When I find it, the kitchen is large and set up for catering, with massive built-in fridges and freezers and more counter space than anyone could need. One of the fridge doors is open, Fred half inside it, and then he steps back, his arms full of things, too much for one person to carry.
“Let me help you,” I say.
I’ve startled him, and he almost drops the top container he’s holding, but I swoop in and catch it before it falls completely. “Got it.”
“Thanks.” He smiles at me with tired eyes, then walks the containers to the counter.
“What you got there?”
“I thought I’d make an everything omelet,” he says. He’s wearing the matching pajamas to mine, the groom’s pajamas.
“That sounds great. Lucy okay?”
“She’s sleeping. The nurse—and I’m quoting directly here—said that my services were no longer required.”
“She needs some sleep.”
“She does.”
“So stupid.” He starts to arrange the containers he’s pulled from the fridge in a line. They’re chef’s prep containers, the leftovers of what was used to make lunch. There are onions and shallots, garlic and peppers, lobster and cheese, and a large package of eggs.
“People make mistakes.”
“I meant me. I should’ve caught her.”
“You can make mistakes too. She shouldn’t have been jumping from there. It was dangerous.”
“Yeah … Where do you think the pans might be hiding?”
We open cupboards until I find them. Along the way I find a white wine fridge and glasses too. “Do you think James will mind? I could use a drink.”
“I’m sure he won’t.”
“Where is he?”
“He went to bed. He was tired. It was a lot of activity for him today.”
So we’re alone. If I weren’t starving, I might find an excuse to get out of here, but wasn’t I supposed to be honest with myself? It’s not only the promise of food keeping me in place.
I open the wine, pour each of us a glass, then sit at one of the counters while Fred starts peeling tops off containers. Then he fiddles with the stove, getting it going after a minute.
“This wine is good,” I say.
“This will be good too.”
His back is to me, but I can read the expression in his shoulders. He’s tired, stressed, annoyed.
“Not how this day was supposed to turn out, huh?”
He chuckles. “No.”
“I hope there’s no lasting damage.”
“Lucy’s young—she’ll bounce back.”
Not so young, I think. She’s thirty, and I wasn’t referencing Lucy, exactly. But all of our conversations are like this. We never say what we really want to, and that makes me tired.
“Why did you come here, Fred?”