Page 29 of The Impossible Princess
“I was only kidding about having a sterling silver shrimp peeler, you know,” I say, lifting a bag of shrimp.
She laughs, the thin film of tension between us broken by a strange kitchen utensil. “I never travel without one. Have you ever used a shrimp peeler?”
“I’m in your hands.”
She grins at that, pulling me to the sink, demonstrating the process with a neat flick of the wrist. Then she sets the peeler in my hands and pulls a new dishcloth from the drawer. I look away from the sight of her tying it around her waist and fumble with the task.
She chokes out a laugh. “This way,” she corrects, hands guiding mine through the mechanics. I am completely useless with her so near and I’m tempted to keep getting this wrong so she can keep teaching me.
“You’ve got it,” she pronounces, turning her face up to mine. “Can you do it?”
I take a sharp drag of air and wonder if I could convince her that friends kiss now and then. She begins to set out her supplies, moving around the kitchen, but every atom I’ve got is aware of her.
“Music?” I finally ask.
She nods and I wipe my hands. Going to my dad’s old hi-fi set, I slide an LP from a stack and slip the record on the player. Soon, the room fills with the soft scratch and smoke of Miles Davis, settling like pliable mortar into awkward silences. I can breathe again.
“Did you always want to live in the country?” she asks, dumping the shrimp, rinsed and patted dry, in with shallots and garlic. Her hands move competently, and a hiss is followed by a fragrant cloud of steam. I lean against the counter and watch for a while, wishing that we could skip to the part where I have the right to slide up behind her and kiss her neck.
“Max?”
Vede.Who knows how this will last? Who knows how long she will be in my cottage, calling me by my name? I can’t afford to skip any parts.
“What?”
“Why don’t you live on base or have an apartment in Handsel near some bar?” she asks, turning to me.
I pull the dishcloth off my shoulder. “You know those garden plots by the central train station?”
“The allotments?” She brightens. “Yes. My great-grandmother started that scheme.”
Of course, she did.
“Well, my great-grandfather bought one. The Andersen family allotment has a shed that has been yellow, orange, purple, and then yellow again, and we are in a long-standing boundary dispute with the Maagensens. Every year, my mother plants enough potatoes to get us through another world war and puts up jars of produce. We tidy it up for winter and go out too early in the spring to tidy up again. In the summer, we sit beside fires and listen to the trains coming in from across Europe. When my parents give it up, it will go to my older brother.”
Unexpectedly, she giggles.
“This is my great tragedy.” I give her a mock-wounded expression, but she continues to laugh, her words breaking with amusement.
“I didn’t know the laws of primogeniture applied to garden plots.”
“Five years to get another, Clara. Five years on a waiting list for a plot without a yellow shed, or encroaching grapevines, or neighbors I’ve known since I was born.”
She smiles. “Is it a hard thing to be a second son?”
“Is it a hard thing to be a fourth daughter?”
Her smile checks and the bright resonance of jazz trumpet plays in counterpoint to the meanderings of a piano. It isn’t awkwardness between us now, only the magic of finding things in common where we least expect it.
“So, faced with the prospect of your ancestral lands entailed away to another…” she prods, and I flick her elbow with the towel.
“I went off to make my fortune. When this cottage came up for sale, I was fortunate to have saved enough money. I didn’t have anyone to consult, so I jumped on it. My family has a place to retreat in high summer, and I can grow a few things.”
“Your own kingdom.” A dimple tucks her cheek, and she turns back to her big pot of ‘something like paella’, stirring. “Oh,” she starts. “I brought you something. It should be in the bottom of that box.”
“Isn’t there a rule about royalty giving gifts?” I say, pawing through the container. I wonder if her royal status is like snake venom; if you can build up immunity with enough exposure. Perhaps, soon, it won’t even register that she’s headed home to a palace or likely to be discussed on the morning news.
She laughs. “There are only rules about receiving them.”
