Page 48 of The Shape of Night

“Is Scott coming, too?”

“No, he’s playing the dutiful son and he’s off to see his mother. So it’ll just be you and me. Like old times.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

—

It’s fiveP.M.on the dot Friday evening when my doorbell rings.

Simon stands on the porch looking as natty as ever in his striped oxford shirt and red bow tie. In all my years of working with him, I’ve never seen him without a bow tie, even while working in restaurant kitchens, and he’d look positively undressed without it.

“There’s my gal!” He pulls me in for a hug. Thank god Simon’s hugs aren’t fraught with undercurrents of sexual tension; this is a brotherly embrace, from a man who’s been happily married for a decade to his husband, Scott, and he has absolutely no interest in me as a woman. He steps into the house, sets down his leather weekender bag, and tilts up his nose, sniffing. “What’s that I smell? Lobster?”

“I swear, you’re like a bloodhound, Simon.”

“I like to think I’m more like a truffle pig. Able to sniff out a fine Bordeaux from a mile away. So what’s the preparation tonight? Boiled and boring, or something special?”

I laugh. “For you, something special, of course. I’m just on the first step of the recipe. If you’d like to freshen up, the guest room’s at the top of the stairs.”

“First I want to see what’s cooking.” He leaves his leather bag in the foyer and heads straight into the kitchen. Simon comes from a long line of cooks, no doubt dating back to some ancient ancestor in animal skins who stirred a pot of mastodon stew, and he gravitates, as always, to the stove. “How long?” He doesn’t have to explain the question; I already know what he’s asking.

“They’ve been in there for fifteen minutes. Your timing’s impeccable.” I turn off the stove and lift the pot cover, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. Only that morning, I’d been aboard theLazy Girlwith Ben’s lobsterman friend Captain Andy and watched these four crustaceans pulled green from the sea. Now they are a brilliant, mouthwatering red.

Simon reaches for one of the aprons hanging on the kitchen hook and swiftly ties it on. “Next step in the recipe?”

“You shell. I make the béchamel.”

“You’ve turned into a poet!”

“And don’t I know it.”

We set to work, moving around the kitchen like longtime dance partners who know each other’s moves. This is, after all, how we met years ago, as two college kids working summer jobs in a Cape Cod restaurant. I was promoted from dishwasher to salads; he went from salads to broiler—Simon was always one step ahead of me. He’s ahead of me now too, cracking claws and extracting meat so efficiently that by the time I’m whisking sherry and egg yolks into the béchamel, he has already liberated a mound of succulent lobster meat from their shells.

I cloak the meat in the sauce and slide the lobster pie into the oven.

Simon uncorks a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc and fills my wineglass. “Here’s to teamwork,” he says as we toast each other. “Is this recipe going into the book?”

“If you think it passes muster tonight. I scavenged it from a 1901 hotel cookbook. It was considered quite the gourmet dish in the Old Mermaid Hotel.”

“So this is what you’ve been up to this past month.”

“Testing old recipes. Writing. Immersing myself in the past.” I look up at the antique tin ceiling. “This house puts me in the right frame of mind to immerse myself in that era.”

“But did you really have to trek all the way up here just to write? And by the way, your book is now almost a year overdue.”

“I know, I know.”

“I really don’t want to cancel your contract, but Theo’s an annoying bean counter and he keeps asking when you’ll deliver.” He pauses, studies me. “You’ve never been this late for a deadline before. What’s going on, Ava?”

To avoid answering his question, I finish off my glass of wine. “Writer’s block,” I finally answer. “But I think I’ve finally broken through. Since I moved into this house, I’ve been writing like crazy—and it’sgoodstuff, Simon. The old creative juices are starting to flow again.”

“Where did they go in the first place?”

I see him frowning as I refill my wineglass. How much have I had to drink this evening? I’ve lost count. I set the bottle back down and say quietly, “You know it’s been tough for me these past few months. I’ve been depressed, ever since…”

“New Year’s Eve.”

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