“No.”
“Well, no worries. I am.”
He steps closer to me, and I feel the tiny hairs on my arm stand on end. I could attribute it to the electricity in the air from the storm, but that’s not where it’s coming from. I shouldn’t do this. This isn’t something a levelheaded, recently divorced, mother of a teenager should do. My old friend, guilt, sidles up next to me. He’s like a chill in the room, and I shiver.
“You’re cold,” Oliver says as the rain begins to fall. “Follow me.”
He takes off, running toward his car, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to run after him so I just stand there in the rain. He pulls up beside me.
“Get in your car, Nina,” he says. “Come with me.”
“Are you going to take me to another graveyard?” I say, raising my voice against the wind and blowing rain.
“No,” he says and winks at me. “I’m going to make you dinner.”
I realize I’m starving and get in my car.
◆ ◆ ◆
He waits for me outside his house, huddled under the little overhang above his door. He times the opening of the door to match my dash up the stairs and steps aside to let me in.
He drops his keys in a bowl by the door and heads for the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he calls from the next room. “I’ll whip up something quick.”
I stand in his living room, confused. I thought dinner meant “dinner,” but apparently, it actually means dinner. I feel silly for thinking it might be a ploy to get me alone with him again. In the light of day, I’m a different package than I might seem to be, tucked in the darkened bookshop amid the tales of love and woe. But then there were those kisses and shared looks that I don’t think I’m misunderstanding. I listen to the sounds of cooking—the click of the oven coming on, the whoosh of the refrigerator door, the chop of something being diced.
I sit on the couch and wiggle this way and that. Make myself at home. I put my feet up on the coffee table, but immediately take them down. I move to the old rocking chair and lean back into its sturdy frame. Outside, the storm catches up with us, turning the sky out his window darker than the day is late.
“Put on some music if you want,” he calls out. “I’m assuming you know how to work that old CD player.”
I do, but the comment stops me. Do I actually think this young guy has any real interest in me?
Oliver hurries out of the kitchen, holding up a finger to me, gesturing to wait. “On second thought,” he says, “how about this?”
He goes right to the shelf of music and slides out a case. He opens the stereo CD drawer and puts in a silver disk. He chooses a track and steps back with his arms open like a conductor waiting to lift his baton. Etta James’s low and lingering voice sings through the speakers.
At last, my love has come along . . .
I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t you think is perfect for our doppelgangers?” Oliver says. “The other Nina and Oliver. Makes you ache on their behalf, doesn’t it?”
I feel foolish for thinking the song was about me, but I’m relieved on the other hand. I lift myself out of the rocking chair and meet him on the other side of the room.
“Oliver, what am I doing here?” I ask. “What is this?”
He smiles widely at me and goes back into the kitchen. Moments later, he returns with a tray of flatbread pizzas. He sets it down on the coffee table and does this cute little flourishing bow.
“I saw something like this on the wall at your office,” he says. “Ok, it’s not really cooking, but it’s fast, and, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’ll do better next time.”
I had taken the photo he was talking about. It’d been for the book Tuscany in a Hurry.
“Rosemary flatbread focaccia,” he says, picking up one and handing it to me. “Pesto, tomato, smoked salmon, and fresh gouda. Little dash of salt. Am I close? Probably mozzarella, but I didn’t have that.”
“Yes,” I say. “Just about perfect.”
He nods at me to take a bite. I do and briefly close my eyes in delight.
“This pesto is wonderful,” I say.
“Made it myself. Always keep some on hand. Love it. Eat up, eat up.”
The food is delicious, and now I’m completely confused. Am I just an extension of my father—is Oliver just taking care of me? It’s time to eat your dinner, Nina. You’ve got to take your meds and get back into bed soon.
Etta continues singing and Oliver continues talking about cooking and I continue to feel like the old fool that I might be. We finish eating, and he looks at his watch.
“It’s getting late,” he says. “Did I make you miss your deadline? Will you be in trouble?”
I shake my head. “Thank you for dinner,” I say, getting up from the chair and hesitate as I face the door.
“Sure,” Oliver says, seeming hesitant as well. “Anytime.”
He follows me to the door, but puts his hand against it when we get there so that I can’t open it. He leans closer and looks at me extremely intensely. He seems confused and perhaps a little frustrated. I am too.
“What is this, Oliver?” I ask again.
Oliver takes his hand from the door and runs it through his hair. He smiles shyly. “I apologize for the mixed signals. Seriously, I like you, Nina. Obviously, right?”
I tilt my head, not quite conceding. He steps closer to me and slides his finger down my forearm. The suddenly intimate gesture stops my breath.
“I don’t want to rush this. The decisions we make—big or small—they matter, you know? But I’m not even sure which one this is.”
I look him hard in the eyes, trying to search out the source of his indecision. My age? Some other relationship?
“I
