Page 64 of Look on the Bright Side

Tall windows overlooked a courtyard lined with neat inkberry bushes, and sunlight spilled in from the west. The apartment was stunning, she thought. And barren.

There was one family photo—Lorenzo in a gold cap and gown, his arm around Noni, who had been quite cute back in the day.

“Med school graduation?” she guessed.

“Yes. Johns Hopkins.”

She had a similar photo of her own med school graduation from Boston University, except everyone was in it. Mom, Dad, Grandpop, Mom’s parents, her four siblings, Esme and Imogen, who’d been an infant. And the Deans. Of course the Deans. It was one of at least a dozen family photos she had on display, and her place was a fraction of the size of this place. “You have a beautiful home, Lorenzo. Did you use the same interior decorator as the one who did your Cape house?”

“Yes. You can have the guest room. Third door on the right. I’m working right now, so if you’re hungry or thirsty, help yourself. Just don’t get drunk.”

“I wouldn’t get drunk, Lorenzo.”

He stared at a point over her head. “Questions?”

“Uh…no.”

“Good. Be ready by six thirty. Don’t be late.” He started to turn away.

“Wait, Lorenzo.”

He sighed.

“Ask me how my day was.”

“See, I asked you to be a…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.

“An escort?”

“A companion, so we don’t have to do this…talking thing.”

“How was your day, Dr.Satan?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “Did you get outside and enjoy this beautiful weather?”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Yes. I went for a run at six a.m. I also ate lunch in the courtyard.” He nodded toward the window.

“What did you have?”

“Chickpea and avocado salad.”

“Sounds yummy. Now ask how my day was. Come on. You can do it.”

A huge sigh. “How was your day, Dr.Smith?”

“Wicked fun,” she said. “I loved hanging out with your family. Henry’s mother seems lovely, and her falcon is—” She bit down on a laugh. “Breathtaking. We had a great time.”

“How wonderful for everyone involved.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It may have been her imagination, but he almost smiled.

She went into the kitchen—white cabinetry, black stone countertops—and opened the refrigerator. It was like an ad for Marie Kondo—neat little rows of San Pellegrino, same-sized glass containers full of cut-up fruits and vegetables, glass bottles of orange juice and milk. Cartons would be so pedestrian. There was a bowl full of lemons and limes, another of reddish gold apples. Fresh dill in a vase. Pricey condiments lined the door, all in same-sized jars. No butter, no cheese. She took out some milk, and he got a glass from the cupboard and handed it to her. “Got any Oreos to go with this?”

“No.” He didn’t smile.

“That was a joke,” she said as she poured. “Hey, I have to warn you that your grandmother still doesn’t seem to like me. I haven’t been able to make any inroads there.”

The milk was amazingly good, creamy and rich. Whole milk? Was this a sign that he was indeed human and subject to indulgence now and then?

“That’s fine,” he said. “Noni’s very particular. She doesn’t have to like you.”

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