Page 84 of Coming in Hot

“Well, here he is,” she states in a tolerant deadpan. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You as well.”

She looks him up and down. “Tall drink of water.” Shifting her focus to me, she gestures at the craft store bag. “Naomi picked up that extra yarn for you so you can finish the baby blanket.” She fixes Klaus with a look. “Congratulations. Don’t screw it up.”

His eyebrows jump. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll let you say your goodbyes,” she throws over her shoulder, heading for the kitchen. It’s a clear dismissal. In the kitchen doorway, she pauses, telling Klaus, “Natty’s got a doctor visit in a few weeks. Getting a sonogram. I’m sure you’ll want to be here for it.” She turns away, flicking the kitchen light on with her elbow, and disappears around the corner.

Klaus gives me a cautious side-eye as we walk toward the front door. “Am I welcome to attend this appointment?”

“Oh. Um, I figured you’d be busy.”

We linger in the entryway, watching each other. Minnie bangs pots and pans in the kitchen. It’s very telling that she hasn’t invited him to stay for supper. That woman will inviteanyonefor a meal, from the drunk guy sitting outside the Quick Stop to the gas company man who reads our meter.

Still, she all but commanded him to attend my doctor visit. Maybe she’s as conflicted as I am. I’m about to add something along the lines ofBut if you’d like to be there, that’s wonderful, offering an opening, when he speaks up first.

“Yes, quite busy. There’s a crucial FIA meeting before São Paulo. Team principals and owners will all be there. We’re debating two alternates for the new race location and dealing with the fallout from the one that was pulled.” He blows out a weary breath. “I just want to go racing, but we’ve been dragged into politics.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” I assure him with a half-hearted smile, pulling the front door open.

He looks at me like he’s not sure if I mean the grand prix location change or attending the meeting instead of coming to my appointment. I want to say so many things, but it all seems wrong.

I track his eyes moving to the side of my neck. He lifts a hand—slowly enough that I could stop him—and reaches for the chain of the emerald necklace. I wondered if he would notice. My eyes close as his touch connects. He slips a finger beneath the chain but lifts it only an inch out of my sweater before letting it fall. Countless times he’s drawn the necklace free of my shirt and positioned it over my heart, but today he doesn’t.

He steps back, and I open my eyes. With a small incline like abow, he says, “Send me a picture of the sonogram, if you’re willing. Good night.”

He’s out the door and across the yard before I can muster a reply. I put a hand over the emerald beneath my sweater. It hits me, with a cold rush of finality, that in asking Klaus to read thatCanterbury Talesstory, I may have taught him his lesson too well.

24

SANTORINI

TWO WEEKS LATER

KLAUS

Between Mexico City and São Paulo, after the meeting in France, I stop for a few days in Santorini. For years after Sofia died, it was difficult to be at the cottage, but I find now I’m at my most relaxed here.

Returning from a walk up to Oia, I pass through the kitchen, setting a cloth bag on the counter. Elena is digging in the refrigerator, and when she turns, she hands me a bottle of Pellegrino.

I try to hand it back. “Thank you—it’s not necessary.”

“Take it,” she grumbles. “You’re thirsty. And you’ve got too much sun again. You’re so vain about that head of hair, you won’t wear a hat?”

I suppress a smile at her motherly nagging and twist the cap off the bottle. “What would I do without you, eh?”

“Live in squalor with an empty belly.” She riffles through the cloth bag, removing a block of cheese wrapped in paper and abundle of asparagus. She peels back the tape on the cheese paper and opens the package, sniffing it. “Did you get this from that little idiot at the deli? It smells old. Why you don’t insist on a fresh round, I’ll never know.”

“It’s fine,” I return with amusement. “I had a sample first.”

Elena emits an impatient grunt, holding the asparagus to the light, determined to detect some flaw. “Get out of my kitchen and find something to do with yourself.”

I offer a small salute and head for my office, checking my watch en route. I have a call scheduled with Phaedra in ten minutes. I sit at the desk and open my laptop, clicking on the meeting link early before leaning back and gazing out the glass doors, across the patio to the glittering blue sea.

Every day since arriving home, I’ve tried to picture the child here. That little person, eating lunch at an outside table. Running along the garden paths. Napping in the nodding shadows of one of the bedrooms. Being carried to the orange tree and held up to pick one. Playing on the living room rug, pushing a toy car around and under the furniture.

Will it ever happen? So much will change in the years before he or she is old enough to come here. And before then, there will be long months between the North American grands prix around which I could fit in visits to Kentucky.

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