Chapter 19: The Landing

He came up the stairs at six o'clock exactly, with a paper bag of groceries in one arm.

The last coat of oil was still wet on his hands.

I knew it was six because the old man downstairs shouted the time up the stairwell.

"On the dot!" he called. "That's a first!"

"It's the new job," Colin called back.

The drafting table stood under the landing light with its top tilted and its legs set square.

The oak had gone the color of honey.

There was a shallow groove along the lower edge, cut for pencils.

He had sanded the corner where the board met the leg, round and smooth, just as I had drawn it.

I ran my hand over it.

It was perfect.

"It has a tiny flaw," he said. "Third screw from the left."

"I can't see it."

"I can."

I looked at him over the table.

Nine hours ago he had given up the top of a company, and he was worried about a screw.

"Does it fit through the door?" I said.

"I measured four times."

"The old man says twice is wrong."

"He's a very negative person."

He lifted one end, and I lifted the other, and we eased it through the doorway with a quarter inch to spare on each side.

We set it under the south window.

The last of the daylight lay across the slope of it, and I stood there for a minute with my palms flat.

Behind me, I heard the groceries hit the counter and the refrigerator open.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you dinner."

"You can't cook."

"I can make eggs. I practiced in the company apartment by the rail yards, where I've been sleeping. The smoke alarm disagreed."

I laughed, and I turned around and looked at him in my kitchen with the light in his hair.

He had a dish towel over his shoulder.

He had a bandage on his thumb.

"Stay," I said.

His hands stopped.

"For dinner?"

"For the night," I said. "In my bed. I'm asking you in."

He crossed the room in three steps and set the egg carton down on the table.

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