Chapter 22: One Flower

Cora woke at 5:30 on Saturday to the smell of burning.

She sat up in Alexander's bed alone, with the sheet around her.

A pot clattered in the kitchen, and a man swore under his breath.

She put on his shirt and padded down the hall.

Alexander stood at the stove in his undershirt with the green notebook propped open against the toaster.

A pan was smoking on one burner.

"Don't come in," he said, without turning around. "I'm not ready."

"You're boiling it."

"I'm not boiling it."

"There are bubbles, Alexander."

"They're very small bubbles." He lifted the lid, frowned, and set it back. "It says two hours."

"It says a low simmer for two hours. You're at a full boil, and you've put the licorice in already."

He looked at her over his shoulder, with a smear of ginger on his cheek.

"I read it three times."

"Page forty-one says to add the licorice at the end."

"You wrote that in the margin in pencil. I thought it was a grocery list."

She leaned on the doorframe and laughed until she had to hold her ribs.

He turned off the burner and came across the kitchen to her, and kissed her until she stopped.

"Stay there," he said. "I'm going to do something and I want you to watch."

"I'm watching."

He went to the counter and picked up a cup.

It was a plain white teacup, chipped at the rim, the one she had used in his kitchen all week.

On the saucer lay a single white flower, a freesia, a little crushed at the stem.

Beside it was a ring.

It was an old, plain band of pale gold with a small gray stone.

Cora stopped laughing.

"You told me once," Alexander said, quietly, "that on the day you signed, nobody gave you a flower. Not one."

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