when they go away?” I accidentally said this loudly enough for Vincent to hear. He didn’t say anything though, and for that I was grateful. I didn’t want a pity party or a cheering squad. I just wanted to get through this.

We walked down the hallway, under a crystal chandelier and past garden watercolors. There were four guest rooms on each side of the hall. Instead of room numbers, they had porcelain signs with the rooms’ names calligraphed on them. Vincent led us past the Iris, Foxglove, Tiger Lily, Sweet Pea, Indian Pipe, Lady Slipper and Rose rooms, stopping finally at a door half hidden behind a wreath of silk flowers. “Here’s the Lilac Room,” he said, fishing a key out of his vest and jiggling it in the knob until the door popped open. He handed me the key, then stepped into the blackened room and flipped the wall switch.

Several wall sconces flickered on. My eyes bulged when I saw what the light had to show me: a king-size four-post bed with a sheer canopy and ivory bedding, a stone fireplace flanked by two overstuffed loveseats, and rosy valances swirling their way around a triple window. Lavender brush strokes caressed the walls, while pearly threads of carpeting kissed my feet. And it was all mine. The gods had sent a crumb of justice my way.

“Not bad,” I mumbled.

“What’s that?” Vincent asked.

“Nothing—sorry.” I walked over and sat on one of the loveseats, which felt like velvet and looked like aquamarine—the same color the dancers were wearing in the Degas print hanging over the mantel. “It’s just, this room is really pretty.”

“It’s my personal favorite.” He moved past me and set my bag on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Come on,” he motioned me over to where he stood. “Take a whiff and tell me what you think.”

I didn’t know what he was up to, but he must have been trying to cheer me up. Which was a sweet, albeit futile task. Obediently, I walked to the middle of the room and inhaled. The smell was rich, zesty, inviting, like walking into my favorite pizza place. “Wow,” I said, “you’re right. It smells like…like a feast or something.”

“This room sits directly above the kitchen, and that’s why it’s my favorite. Now if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you what’s for supper. I’ve got this down to a science, since Miss Rita doesn’t let anyone outside the Henion family in her kitchen while she’s cooking.” He tested the air with several short snuffles at different angles. “Cloves, cinnamon—that’s probably the soup. Veal. Some sort of squash—Miss Rita makes a fabulous acorn squash soaked in brandy and mango juice. Let’s see, mushrooms and…something nutty for dessert. Sound all right?”

I looked at him, wondering if he were kidding. At home, it’s gourmet dining if we bother taking the Spaghettios out of the can. Veal, mangos, dessert? If it weren’t for all those hours I spent drooling over the Whole Foods shelves while I waited for Mom to get out of work, I wouldn’t even know what real food looked like. I wished I could forget how dismal I felt so I could enjoy this place, but I knew that would never happen. Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the mind as the wish to forget it. That’s what some Renaissance guy said about five hundred years ago, and I believe him.

“Supper’s at seven,” he said, returning to the doorway. “You’ve got almost an hour. Oh, if you want me to build a fire later, let me know—it’s my specialty.”

“Okay.” I dug into my back pocket, hoping a dollar would show up, but he disappeared before I could tip him.

The first thing I did when I was alone in the room was kick off my clogs and flop belly up on the bed, just looking around, trying to adjust to this alien physical comfort. Satiny sheets, carpeting deep enough to sleep on, a carved table I hadn’t noticed on my way in. Everything felt plush and elegant and almost sparkly, but somehow unsettling too. Everything so pristine, so quiet, so someone else’s. And here I was, alone in it for the next two weeks.

To busy myself, I decided to unpack. There wasn’t much to do, but I managed to make a little project out of hanging up my shirts, stuffing my underwear into the dresser, and unearthing my hair ties. Next, I headed into the bathroom with my toiletry kit.

Wow, the bathroom. Peacock blue tiles from floor to ceiling, black granite countertop, a light-up mirror, Jacuzzi tub, a separate shower stall, and the crowning cherry: a heated floor. I took my time transforming the space into my altar of vanity, laying out all the wares for my skin, hair, teeth and nails. Then I tried to pretend this was my house, that my beauty products weren’t drugstore knock-offs, that I padded barefoot on heated floors every day of my life. Yeah, right.

Never eat more than you can lift.

—Miss Piggy

“Dinner?” said Vincent from a podium outside the dining room, which was on the far side of the lobby and down a hallway. We were standing in a dimly lit alcove, and he was wearing a suit jacket now. So Vincent was the maître d’, as well as the bellhop. Probably the maid and the dishwasher too.

“Come along, Miss,” he said, pushing open the door behind him and leading me into a small but lavish room where four glass topped tables stood on four oval rugs. The burgundy walls boasted jewel framed mirrors, bead and ceramic hangings, and an ancient map of the world. A huge picture window and a double fireplace completed the room. It felt dark and spicy in here, old and sophisticated, and I hoped I wouldn’t break anything.

Vincent pulled out a high-backed wicker chair for me at the window end of the room. “This is our best table,” he noted as I sat down. “The Bushes always request it when they’re here from Kennebunkport.”

“Bushes?” My disbelief leaked out as a snicker. “As in former Presidents?”

“George, George W, Jeb,” he said. “The food is very good here. Very good.”

“Oh, I know. I mean, I smell it.”

He poured me a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. “Miss Bubbles and George were looking forward to dining with you, but something…came up. I’m afraid you’ll have the place to yourself tonight.”

What? Please, Vincent, tell me I heard you wrong. I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting alone through a whole meal here. I felt watched—the glinting eyes of the mirror jewels, the beaded eyes of the wall hangings, the hungry eyes of the sea dragons that swam the oceans of the antique map, they were all on me. I wished my mother were here. I wished this were a real vacation, and we were sitting down to dinner together. But it wasn’t anything like that, not even close.

“Where are the other guests?” I asked, hopeful for some other warm bodies in the room.

“You’re it,” Vincent answered.

“But what about that girl I saw in the parlor?”

“Girl?”

“Blonde hair, jeans, my age?”

Vincent thought for a second and then shrugged. “Don’t know who you saw, but honestly, no one else is staying here. Maybe it was Mike the heating guy’s daughter. She tags along with him from time to time.” He lit the candle in the center of the table, then made a little bow and disappeared into the kitchen.

I dropped my forehead onto my hands and tried to take a few cleansing breaths. Okay, I told myself, this is going to be okay. Who’d want to eat with a strange girl like that, anyway? Or with George No-Personality Henion? I drank some water from the goblet and began to wonder what could have come up so abruptly. Was George at the bottom of it? Did I disgust him to the point where he refused to come to dinner? A pulse of nausea kicked me in the stomach. All I wanted was to run away, but suddenly Vincent was standing over me again, setting a crock of soup and a loaf of steaming bread on the table.

“A Miss Rita original,” he said proudly. “Cream, cinnamon, cloves, beer and five cheeses.” He refilled my water and retreated.

Cinnamon and cloves—so he was right. I was still queasy, but I picked up my spoon and played with the soup—stirring, lifting, inhaling, stirring some more. This had to be a week’s worth of calories in one bowl—not exactly what I needed. Still, Cook Rita had gone to a lot of trouble, and I didn’t want anyone thinking me ungrateful, so I put a spoonful to my mouth.

Whoa. This was good. Very good, as Vincent said. I ate the rest of the spoonful greedily, then promised myself that would be all.

I broke my promise. This velvet potion was some kind of magic. I was suddenly ravenous, and a pinch less afraid of the room. If I didn’t look up at the eyes all around me, I could pretend they weren’t staring.

At one point, Vincent approached with a salad, but he withdrew when he saw I was still working on the soup. I’d have made that soup last until morning if I could, but when Vincent appeared with the salad for a second time, he insisted that I not fill up on the first course.

The salad. Wilted kale, Vincent explained, and roasted potatoes with plenty of garlic, topped off with a luscious tahini dressing. Who needed a main dish after all this? I did, I realized—once the veal and brandied squash arrived. I don’t know who ever thought up brandied vegetables, but I’d like to shake their hand.

I had no room at the end for the dessert, a creamy, nutty, not quite cake, not quite pastry thing that called to me from the center of a chocolate-drizzled plate. All I could do was nibble lovingly at the pistachios and the cocoa powder. The finale was an espresso served in a little Art Deco cup. Lingering over it, I knew Mom might be having more adventures than me right now, and Chad Laramy might be getting a better tan in Aruba, but no one was getting a better supper.

When I finally set my linen napkin on the table and pushed my chair back, I checked my watch. Nine o’clock. I’d spent two full hours here. That’s like ten normal dinnertimes for me. How did that much time go by?

As I left the dining room, I planned to head straight upstairs, but the caffeine hit me by the time I reached the parlor. Then I remembered a room I’d passed in the hallway on my way to and from dinner, a little room lined with bookshelves and crowded with armchairs and a sofa. A study, I guessed, or a lounge. Maybe it would have some decent magazines to help me while away my wakefulness or even some boring ones to put me to sleep. I turned around.

The study, softly lit by two table lamps, was windowless, which was a bonus. In here, I could pretend it wasn’t winter outside. I could pretend it wasn’t even Maine outside. This could be the study in some Caribbean retreat. Chad Laramy might be right next door. I liked this room—I didn’t even mind being alone in it—and I had the feeling I’d be spending a lot of time here in the long days ahead.

The bookshelves were loosely organized by category: travel, spiritual, food, boats, paperback novels, even comic books. I stopped at the paperback section, hoping to find a mystery I hadn’t read yet. I hadn’t read any of them. They were all wonderfully old, outdated and heavily thumbed. Six Parts Joy, One Part Murder caught my eye, and I took it out. The back flap promised a lurid tale of grisly crimes and a first-rate gumshoe—my kind of story. Just as I was turning to the first page though, a loud blare behind me nearly stopped my heart. I spun around and pressed my back against the shelves.

The face of a woman peered from around an armchair. Its high back had hidden her from my view. “Hello,” she said in a slight accent—French, I thought—and then she sneezed thunderously twice more. “I am sorry to startle you.”

“No, no,” I panted, heading to the sofa. “I just didn’t see you there.” Plus I thought I was the only guest.

At least old enough to be my mother’s mother, this woman wore jeans and a loose sweater and sat with her legs curled under her, a thick book crooked in one arm. With tawny eyes, milky skin and silver hair, she’d clearly once been beautiful, and, in fact, still was. I hoped I’d like my elegant inn mate, whoever she was, since we were bound to be tripping all over each other in the confines of the inn.

“How was supper tonight?” she asked.

“Great.” I patted my belly, wondering why she hadn’t eaten. Maybe she’d only just checked in. Maybe she was an unexpected arrival. “Really outstanding.”

“No, it was not. It was bland—mediocre at best.”

The hair on my nape bristled. I felt personally attacked by this insult to the closest thing to nirvana I’d ever tasted. “I don’t think we had the same thing,” I said, wondering where and when she’d eaten, if not in the dining room at the appointed hour. “Did you have the veal?”

“No. I cooked it. I am Rita, the chef.” And then she smiled.

This was Miss Rita? I’d imagined someone bigger, more Italian, wearing white and smelling of oregano. It took me a second to adjust to the reality. “Penny,” I said at last.

“I know.”

“Oh. Well, I thought everything was fabulous. Especially the soup. And the dessert—I should have saved room.”

She smiled broadly, the lines at her temples crinkling into crescents. “I am glad it was all right. You know, I can hardly get anything fresh, really fresh, out here this time of year. All I can do is improvise.”

“But it was wonderful, really.”

“I am glad. So, what are you reading?”

“Pure pulp,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed about my choice of literature. “How about you?”

“A cookbook.” She held up Cuisine Under the Stars. “It is how I sustain myself in the dreary winter. I decide what I would make if I could get the ingredients. Then I am not so sad about waiting. Let me tell you what would have been on tonight’s menu, no?”

I nodded.

“Since I did much of my training in Brussels,” she started, “I would prepare a Belgian supper, goose a l’instar de Vise. It is only worth bothering with if you can find a fresh young bird, in springtime.” Rita described how she’d quarter the goose and simmer it in a garlic and white wine broth brimming with celery, carrots, onions and spices fresh from the garden. Next, she’d fry the bird golden crisp in a batter of eggs and crumbled homemade bread. Then she’d dribble a sauce of mashed garlic, broth, egg yolks, heavy cream and butter over it. “Flemish asparagus, just picked, and boiled potatoes on the side and voilà.”

I think I actually whimpered, but at least I didn’t drool.

“And for dessert,” she went on, “gaufres Bruxelloises. Waffles cooked in a pint of beer for crispness, sprinkled with brown sugar and topped with butter.”

“Sounds amazing,” I said.

“And you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What would you make for supper?” She tried to hand me her cookbook.

“No, no. The only poultry I handle has been precooked by Frank Perdue.”

“But you can imagine.”

So I did. Leafing through her cookbook, I used the photos to create a four-course meal of scallop and mussel bisque, mesclun and persimmon salad, grilled tenderloin with papaya chutney, and something called chocolate melting cake. Not that I’d ever eaten these dishes before, but the words tasted delicious as I spoke them.

“Bien!” Rita clapped her hands when I finished presenting my menu. “Good!”

After that, she asked what my all-time most memorable meal was. “Tonight’s supper, definitely,” I said. “And you, what was your favorite?”

She sat back and rested her head against the armchair, gazing at one of the table lamps. She looked far away, as if she were reliving a memory instead of just trying to put her finger on one. Finally she said, “It was a tuna and potato chip casserole. Tuna, from a can. And the potato chips were stale.” She laughed to herself, still staring at the memory hovering above the lamp.

“That must’ve been some recipe,” I said.

“No, the recipe was silly. But the cook, he was extraordinary.”

“He?”

“Now tell me. Tell me who you would invite to a dinner party. If it could be anyone, anyone at all.”

Okay, so she didn’t want to spill about the guy. All right, fine, for now. “Anyone?” I asked. “Even people from the past?”

“Certainly.”

For some reason, the first person I thought of was George Henion. What was I thinking? Why would I want to break bread with a guy who either didn’t know how to talk or who didn’t want to talk to me specifically? “I guess I’d want to have some of my favorite novelists,” I said, “like Dean Koontz and Patricia Cornwell and Kurt Vonnegut. And, well, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Johnny Depp or Channing Tatum. Oh, and the Dalai Lama—he’s got a great smile. I’d put him at the head of the table. Then I’d sit between Johnny and Channing, and the writers, they could all sit across the table from me…is that ridiculous?”

Rita shook her head. “Not compared to my wish list.”

“Why? Who’s on it?”

She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Not too many people. Just my father when he was a boy. My mother as a young woman. My sister as she was the last time I saw her. Myself when I am very old. And you too, I think. Yes, when you are my age now. We would have a lovely time, all of us.”

“What about the man who made you the tuna and chips casserole?”

“Ah, you are a clever one. Another time I will tell you about him, maybe. But now I must get some sleep if I am going to make real food tomorrow.” She uncurled her legs and stood up. “Good night, dear. My room is right next door, if you need anything.”

“Night, Rita. Thanks for dinner. And the talk.”

After she left, I stayed on in the study to read, happy to have made a friend here at Chez Strange. I’d never had a friend who came from another generation or another country. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever really had a genuine friend before, someone to share food fantasies and guest lists with, someone to just laze an evening away with. So this was exciting—pitiful, but exciting.

By the time I got through the first few chapters of Six Parts Joy, One Part Murder, it was almost one o’clock. I still wasn’t tired, but I decided to go to my room anyway—might as well enjoy the canopy bed and fancy pillows while I had the chance. I left the study and went down the hall, across the parlor, up the curved staircase and past the garden watercolors. It seemed like a long walk. By the time I reached my door, I felt like maybe I’d be able to sleep soon.

Well, you made it through your first day, I told myself as I headed to the bathroom to perform my bedtime purification rite. One down, thirteen to go. Actually, if the rest of my stay could be half as pleasant as the evening I’d just spent with Rita, I’d be all over this gig. But that was never going to happen—my luck doesn’t roll like that. I sighed and pulled on my pajamas and fuzzy socks.

We have a dollhouse-size bathroom mirror at home, so I wasn’t used to seeing such a complete, brightly lit view of myself. I wasn’t sure I liked the full-size image. Honestly, I’d happily suffer the eyebrow plucking and the occasional zits, if only they’d come along with a decent chest. But here I was, with a body that hadn’t kept pace with my social aspirations, fumbling for my tweezers and Clearasil, wishing for fuller lips and more mysterious eyes. Oh well, who was I going to try to impress around this godforsaken place, anyway?

When I climbed into the canopy bed a few minutes later, the sheets, though luxurious, felt cold and a little rigid—or was that just me? It was probably just me. I forced myself to lie still, and sleep eventually overtook me.