The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [80]
She had to hunt to find the box of pancake mix. It had been in the cupboard half-empty for more than a year but it seemed to be all right. No worms in it. The chemicals kept it from spoiling and rendered it unfit for insect consumption. Only human beings could eat it.
Apple pancakes—he loved apple pancakes. She found apples in the refrigerator and sliced them into the batter. By the time he came downstairs she had a stack of pancakes on both their plates and two mugs of coffee poured.
He said, “Well, what do you know? What’s the occasion?”
“Just breakfast.”
“You picked the right day for it. I got an appetite like I don’t know what. What’s the expression? ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’ What did you put, apples in the coffee? I’m tasting apples from the pancakes. You put applejack in the coffee.”
“Well, I figured what wine goes with apple pancakes and I figured why not. If it’s no good, I’ll get you another cup.”
“When I finish this one you can get me another cup exactly the same. What got into you?”
“You did.”
“Yeah.” He grinned, then let the grin fade. “I guess we got things to, I don’t know, talk about. But—”
“Oh, let’s just enjoy breakfast for the time being.”
“Let’s do that.”
The day went quickly. She found things to do around the house, did some marketing, watched television. She was watching an Errol Flynn movie when he returned home. She turned off the set and went downstairs to meet him.
“You’re home,” he said.
“Yeah. Where else would I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You might be cooking up apple pancakes for somebody or other.”
“I bought some pure maple syrup this afternoon. It’s expensive but I figured let’s live a little.”
He reached for her suddenly, one hand on her bottom, the other between her legs. He kissed her for a long time. When he released her she was dizzy and had trouble staying on her feet.
“Just what I say,” he said. “Let’s live a little.”
“Jesus.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just you came on me by surprise.”
“I didn’t, but it sounds like fun.”
“Huh?”
“Coming on you. Feel this, will you? I been like this all day long.”
“You should of come home for dinner.”
“I never would of gone back.”
“I never would of let you. Let’s go upstairs.”
“What, and climb all those stairs? There’s a perfectly good couch in the living room.”
The next two days held to the pattern. Breakfast together, elaborately prepared and enthusiastically received, with an almost unreal warmth between them. Lovemaking at night, his potency on honeymoon level, her own satisfaction greater than anything she had ever known. And, for prelude and aftermath, more conversation than had been their custom.
And yet it was not conversation at all. It was talk, but it was not about anything.
On Thursday night she met him at the door. There was something in his eyes. She saw it immediately. He embraced her and put his hands on her but she sensed the difference in his response and in her own.
“There’s fresh coffee.”
“Good.”
She brought two cups. She thought of putting applejack in his but didn’t. He took a cup of coffee and put the cup down. “He was in tonight,” he said.
She knew who he meant but asked anyway.
“Markarian. Came over around ten thirty with a girl, took a table on the water side. Had two rounds, left a little after eleven.”
“Was that the first time since—”
“No. He was in Monday. Came in alone and had four or five quick ones at the bar. Talked with some of the regulars. Talked with me, I talked with him. Didn’t show a thing. Couple of times I’d look his way sudden to see if he’s giving me a look. But not once. Not one time. All the shitty actors in this town, I’ll tell you, he could give them lessons.”
“I told you how cool he was.”
“He was cool and I was cool. He didn’t let a thing