Oh. I apologize.
I didn’t intend to get you in trouble with your employer.
It’s fine.
My manager is cool.
Though I should probably get to work.
Of course. I will see you at home eventually.
With saucepans.
By this point I was smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt.
Maybe this new living situation would work out after all.
* * *
By the time I got back to Frederick’s brownstone it was nearly midnight.
I was exhausted. I usually was after a shift spent making drinks and cleaning tables, but it was made worse by having spent the first part of the day lugging heavy boxes around and moving into Frederick’s apartment. I felt all but dead on my feet as I trudged up the stairs to the third floor.
As I unlocked the front door to the apartment and let myself in, I decided that first, I would take a shower to wash off the grime from all the running around I did that day. Then I would collapse into bed. I didn’t have anywhere to be in the morning—Gossamer’s didn’t need me to come in, and neither did the library—so the next day I would sleep in as long as I could.
I was all set to embark on the first part of my plan when the enormous number of boxes stacked in neat piles on the kitchen counters caught my eye. Those hadn’t been there when I’d left for work that evening.
Curious, I made my way into the kitchen—and stopped short when I realized what all these boxes were.
Frederick had made good on his promise to find me cookware.
And not just any cookware.
He’d gotten five Le Creuset saucepans, six Le Creuset frying pans of varying sizes, two of the largest woks I had ever seen, a waffle maker, a Crockpot, and a toaster oven. When I turned, thunderstruck, to see the boxes stacked on the kitchen table, I realized he’d also purchased ten place settings’ worth of silverware from Crate & Barrel.
Stunned, I picked up the note with my name on it that lay beside the place settings. As with Frederick’s previous notes to me, he’d written my name on the outside of the envelope in cursive so fancy it was nearly calligraphy.
Dear Miss Greenberg,
Please let me know if these cooking implements will suffice. You never answered my questions vis-à-vis your feelings on sauce, so if the saucepans are not of use I can return them to the establishment where I purchased them.
Regarding your questions concerning redecorating your bedroom, as I told you when you moved in you are welcome to redecorate your bedroom however you like. I ask only that you not destroy anything currently in the room. Many items in my home are heirlooms that have been in my family for a great many years. My mother in particular would become cross should harm come to them.
When you said you were an art teacher I admit it had not occurred to me that you also created art of your own. In hindsight, that was foolish of me. Do let me know when you have redecorated. I would very much like to see some of your work.
Yours in good health,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
I set down the note, smiling despite my exhaustion.
Please let me know if these cooking implements will suffice. He had to be joking, right? These were the nicest pots and pans I’d ever seen outside of the high-end stores on the Magnificent Mile.
As for the rest of Frederick’s note, I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d think when he saw the ancient fox hunt painting currently hanging in my bedroom replaced with a canvas full of Lake Michigan’s finest beach trash. Based on his other decorative choices I doubted he’d like my work at all.
But the fact that he was at least curious about my art made me feel warm inside, for reasons I was too tired to analyze.
In fact, I was so tired I felt about ready to collapse. But before I showered and went to bed I wanted to write a reply.
Frederick,
The pots and pans you got are AMAZING. You totally didn’t need to get anything this fancy just for me. Especially since my cooking repertoire is fairly limited. The next time we’re both in the apartment I’d be happy to cook you something to thank you (as long as it’s scrambled eggs, pasta, or beans).
Cassie
I made my way into the bathroom and stripped down. Frederick’s bathroom was massive—at least twice the size of the bedroom in my old apartment. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. The floor was white tiled marble, which was achingly cold beneath my feet. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised by that, given how cold Frederick kept the rest of the apartment. I’d have to talk to him about that at some point; wearing sweaters whenever I was home wasn’t something I really wanted to do.
I opened the door to the glass-walled shower and hurried inside, turning up the water temperature as high as it would go and letting the hot steam warm me.
Years of high student loan payments and minimum wage jobs taught me to fear utility bills and to keep my showers efficient and quick. But Frederick paid the utilities here. Just for once, I decided to treat my sore and aching muscles and linger for a while.
I sighed, luxuriating in the feel of the steady spray and perfect water pressure hot against my back. I let my mind wander as the water sluiced over me, thinking through how I might spend the next day. With all the chaos of my eviction notice and moving, I hadn’t been to the studio where I did most of my work in weeks. After sleeping in as long as I could, maybe I would head out to Pilsen and poke around on something new the rest of the day.
After a while—ten minutes? an hour?—I glanced down at my fingers. They were wrinkled as prunes from the water. How long had I been in there?
I reluctantly turned off the hot water and opened the shower door. The air felt even colder than it had earlier after the hot shower I’d just taken, causing a riot of gooseflesh to erupt on the backs of my arms. I grabbed my towel off the back of the door where it hung from a silver chrome hook and wrapped it tightly around my body, tucking it under my arms.
My shower had steamed up the mirror. I quickly rubbed the back of my hand over it so I could see my reflection.
I frowned at what I saw.
My hair was growing back from the impulsive scissors incident from a few weeks ago, but it was still shorter than I usually kept it. And weirdly uneven. Once it dried, it was going to stick up in the back no matter how much product I put in it.
Once I got my feet under me a little more, the first thing I was going to do was make an honest-to-god visit to an actual salon to fix what I’d done to myself. In the meantime, I should probably do what I could to make myself look presentable.