“Sorry for the scare,” I say.
“It’s OK.” He grins. “Actually, if I’m being completely honest, it was a very creative excuse to meet the new neighbor.”
I feel momentarily embarrassed when I remember that I’m wearing my old ratty black leggings and a green flannel nightshirt. But I recall something Joanie said about Seattle being allergic to fashion, and I feel a little better. And why do I care what I look like, anyway?
“Well,” I say, “it’s very nice to meet you.”
“Will you be staying long?” Alex asks. He pulls his left hand from his pocket and I notice, without trying, that his ring finger is bare. I’ve long been suspicious of mature, good-looking men who are single. I once briefly dated a thirty-year-old financial planner who seemed perfect. I even met his family at his sister’s wedding, and was secretly dreaming about ours when I found out that he was gay and that our entire relationship had been concocted to convince his family that he was straight.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” I say honestly. “I signed a lease through the end of summer, but it’s somewhat open-ended.”
He nods. “What do you do, in . . . ?”
“New York. I’m from New York.” I’m surprised I’ve told him this, but he’s easy to talk to, and his presence makes the burden I carry feel a little lighter. “I’m a writer,” I say. “Well, an editor, at Sunrise.”
“The magazine?”
“Yes,” I say. “How about you?”
“I’m a photographer,” he replies. “I do food photography, mostly. But don’t let that fool you into thinking I can cook, because I can’t. Not even scrambled eggs.”
I grin. “You can’t cook and you take pictures of food?”
“I know, it’s nuts,” he says. “But if you make it, I’ll shoot it.”
“I take it you like to eat the food?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Best part.” He peers around the corner of the kitchen. “I gave Roxanne a few of my books to keep here, for the renters.”
“The owner, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Last I heard she lived in Alaska.”
I nod, remembering what the clerk at the grocery store said about the missing woman, but I don’t mention it.
“Anyway, I’m sure the cookbooks are still around here somewhere.”
“I’ll look for them,” I promise.
He smiles. “Well, I’d better be going. Nice to meet you, Ada.”
“Alex, right? I’m terrible with names.”
“Me, too,” he says, heading out the door. I watch through the window as he steps into his canoe and glides across the little channel back to his houseboat.
I climb the ladder to the bedroom and attempt to sleep, but after twenty minutes, I’m still not drowsy. I remember reading a magazine article advising that if you’re not sleepy, get up and do something for twenty minutes, then try again. I prefer this to Ambien, anyway.
I look through my suitcase—I haven’t unpacked my things yet—until I find a novel, but after two pages, I lose interest. I remember Alex’s books, and I’m suddenly overcome with curiosity. I walk to the bookcase I glanced at when I first arrived and scan the spines. Lots of novels; some well-loved paperbacks that look like they’re held together by love and a single drop of glue; a guidebook about the Northwest, and one about dog-friendly hiking in Seattle; and then I see a stack of larger books high on the shelf. I stretch to reach the one that looks like a cookbook and pull it down. I see the name Alex Milstead on the cover and smile. It’s a cookbook about barbecue, written with a woman named Kellie Adams. I thumb through the pages. Wow. He’s really good. The images are crisp and bright, as good as anything I’ve seen in the pages of Sunrise. I look at the front cover again, and see it has won a James Beard award. Impressive. Curious, I turn to the last page, where I find the author bios. From her photo, I can tell that Kellie Adams is quite beautiful. And prolific—according to her bio, she’s penned fourteen award-winning cookbooks, and I recognize one of her titles, Sunday Brunch, because we featured it in Sunrise a few years back. I immediately wonder if she and Alex were ever involved. I turn to his bio: “Award-winning photographer Alex Milstead spent years photographing the conflict in Sudan for Time, before trading in his bulletproof vest for an apron. Though he’s a self-proclaimed novice in the kitchen, his photos have appeared in Gourmet; O, The Oprah Magazine; the New York Times, and many other publications. He lives on a houseboat in Seattle.”