The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [35]
"HOW’S IT GOING?" George Edwards asked her, a month or so after she started. They met for lunch frequently, Sofia saving up questions to ask him on the days when he came to the dish.
"Slowly. Mr. Quinn is very cooperative," Sofia conceded, looking up at George from the thick coffee mug she held in both small hands, "but easily distracted."
"By you," George ventured, to see how she’d react, knowing that Jimmy was miserably besotted with a woman whose only interest seemed to be a relentless deconstruction of his brain, cell by cell. Sofia simply nodded. No blush, George noted, no compassion. She’s not a romantic, that’s for sure.
"It makes things difficult. Animosity is easier to deal with," she said, glancing across the cafeteria at Peggy Soong. George grimaced: Peggy could be a pain in the ass. "On the other hand, infatuation is preferable to condescension. I appreciate that you treat me as a competent professional, Mr. Edwards. It’s nice to work without being patronized. Or chatted up."
"Well, I hope this doesn’t count as chatting you up," George said dryly, "but that dinner invitation is still open. What do you say?"
She had decided, upon reflection, to accept his invitation if he repeated it. People were often hostile to her work and, by extension, to her; she had not been invited to anyone’s home since childhood. "I’d be happy to come, Mr. Edwards."
"Good. Anne’s been wanting to meet you. Sunday afternoon? About two?"
"That will be fine. Thank you. I have some questions about weather effects on radio reception, if you wouldn’t mind," she said, setting her plate aside and pulling out her notebook. And they went on to business.
ON SUNDAY, SHE drove to San Juan, allowing time for the dreadful traffic. She parked with difficulty, found a flower stall with ease, and bought a bouquet for Dr. Edwards. She liked Puerto Rico, actually, and had been pleasantly surprised to find how close Spanish and Ladino were. There were spelling differences, divergences in vocabulary, but the basic words and grammar were often identical. She asked the flower vendor the way to the Edwardses’ address and climbed the stair-street to the shell-pink stucco house she was directed to. The doors to an ironwork balcony overlooking the street were open, as were the windows, and she clearly heard a woman’s voice call, "George? Did you get that pump fixed down in the clinic?"
"No, I forgot all about it." She recognized Mr. Edwards’s voice. "Hell. I’ll get to it. It’s on the list."
A peal of laughter rang out. "So’s world peace. I need the pump working tomorrow."
Sofia knocked. Anne Edwards, white hair pulled into a messy bun, flour up to her elbows, answered the door. "Oh, no!" she cried. "Not just brilliant but good bones as well. I do hope you have a terrible personality, dear," Anne Edwards declared. "Otherwise, I shall lose faith in a just God."
Sofia hardly knew how to respond, but George Edwards called from the kitchen, "Don’t let her fool you. She gave up believing in a just God when Cleveland blew the World Series last year. The only time she ever prays is the ninth inning."
"And the night before a presidential election, for all the good it does. God is a Republican from Texas," Anne asserted, bustling Sofia into the living room. "Come into the kitchen and keep us company. Dinner’s almost ready. The flowers are lovely, dear, and so are you."
They passed through the living room, a pleasing jumble of books and watercolors and prints, with mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture and quite a good Turkish rug. Anne noticed Sofia take it all in and waved her floury hands at the place dispiritedly. "We’ve only been here a year. I keep thinking I should do something about this place but there’s never any time. Oh, well, maybe someday."
"I rather like it as it is," Sofia said honestly. "It looks like someplace where you could fall asleep on the sofa."
"Aren’t you splendid!" Anne cried delightedly. Emilio often did exactly that. "Oh, Sofia, that is so much nicer than