We’re just working together,” I finish.

He looks at my suit dubiously. “You don’t look like a baker.”

“I’m not. We met through... well, Minka.”

She was something else,” Andy says. “Last year for Chanukah, Pepper and I got her a trip to a fancy salon for a manicure. She liked it so much she asked if, for her birthday, we could get her a pedophile.” He laughs.

But Sage has overheard. “You think it’s funny that English wasn’t her first language, Andy? How much Polish and German and Yiddish do you speak?”

He looks horrified. “I don’t think it’s funny. I thought it was sweet.”

I put my arm around Sage’s shoulders and steer her in the opposite direction. “Why don’t we see if your sisters need a hand in the kitchen?”

As I lead her away from Pepper’s husband, Sage frowns. “He’s such a dick.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but if he wants to remember your grandmother with a smile, that’s not such a bad thing.”

In the kitchen, Pepper is putting sugar cubes into a glass bowl. “I understand not buying creamer because of the fat content, but do you really not have milk, Sage?” she asks. “Everyone has milk, for God’s sake.”

I’m lactose intolerant,” Sage mutters. I notice that when she talks to her sisters, her shoulders hunch and she seems like a smaller, paler version of herself. Like she’s trying to be even more invisible than usual.

“Just bring it out there,” Saffron says. “The coffee’s cold already.”

“Hi,” I announce. “My name’s Leo. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Saffron looks up at me, then at Sage. “Who’s this?”

“Leo,” I repeat. “A colleague.”

You bake?” she says doubtfully.

I turn to Sage. “Okay, so which is it—do bakers wear clown suits or something, or do I dress like an accountant?”

“You dress like an attorney,” she replies. “Go figure.”

“Well, good,” Saffron says, sailing past us with her platter, “because it’s completely criminal that there’s not a single decent deli in this entire state. How am I supposed to feed sixty people with pastrami from Price Chopper?”

You used to live here, you know,” Sage calls out after her.

When her sisters bustle out of the kitchen and we are alone, I hear crying. But it’s not Sage; and she hears it, too. She traces the sound to the pantry, and opens the doors to find Eva the dachshund trapped inside. “I bet this is a nightmare for you,” she murmurs, picking the dog up in her arms, but she is looking at all the people gathered to celebrate her grandmother’s life. People who want to make her the center of their attention, as they share memories.

While she is still holding the dachshund in one arm, I pull her through the back door of the kitchen, down a set of stairs, and across her rear lawn to the spot where I’ve parked my rental car.

“Leo!” she cries. “What are you doing?”

“So,” I ask, as if she has not spoken. “When was the last time you ate?”

• • •

It’s only a Courtyard by Marriott, but I order a bottle of crappy red wine and a bottle of even worse white; a French onion soup and chicken Caesar salad; buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks and a cheese pizza; fettuccine Alfredo, three scoops of chocolate ice cream, and a colossal slice of lemon meringue pie. There is enough food for me, Sage, Eva, and the rest of the fourth floor, were I inclined to invite them.

Any reservations I have about kidnapping a grieving girl from her own house, where she is supposed to be sitting shivah for her grandmother, and smuggling a dog into a pet-free hotel, are allayed by the fact that the color has started to come back to Sage’s face as she works her way through the bounty in front of her.

The room, made for business travelers, has a small sitting area with a couch and a television. We have it tuned to Turner Classic Movies, with the volume low. Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn are on the screen, arguing with each other. “Why do people in old movies always sound like their jaws are wired together?” Sage asks.

I laugh. “It’s a little known fact that Cary Grant suffered from TMJ.”

“No one from the 1940s ever sounds like trailer trash,” Sage muses. As Jimmy Stewart leans close to Katharine Hepburn, she dubs a line for him. “Say you’ll go out with me, Mabel. I know you’re out of my league... but I can always start bowling on Tuesday nights instead.”

I grin, speaking over Katharine Hepburn’s scripted response. “I’m sorry, Ralph. I could never love a man who thinks loading the dishwasher means getting your wife drunk.”

“But, sugar,” Sage continues, “what am I gonna do with these NASCAR tickets?”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21