considered it a real bonus that I could help raise you.”
“If only you’d taught me more about electrical problems,” Nelson said.
“It’s toggled together, but it should hold until I get my hands on a soldering gun,” Jerome said. “But seriously —Dale—what do they think the prognosis is about this thing you have?”
Roasted vegetables cascaded into the bowl. Dale put the Pyrex dish carefully in the sink and opened the drawer, looking for a serving spoon. “I’m fine,” she said.
“It’s complicated,” Nelson said. “She eats nothing but walnuts and cheese sticks for breakfast. You think she looks good? Will she still, if she loses another fifteen pounds?”
“Cheese is full of calories,” Dale said. It was going to be impossible not to talk about it until everyone else’s anxiety was alleviated. She lowered her voice. “Come on, Nelson,” she said. “It’s boring to talk about.”
“Cheese? What’s with the cheese?” Jerome said.
“Honey, you are
“So—here is some fresh applesauce, and here are the vegetables—I’ll put them by you, Jerome—and Nelson’s got the roast,” Dale said, going back to her chair. The chairs were Danish Modern, with a geometric quilted pattern on the seats. Apparently, the professor and his wife had also had a sabbatical in Denmark.
“Oh, you already had apples. I knew you would,” Brenda said.
“She won’t touch the applesauce. Pure sugar,” Nelson said.
“Nelson,” Dale said, “please stop talking about it.” She asked, “Does anyone want water?”
“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll have that Macon-Lugny Les Charmes Nelson told me you laid in,” Jerome said.
“Absolutely,” Dale said, getting up. Nelson walked around her with the platter.
“She has some wine called Opus One for the doctor, who’s coming to dinner—when is it, Thursday?” Nelson said. “We were supposed to go there for drinks, but Dale countered with dinner. Talk about being grateful.”
“What year?” Jerome said.
“It was a present,” Dale said. “From a student who’s married to a wine importer, so I suspect it’s good.”
Nelson held the platter for Brenda to serve herself.
“Has it been properly stored?” Jerome said. “That could be an excellent wine. We can only hope nothing happened to it.”
Dale looked at him. As interested as he’d ostensibly been in her health, the concern about the wine was far greater. She had thought, to begin with, that being so solicitous had actually been Jerome’s way of pointing out her vulnerability. Poor Dale, who might have to be stretched out on the floor any second. It fit with his concept of women.
Nelson moved to Jerome’s side. He was holding the bottle. “Nineteen eighty-five,” he said.
“You know, that is a very elegant wine indeed. Let me see that,” Jerome said. Jerome cradled the bottle against his chest. He looked down at it, smiling. “May I, as the person who once saved your husband’s life, ask what would you think about my opening this to go with dinner?” he said.
“Jerome!” Brenda said. “Give that back to Nelson.”
Nelson looked at Dale, with an expression somewhere between perplexity and pleading. It was just a bottle of wine. She had no reason to think the doctor or her husband were wine connoisseurs. There was the bottle of Saint-Emilion, but it would have seemed churlish to mention it now. “Absolutely,” Dale said. She pushed her chair back and went to the cupboard and took out their own stemmed glasses with a wide bowl which they had brought with them, along with her duvet and the collection of cooking magazines.
Dale put a glass at everyone’s place. Jerome was smiling. “We can only hope,” he said.
Brenda was looking at Dale, but Dale did not meet her eyes. She was determined to let them all see that she was unconcerned. Jerome was usually so polite.
“Tell me,” he said, wine bottle clamped between his legs, turning the corkscrew. “Surely you aren’t going to decline one small glass of this, Dale?”
“I can’t drink,” she said.
“Then what is that glass for?” he said.
“Perrier,” she said, pronouncing the word very distinctly.
Jerome looked attentively at the bottle as he slowly withdrew the cork. He picked up the bottle slowly and sniffed. Then he put his white linen napkin over his finger and worked it around the top, inside the bottle. That was the first time it became clear to her that he was doing what he was doing out of anger. She picked up her fork and speared a piece of eggplant.
“You’ve fallen quiet, Dale,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound mildly surprised.
“It’s just that you’re so quiet,” he persisted.
Brenda seemed about to speak, but said nothing. Dale managed a shrug. “I hope there are enough spices on the vegetables,” she said. “I roasted them without salt. Would anyone like salt?”
Of course, since they had all now turned their attention to Dale, whatever she said sounded false and shallow.
“I appreciate your laying in Macon-Lugny for me,” Jerome went on. “In most cases, white would go well with pork roast. But an ’85 Opus One—that, of course, is completely divine.” Jerome sniffed the bottle. It might have
