The Lady in Residence - Allison Pittman Page 0,100
notebook, and on it, in Quin’s neat, utilitarian handwriting, a simple message:
Come to supper.
Car should be there at 7:30
Next came a selfie, the rich, dark tones of the bar surrounding him, Teddy Roosevelt peeking over his shoulder. Her hand trembled, the tiny keyboard blurring in her hand. How was this possible? How could he have concocted this kind of surprise? How was she supposed to feel? She texted only:
D: How?
But his response was nothing but a repeat of the summons. All of their talks, their texts, their messages and memes were peppered with Hedda and the detective, so she texted: ARE YOU BACK FROM TENNESSEE? before jumping into the action of getting ready.
It was after seven already. Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions, but the fatigue that seemed ready to turn her bones to powder repurposed itself as nervous invigoration. She turned off the oven and put the pizza away. Her hair was still damp when she took the towel off, so she used a few precious minutes to scrunch her curls under the diffuser until it was mostly dry, using her free hand to put on enough of a face to camouflage a fourteen-hour day in recycled air. Alexa added to the excitement by playing “Midnight Train to Georgia,” and Dini sang every word.
Her favorite jeans, washed to butter-like softness, hadn’t made it into her suitcase, so they waited in her closet to be paired with a cute top and wedge sandals.
“What do you think, Hedda?” She spoke to the image hanging in the midst of her starry sky—the photograph of Hedda, messy and content, which Dini had enlarged and printed on canvas. “I’m going for cute and casual. Did I get it?” A quick twist in front of the mirror affirmed that she had, and as a last addition, she grabbed the witch’s heart ring from its box and pushed it onto her first finger. “Because, you know…he came back.”
The first person she saw when she walked through the door was Gil, who clutched her fingers and held on to her hand a bit longer than necessary after their high five.
“Look at you,” he said. “Haven’t seen that color on your hair in a long time.”
“It’s the real deal,” she replied, tugging at the curls. “Is he here?”
She followed Gil’s eyes, spotting Quin at the foot of the steps leading up to the second level. The minute she did, she regretted her choice to wear the tall wedges, because her shins disappeared, and she couldn’t manage a single step. But then, she didn’t have to, because within two heartbeats, Quin crossed the room and took her in his arms, lifting her off the ground in an embrace that brought an appreciative awwww from the crowd scattered among the tables.
Dini buried her face in his neck and breathed in the scent she’d been guarding in her memories for the past seven months. Nothing before ever felt as perfect as this moment, her body suspended, his voice in her ear saying her name. When her feet were once again on the floor, he took her face in his hands and kissed her—properly and appropriately for their public display.
“I have a table upstairs,” he said, taking her hand and leading her. She grabbed a glass of water from Gil on the way up and resented the creak of every step, because it seemed to delay the moment when they could greet each other again in the privacy of a dark corner.
“How are you here?” she asked, once her breath and lips were free for conversation.
“I had to see you, and I didn’t want to see you anywhere but here.”
“Don’t you have school?” It was a Thursday night.
“I took a couple of days off. I figure I worked during my spring break last year. Tell me about your travels.”
“You know about my travels.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Are you stalling, Quin? Is there important stuff to talk about after the food gets here?”
The minute she said it, Gil appeared with two plates of chopped steak, peppers and potatoes. He set them down, saying, “It’s off menu. You got to have connections in the kitchen.”
Dini’s stomach, empty save for the Kind bar she had on the last flight, growled as if on cue, and she dove in the minute Gil left, wishing, “Bon appétit.”
“What a guy,” Quin said, attacking with equal gusto. “You know, they should put this on the menu. Call it the Hedda Carmichael plate.”