Annelise wanted lunch. Malcolm wanted to reach the diner he remembered from a previous visit, which he insisted was only ten minutes farther on.
“You said ten minutes ten minutes ago.”
“That was an estimate.”
“So is my remaining goodwill.”
He glanced at her, smiling, then returned his eyes to the road. “There’s a sign.”
“A sign for what?”
“The diner.”
“Convenient.”
The sign appeared around the bend exactly when he said it would. She gave it a grudging nod, and he laughed.
They had left his relatives after a late breakfast of coffee and conversation that had not, in Annelise’s opinion, contained enough actual breakfast. The visit had been good. She knew more names now, remembered which woman had moved and which cousin disliked being asked about a job he had left years ago. Yesterday she had helped carry chairs without being assigned to prove herself useful. Last night they had gone back to the little hotel they had chosen together, found the pillows acceptable, and slept with a window cracked open because Malcolm liked the room cooler than she did.
This morning he had lost one sock beneath the bed and accused the furniture of theft. She had found it while looking for her own earring. They had left together, both fully dressed, with no reason to hurry except her increasing interest in food.
The diner stood beside a small gas station, its windows bright against the gray December day. Malcolm parked the truck and came around while she was pulling on her coat.
“You can admit it was worth waiting for,” he said.
“I’ve only seen the building.”
“A promising building.”
She took his hand as they crossed the lot. The wind was sharp enough to make her tuck her chin into her scarf. Inside, warmth and the smell of coffee met them at once.
They were shown to a booth by the window. The seat gave a little beneath her. Annelise took off her coat, set it beside her, and opened the menu with purpose.
“Don’t talk to me for a minute.”
“Understood.”
He studied his own menu. She could see him trying not to smile.
She ordered a sandwich and soup. He ordered eggs, which seemed like a delayed acknowledgment that breakfast had been insufficient. When the server left, she put her hands around the coffee cup and let the heat reach her fingers.
“That was a good visit,” she said.
“It was.”
“Your aunt thinks I know how to keep houseplants alive.”
“Why?”
“I admired one.”
“Dangerous. You may be assigned cuttings.”
“I was. I declined until I can keep the plant on my windowsill from looking offended.”
“Wise.”
His face was relaxed, his reading glasses folded beside the menu. She liked the slight untidiness of him after a night away: the sweater creased at one shoulder, the beard needing attention, the look of a man who had spent the morning among people who knew exactly how stubborn he could be.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. A message from Cecily showed the yellow bicycle leaning against a fence, mud on both tires. The caption read Used it. Still yellow underneath, probably.
Annelise held the screen out to Malcolm.
“Successful purchase,” he said.
“She was very worried it would become furniture.”
“There’s still time.”
She sent back Looks like a bicycle with a life. Tell me where you went.
Then she put the phone away. She could hear the answer later. On the other side of the table Malcolm was taking the paper sleeve off his straw with unnecessary precision.
“What?” he asked when he saw her looking.
“Nothing.”
“You have a something face.”
“I was thinking I like being here.”
“In this promising building?”
“Yes. With you. Waiting for an unreasonable amount of lunch.”
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “I like it too.”
The food came, interrupting any need to improve the statement. Her soup was hot enough to require patience, an unfortunate development. Malcolm offered her a piece of toast while she waited. She took it without pretending she hadn’t been looking.
Outside, cars passed on the road toward Ashcombe. They had a little over an hour left to drive. Her apartment waited, along with groceries to buy and a load of laundry she had sensibly not left in the machine. Malcolm would take her home, then go to his own place. Tomorrow they would both work. Tuesday she would sing, meeting the woman from choir in the parking lot as they had begun doing every week.
She needed to remember her folder was in her car, not her overnight bag. She made a note on her phone, then went back to the soup.
“Busy week?” Malcolm asked.
“Normal week. Which means someone will declare it unusual by ten tomorrow morning.”
“Likely.”
“You?”
“Finishing the job I refused to finish early.”
“Satisfying.”
“Ask me on Friday.”
She smiled. He had kept the December date he had given the customer. They had gone away for the weekend without squeezing it between promises he couldn’t manage. She didn’t need to congratulate him for making his own life workable. She could simply enjoy having been part of the plan.
Annelise watched him cut into his eggs, then looked at the pale sky beyond the window. They could be back in Ashcombe before the afternoon had properly begun. She had been sensible about that when they planned the trip. Now she wanted another hour they hadn’t assigned to anything.
“Would you mind stopping once more on the way back?” she asked.
“For food?”
“I’ve only started this food.”
“I don’t underestimate you.”
She smiled. “Just a short walk. Somewhere we can stretch our legs. I don’t want to go straight from here to unpacking.”
He glanced at the window. “It’s cold.”
“I noticed. I was outside recently.”
“I was thinking I’d like to get home before it gets dark.”
“We can. Twenty minutes?”
He considered, then nodded. “There’s a rest area with a path. We could stop there.”
“Thank you.”
“You may change your mind when the wind hits.”
“Then I’ll admit it.”
“In writing?”
“Don’t push.”
She reached across and stole a warm piece of potato from his plate. He shifted the plate toward her, accepting the theft. She was pleased to have asked for the extra time before resenting its absence, and pleased that he could prefer the truck’s heater without making her feel foolish for wanting a walk.
Halfway through his eggs, he looked up.
“Will you go on a date with me next Saturday?”
She set down her spoon. “I think I might.”
“A devastating answer.”
“I’m collecting information. What sort of date?”
“There’s a film at the small theater. The old comedy you said you’d never seen. We could get dinner first.”
“The one you keep insisting is funny?”
“It is funny.”
“You laughed at the opening credits when you described them.”
“Excellent credits.”
She leaned back against the booth. Next Saturday, December fifteenth. No wedding, no performance, no family expectation, no useful task attached to seeing him.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“Good.”
“But I want the restaurant with the little tables by the window. And I want enough time to eat before you become anxious about missing your exceptional credits.”
“Both reasonable.”
“And if I don’t think it’s funny, you have to let me say so.”
He considered that for a moment. “I can let you say it.”
“Without a lecture.”
“You’re negotiating aggressively.”
“I’m hungry. It gives me clarity.”
He laughed and picked up his fork. “Dinner at six. Film at eight. Criticism afterward, in moderation.”
“Accepted.”
They finished eating. She stole one of his potatoes after he had clearly slowed down, and he asked whether her own lunch had been decorative. She offered him the last corner of her sandwich. He took it, so the argument lacked force.
When the check came, Annelise reached for it. “You bought breakfast yesterday.”
“That was coffee and a bagel.”
“Which is more breakfast than we had today.”
He conceded the point. She paid while he put on his coat, then they gathered the little things that had spread across the booth: glasses, phone, scarf, the receipt she would probably find in a pocket next month and wonder about for half a second.
At the door he stopped to let a couple come in. The wind pushed against them, cold enough to make her eyes water. Outside, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and leaned against him as they walked to the truck.
“You were right about the diner,” she said.
“Could you repeat that? There was a gust.”
“No.”
“Unfortunate.”
He unlocked her door, but she didn’t get in immediately. Instead she turned toward him and slipped both hands inside the open edges of his coat. He was warm beneath it. She could feel the steady rise of his breath against her palms.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Partly.”
He put his arms around her, shielding her from the wind. She looked up at his face, at the eyes she had known young and was learning in this older light, at the mouth already beginning to smile because he knew what she wanted.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. He bent to meet her, one hand firm at her back. For a moment the road, the diner, and the cold were things happening nearby while she stayed exactly where she had chosen to be.
When she drew away, he touched his forehead to hers.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
She gave him one more quick kiss, then opened the door and climbed into the warm truck.