“It’s Derian.”
“3C. Come on up—my door is unlocked.”
The small vestibule grew quiet until a few
seconds later a long, low buzz sounded from the double interior doors and
Derian let herself in to a narrow foyer leading to a set of stairs at the far
end. The mosaic tile floor was mud-free despite the recent storms, the
waist-high dark wood wainscoting and curved banister glowing with polish with
only the occasional scuff mark, and the stairs free of trash and dirt. A nice
apartment building, one of maybe five or six stone edifices in a row on a
narrow side street. She climbed to the third floor, found apartment C, turned
the brass knob, and she let herself into a softly lit living room in a
high-ceilinged, open-plan apartment. Across the room, Emily worked at an island
flanked by several tall bar stools that separated the small galley kitchen from
the main seating area just to Derian’s right. Beyond the living area,
floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a view of a small pocket park she’d passed
when the Uber driver let her off at the corner. At the opposite end of the
room, other doors presumably led to the bedroom and bath. Focused spots
illuminated the kitchen workspaces, leaving the rest of the large apartment in
muted shadows cast by floor lamps with tasseled ivory shades. The mix of old-world
elegance and modern efficiency seemed a perfect reflection of Emily.
“Hi,” Derian said, her heart beating rapidly
for some reason.
“You’re right on time.” Emily greeted her
with a bright, easy smile, looking sexy and relaxed in a black shirt with small
iridescent flowers scattered over the front, body-hugging jeans, and strappy
black shoes with low heels. Her hair was caught back with a plain tie, leaving
a thick tail at her nape.
The heavy feeling Derian’d been carrying all
afternoon since leaving the hospital fled her chest. “You sound as if you
thought I wouldn’t be here.”
Emily laughed. “I did no such thing. If I’d
been the slightest bit worried, I wouldn’t have done all this prep.” She
gestured to the counter and an array of vegetables and other foods in a line of
small, hand-painted ceramic bowls. She resumed expertly slicing vegetables on
one of several cutting boards. “Is that the red I see?”
Derian hefted the Château Mouton in its
unassuming paper bag. “As promised.”
“Would you open it, and we can have a little
while I cook.”
“Excellent idea.” Derian carried the bottle
to the counter, removed it from the bag, and opened it with a corkscrew Emily
handed her.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Where did you find
that?”