Page 32 of The Woman at the Funeral

She looked effortlessly classy and put together.

And she had an olive green enameled cast iron roasting pan in her hands, top still on to keep in the heat.

“I know this is Manhattan and new-neighbor rules don’t apply,” she said, giving me a slightly unsure smile. “But I feel like this situation is different.”

“I think I’m the one who is supposed to bring you a welcome gift,” I told her, stepping back so she could move inside.

“Well, you didn’t know I was here,” she said, walking into my kitchen, her low heels clicking across the hardwood floors as she went. It was absurd, but I really loved that sound. Especially when she was making it.

“So, what did you cook?” I asked as she placed the pan on the wooden cutting board I’d set out to start chopping vegetables.

“Don’t feel obligated to eat it,” she said, something close to insecurity slipping into her voice. “I see you were already planning something else. I know my cooking isn’t for everyone. I used to have to force Matthew to even try anything I made. He usually got fast food instead.”

I didn’t give a fuck if she burnt it all to hell; I was going to eat everything on my plate. Then ask for seconds.

“Of course I’ll eat it. It’s nice not to have to cook for a change,” I said, coming up to the end of the island as she reached for the lid and pulled it off.

“It’s lemon and herb chicken over rice. With asparagus. Because, well, vegetables.”

There it was again. The self-doubt.

Put there, I was sure, by Matt.

Who had no fucking idea how good he had it.

“Smells amazing,” I told her, meaning it. “Did you eat already?”

“I, uh, saved a serving.”

I wasn’t sure if she was being honest about that. The tray looked full. Six chicken breasts and a ton of rice and veg filled the pan.

Maybe she just didn’t want to make it seem like she was trying to invite herself to dinner.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind company if you don’t have plans. I think I have the perfect Albariño to go with this.”

“You drink wine?” she asked, a hint of wonder in her voice.

Matt was a beer or vodka guy.

I’d gotten many a snide comment from him if he saw me having wine with dinner.

“Of course,” I said, grabbing the bottle of white that I knew would have a bright, citrus taste to it. “The plates are right next to the stove,” I told her as I twisted the screw into the cork.

She grabbed plates, then a serving spoon, and carefully plated the food, being careful to wipe any spilled sauce off the plate—ever aware of the aesthetics. Which I knew Matt found “anal-retentive,” but I thought it was charming.

She brought the plates to the table.

I brought the wine.

And I put a little classical music on before joining her.

“How did moving in go?”

“Nothing got broken or went missing. I’m impressed,” she said. “I’ve moved a lot in my life. And I always seem to have something broken beyond repair or disappear on me.”

“Moved around the country, or just throughout the city?”

“Oh, I meant mostly the city. I grew up in Inwood with my grandmother. In and out of five or six apartments. After college, I lived temporarily in a few cities overseas.”

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