They all sit down at the table Esme set while I was outside grilling. I already cooked the potatoes ahead of time, keeping them warm in the oven. To her credit, Esme took care of the other details, probably only because she invited her friends over at the last minute and couldn’t lose face.
Well, how the tables have turned because as Esme sits down, she looks like she’s regretting this already. If she could kick my tushy out the door and enjoy the evening with her friends instead, I have no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to do it. But unfortunately for her, it looks like we cooked this meal and made the decision for me to meet her friends together.
“Hello, new roommate that Esme refuses to introduce us to even though she invited us to dinner to meet you because what other good reason is there since she’s strange and rude. I’m Vera, this is Monique, and you are?” Vera sinks into a chair and eyes me up like she’d like to sample me for dinner instead of the steak.
Vera does look away sheepishly when Monique nudges her with her chair, so I figure she just has a loud way about her, but that she’s actually alright.
I sit at the head of the table and stare at the spread Esme laid out. She laid out bacon bits—real bacon bits, not the imaginary swear word substitute—sour cream, and she even cut up a red onion since I didn’t have chives in the fridge. She also grated sharp cheddar cheese, put out the salt and pepper shakers, and a few bottles of barbeque sauce, which is basically an affront to all expensive, good steaks, but to each his own. I happen to have good meat, seasoned just right with delicious flavor.
I’m talking about the steaks, I swear.
Esme is sitting across from her friends. The table is huge, and it makes me wonder how big her great-grandfather’s family was. Does Esme have brothers or sisters? I’m assuming not, but I don’t know why I think that. Where are her parents? Her grandparents? And why is Silas so worried about her not being looked after?
“So, Roomie With No Name, what do you do for a living?” Vera asks as she stabs a piece of steak off the serving tray at the center of the table and lets it fall on her plate with a loud plop. She doesn’t look at the meat. Instead, she’s watching me carefully.
I’d even go as far as to say she’s flirting since her long lashes flutter up and down a few unnatural times, but I don’t think she is. She’s eyeing and sizing me up, trying to decide if I might be a serial killer or if I hide some other devious, dark secrets. She probably knows all about Silas’s scheming and is trying to figure out if I’m in league with him.
“It’s Wilder,” I say in the friendliest tone. Kill ‘em with kindness because that’s the only kind of murdering I’m going to be doing. I grab two potatoes and a steak. “And I’m in the toy business.”
“The toy business?” she asks with a raised brow.
“That’s right.” I’m not going to elaborate on that. I smile softly at Vera while Monique shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “What about you?”
“I love shoes.” Vera slices a strip off her steak, which cuts like butter because they’re cooked to perfection, and returns the smile with another flutter of lashes. “I run a shoe store, and I want to expand into selling vintage clothing. I love that too.”
“You should see her shoes,” Monique groans. “They basically take over her house.”
“They do not take over my house! They’re all neatly sorted and categorized.”
“They really are,” Esme finally says, even though she won’t look at me as she cuts a potato for herself. Then, she helps herself to a steak but immediately smothers it in barbeque sauce.
“My shoes aren’t nearly finished. I’d love to start designing them myself, but until that day comes, I’m happy to just collect. I won’t stop until I die, and I’m planning on sticking around until I’m a hundred at least, longer if medicine keeps advancing. That’s a lot of shoes if you factor in a pair every month or so.”
“But you’d think you’d also have to factor in duplicates. If you already have all the pairs of a certain kind and color and style, then you probably wouldn’t be getting them at the same rate.”
“Monique’s a librarian,” Vera explains impatiently, but there’s obvious affection in her tone as well. “She’s too smart. And if we’re talking about collections, you should see her books. She has so many first editions that it’s crazy. And books aren’t like shoes. There’s far, far more, but once you’ve read them, you probably won’t reread them.”