“That’s true,” she said, finding space in the lunchroom fridge for her plastic container.
“Why would you care? He’s such a difficult man. I bet he’ll bite your head off for making him get out of bed to answer the door.”
Cassie nodded.
“How do you know where he lives, anyway?”
Rather than launch into the whole complicated tale, she said, “It’s a long story. I’ll save it for when we have more time.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
Fortunately, two colleagues joined them for lunch, so Cassie was spared the necessity of telling Angie what had happened on Saturday, when she’d been an elf. After work she called Simon’s office and learned he was still sick. Her decision made, Cassie drove to Tacoma. She had no problem locating the neighborhood but had to drive around numerous streets before she found his house.
By then, it was completely dark and the rain fell in sheets. Racing from the car to his front door, carrying her quart container, she shook the moisture out of her hair before she rang his doorbell. When no one answered, she was tempted to leave the soup on his porch and drive away.
Just as she turned to do exactly that, the door opened and Simon stood there in his housecoat and slippers. He looked even worse than she might have imagined, with a pale face, rumpled hair and rheumy eyes. Her sympathy was instantly aroused and it was all she could do not to reach out and test his brow for fever.
“Cassie?”
She hadn’t planned what she’d say, and now her tongue seemed to twist itself into knots. “I heard you were sick…. I—I brought you some homemade chicken noodle soup.”
He stared at her as if he wasn’t sure whether he was hallucinating.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, although the answer was obvious.
“Terrible.” He stepped aside, silently inviting her into the house.
Cassie hadn’t expected that. In fact, she’d been sure that he’d be angry. She’d expected him to growl and demand that she leave.
“I can’t stay long. Like I said, I wanted to drop off the soup and tell you the turkey dinner’s set for Sunday.”
Simon covered his mouth and coughed. It resembled a dog’s barking and seemed to rack his entire body. She wondered if he had pneumonia.
“Have you seen a doctor?” she asked urgently.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t fuss, Cassie.”
“Someone should. Now, lie down and I’ll heat up this soup.” Taking charge, she walked past him and into his kitchen, which to her shock was untidy. Dishes littered the counter and pots were stacked in the sink. She could see that he’d made an effort to straighten up but had either grown too tired or was too sick to continue.
Before she started heating the soup, she placed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and turned it on. Her soup warmed on the stove as she cleaned up the kitchen. Simon had disappeared and now returned dressed in slacks and a sweater. He’d apparently showered, because his hair was wet and combed.
“This is thoughtful of you.” He actually sounded grateful.
Dishcloth in hand, Cassie regarded him suspiciously. “You mean to say you’re not angry?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“I’m invading your privacy.”
He acknowledged that with a slight tilt of his head.
The soup began to boil and Cassie removed the pan from the burner, poured some in a bowl and set it on the kitchen table with a spoon.
While Simon had his soup, she made them both cups of strong, hot tea, then sat across from him at the table. She declined his suggestion of soup, since she was too nervous to eat.
“This might surprise you, but I quite like you when you’re sick.”
He set the spoon next to his bowl and studied her warily. “I beg your pardon?”
That must have sounded strange. “You’re more human when you’re vulnerable.” He didn’t respond.
Cassie was gratified to see that he finished the entire bowlful of soup.
“Shall we have our tea in the living room?” she asked, noting that the television was on, the volume low.
Simon nodded. “I’ve watched more television in the past three days than the previous three years.”
“Oh, Jeopardy!’s just starting. That’s my favorite game show,” she said, sitting on the couch. Simon sat beside her, a careful distance away—not too close and not too far.
He picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The thirty minutes passed quickly. She couldn’t resist shouting out answers—“What is the Battle of Gettysburg?” “Who are Sacco and Vanzetti?” “What is silver nitrate?” She was pleased that she was almost always right, although she noticed that Simon didn’t participate at all. He must be feeling very ill.
“I should leave,” she said after Final Jeopardy (“Who was St. Nicholas?”) and started to stand.
Simon reached for her hand. “Stay a while longer, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t…” The sudden surge of tenderness she felt shocked her. What shocked her even more was that his hand continued to hold hers. His touch was light, but sometime during the next thirty minutes he intertwined their fingers. It was hard to concentrate on the rerun of Frasier—a Christmas episode she’d already seen—when her whole body was focused on his hand holding hers. Innocent enough on the surface, his action was highly sensual in its effect. She felt his touch in every part of her, in every sensitized nerve, every cell. She needed all her self-control not to turn into his arms and beg him to kiss her.