Page 45 of Full Contact

Anna’s door opened down the hall. She came out in yesterday’s clothes, her hair pushed back, and stopped when she saw me.

“You made good time.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

“I keep thinking I should’ve called you sooner. At ten instead of—“

“You noticed the change, you called, and you stayed with her. That’s all I can ask,” I said.

She looked at me. “Offer her some food at three and see how much she eats. It’s on the sheet.”

“I have the sheet. I’m home the rest of the day. Go home and get some sleep.”

“You’ll send an update tonight?”

“To the full list.”

Anna collected her bag from the guest room, said goodbye to Peaches and Mark, and left. The door clicked shut behind her, and the condo was quiet.

Mark rose off the couch and folded the throw blanket over the arm where it lived. He took his glass to the sink, rinsed it, set it in the rack, and looked around for his shoes.

“When did you last eat something substantial?” I asked.

He nodded at the plate by the sink. “That was breakfast.”

“A slice of bread? Sit down.”

He considered arguing but instead pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat. I opened the refrigerator and started making lunch for two.

There were eggs, cheese, and a tomato Anna had given me, with half a loaf of bread on the counter. I made scrambled eggs with cheese, sliced the tomato, and put bread in the toaster. After hotel food, airline coffee, and the night we’d both had, that was ambitious enough for lunch.

Mark got up when the toast popped and took two glasses from the cupboard without asking where they lived. Peaches followed the smell of eggs as far as the little wooden chair and sat on it, supervising. I checked on her between turns of the spatula.

I plated the eggs at the stove and carried them to the dining table. Mark sat in the chair beside mine instead of the one across, close enough that our knees touched when he turned toward me.

“This is good,” he said.

“It’s eggs.”

“You noticed I needed lunch and made it. I appreciate that.”

“Someone had to intervene. Last time we discussed dinner, you were eating olives.”

“That was one Friday.”

We ate. I asked about the reading-program launch, specifically about the photograph of him holding up the book display with one hand. “Who took that picture?”

“Leah’s intern. She was documenting the event.”

“She got a good shot of you losing a fight with furniture.”

Mark’s hair was still flat from the couch, and a pillow crease ran along one cheek. “I believe you still owe me a chair with a lake view,” I said.

“The offer’s still open.”

“Good.”

Mark glanced toward Peaches, still sitting on the little wooden chair.