d’ouevres. Then she led us inside and introduced us to the other guests, Lija’s current boyfriend, Brandon Salamone, a woman named Willow, and a man named Cotton.
And the irresistibly handsome Palmer Cousins.
Cousins’s outfit suggested whole colonies of homeless mulberry worms. Silk tie. Silk shirt. Silk trousers and jacket with modest input from merino sheep.
Katy offered wine and beer, excused herself, returned and again offered wine and beer, then asked in a whisper that I join her in the kitchen.
A black lump lay in a broiler pan on the stovetop. The room smelled like the inside of a barbecue kettle.
Lija was working at something in the sink. She turned when we entered, threw up both hands, returned to her task.
To say she looked tense would be like saying Enron’s accountants did some rounding up.
“I think we burned the roast,” Katy said.
“We didn’t burn it,” Lija snapped. “It caught on fire. There’s a difference.”
“Can you do something with it?” Katy asked.
The roast didn’t look burned. Burned would have been an improvement. It looked incinerated.
I jabbed it with a fork. Briquettelike chunks snapped off and rolled to the pan.
“The roast is toast.”
“Great.” Lija yanked the drain plug. Water rushed down the pipes.
“What are you doing?” I asked her back.
“Thawing chicken.” She sounded close to tears.
I crossed to the sink and poked the rock she was holding.
Lija replaced the plug and turned on the tap.
At the rate she was going, her Pick-of-the-Chix would defrost in several decades.
I checked the pantry.
Spices. SpaghettiOs. Kraft dinner. Campbell’s soup. Olive oil. Balsamic vinegar. Six boxes of linguine.
“How close is the nearest store?”
“Five minutes.”
Lija turned, poultry in hand.
“Do you have garlic?” I asked.
Two nods.
“Parsley?”
Nods.
“We’ve got a primo salad in the refrigerator.” Lija smiled tremulously.
I sent Katy for canned clams and frozen garlic bread.
While my daughter raced to the market, Lija served appetizers, and I boiled water and chopped. When Katy returned, I browned garlic in the olive oil, added fresh parsley, the clams, and oregano, and let the sauce simmer while the pasta cooked.
Thirty minutes later Katy and Lija were fielding compliments on their linguine vognole.
Nothing. Really. Family recipe.
Throughout the meal Palmer Cousins seemed distracted, contributing little to the conversation. Each time I turned toward him, his eyes flicked sideways.
Was it my imagination, or was I being evaluated? As a conversationalist? A potential mother-in-law? A person?
Was I being paranoid?
When Katy urged us to the living room for coffee, I settled on the couch next to Cousins.
“How are things at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service?” Cousins and I had talked briefly about his job while at the McCranies’ picnic. Tonight I intended to probe deeper.
“Not too bad,” Cousins replied. “Hookin’ ’em and bookin’ ’em in the fight for wildlife.”
“As I recall, you told me you’re stationed in Columbia?”
“Good memory.” Cousins pointed a finger at me.
“Is it a large operation?”
“I’m pretty much it.” Self-deprecating smile.
“Does the FWS have many field offices in the Carolinas?”
“Washington, Raleigh, and Asheville in North Carolina, Columbia and Charleston in South Carolina. The RAC in Raleigh oversees everything.”
