An Early Spring
Carter thought of this fallow period as "the separation."
The time when she did not see Reese or communicate with him, when Finch did not test her with new cases or alarm her with cryptic requests.
The break irritated her self-esteem, rubbed at a sore on her conscience that she couldn't salve. On the bright spring day her partner Syzmanski left the hospital, she nursed equal measures of anger and guilt as she pushed his wheelchair to the curb where Fusco waited in an official car to drive his injured brother home.
Carter didn't want to ride with Syzmanski and Fusco, didn't want the emotions that still curled around her gut to pollute the atmosphere of celebration.
She wanted to hold onto her guilt, examine it, polish it like an old mirror until its crackled surface reflected back her own blemished conscience.
Her vigilante had colluded with rising mob boss Elias. Against his will perhaps, but that exchange of information had been devastating to her partner, her city.
But despite her best efforts, the guilt and the fury began to dissipate after Syzmanski went home.
Unknowingly, Taylor helped. His daily routine had to be maintained: the soccer practices, chess club meetings, homework assignments, and weekend invitations couldn't be ignored simply because his mother ached inside. Taylor kept her going even when she didn't want to budge.
Certainly, the Indian dinners helped as well. The source of the nightly meals was never a mystery to her, although she made up several lame stories to answer Taylor's curiosity.
So when the barrage of meals from the relentless Reese continued into a second week, she stopped trying to explain it and just enjoyed the additional free time she had with her son in the evenings.
Sitting with Taylor at the table in her messy kitchen, surrounded by the circus pennants, vacation snapshots, and gaudy rooster pottery she had accumulated a lifetime ago, Carter sipped a beer and let go of the guilt.
That this peace was actually a gift from this furtive and harried man was a peculiar irony she didn't want to examine too closely.
But she couldn't deny that the delicious onslaught underlined what she liked about Reese and what she missed most during the separation: his ferocious concentration and buoyant intensity. Her days felt slack and directionless without him.
Carter wanted to call him. And so, after a three week separation, she did.
…
"Detective." His voice was low and flat. He didn't sound surprised at all.
Her stomach was in knots and now he goaded her with a drawled chuckle.
She felt like throwing up and hanging up.
When she said nothing further, he prompted, "You called me, Detective. What do you want?"
"Look, I need you to stop stalking me, stop breaking into my building, and stop bringing me dinner."
"You're welcome, Detective."
"Are you listening to me?"
"Okay. Got it. Will do. " He plunged forward without taking a breath.
"Now, here's what I need…"
"Of course, you need something, John. You always need something."
He pressed on. "I need you to get me the personnel file for Fiona Narducci. She's Internal Affairs."
"I know who she is. Why do you need her file?"
"I'll know why when I read it."
"I can't do that. You knowI can't do that."
"Again, Detective. You called me."
"Yeah. And what if I hadn't? How were you planning to get that file out of HR?"
"I knew you would call."
"That was your plan?"
"Yes."
"Unbelievable."
"Call me when you have Narducci's file. I'll tell you where to make the drop. And, Detective, thank you for your help."
He hung up on her.
As usual.
…..
Carter found the file the next morning, but waited a day to take the edge off any satisfaction he might feel at her easy compliance.
She wanted to push for the advantage. She had something he wanted. And what she wanted was Reese off balance.
So Carter phoned before dawn hoping to catch him asleep or at least unprepared for a civil conversation.
She waited until she heard Taylor turn on the shower, grabbed her phone from its power dock in the kitchen, and re-entered her bedroom. She could make out the first faint licks of pink light over the roofs of the brownstones opposite her bay window.
If Reese was awake at this hour she might feel sad but not guilty, she decided.
She didn't wait for him to state her damned title this time.
"How did you know if I actually liked Indian food?"
"Do you really want me to answer that, Detective?"
"No."
Of course, she wanted to know, but she couldn't give him that so easily.
"Look, I got the file. Just tell me where you want to meet: A park bench? Library reading room? Under the clock in Grand Central Station? Or should I just wait in my car for you to slip in like some kind of spook?"
"Not unless you want me to, Detective."
"Well, where then?"
Abruptly Reese hung up, sending a text message with a street address and a time the next evening.
…
Carter thought about taking the subway but it was late, her feet hurt, and she could feel the sweat collecting at the back of her shirt in this weird early spring heat wave. The file folder she carried was marked with her damp fingerprints. No reason to arrive more flustered than she was already.
The taxi deposited her in front of a sketchy coffee shop, right block, wrong side of the street. She crossed over, studying the ornately figured name on the storefront window: "Pooja's Restaurant" it announced in bright yellow letters.
Inside, a tall young man welcomed her with a grin she had not experienced since her last Virginia family reunion. With elaborate hand gestures, this long-lost cousin escorted her to a red booth at the back of the room.
Reese was already there.
His presence seemed sudden, even unfair. Carter had expected him to make her wait, to swoop in silently like she was in some eccentric theater performance with a lone co-star and an audience of one.
Instead he sat at the table in the booth, still and attentive as she approached. She had never seen Reese in a dark shirt, but its drama suited him, framing his pale composed face. The pallor of his long hands matched the white plate between them.
He stood, took her raincoat, and gave it to the eager attendant. She sat down opposite him, determined not to say the first word. She didn't dare look in his eyes for fear that she would see the mockery and amusement of their earlier phone exchanges.
But then: "I wasn't sure if you would come."
His eyes gleamed in a way she had only seen once before when, bending over Syzmanski's prone body, their hands covered in blood, he had told her of the coerced conversation with Elias.
This separation mattered to him.
Carter wanted to give him something for that.
To bend a little: "I never doubted I would come."
With that the sounds, smells, and colors of the restaurant began to swirl around the booth, as if summoned by an unseen magician. Persimmon yellow shimmered on the walls and the scarlet upholstery behind Reese's head seemed to throb and glow in the dimmed lights.
Carter could smell all at once every spice wafting from the kitchen, heard every glass clinking at the nearby tables, every shouted order relayed through the swinging door that led from the main dining room.
At first she thought these were tricks of her imagination, but then Reese too turned his head sharply, looking for the source of these sensations.
A parade of waiters emerged from the kitchen heading for their booth. Each young man carried a small silver platter heaped with a different selection.
Curries of all colors and flavors were arranged before them in a dizzying display: mixed vegetables, raisins and nuts in a cream sauce, then a brilliant red concoction of tomato and bell pepper, spinach blended with chickpeas, and cauliflower nestled with potatoes.
Carter saw basmati rice, green peas and snow peas, okra, eggplant embellished with soft cheeses and she recognized the spiced yogurt base of one sauce and the lentil mash in another.
Each waiter bent his sleek head toward them and whispered the name of his dish as he presented it; she only grasped a few of the terms: Masala, Korma, Paneer, Gobi.
In the corner of her eye, Carter caught movement in counterpoint to the regiment of waiters in their black and white. A short, fat woman in an emerald green sari glided to the right of the file of waiters. She briefly inspected each dish as it passed, giving a rapid nod of approval as the line moved on.
Pushing the door ajar, the woman shouted into the kitchen and a young girl appeared carrying a single glass of water. She wore a pale blue Peter-Pan collared shirt and a navy skirt. Another girl, identically dressed but slightly shorter, followed with the other glass.
Two smaller children, a girl and a boy in similar blue uniforms, brought up the rear swinging a silver bucket of ice between them.
Reese rescued the ice bucket as it dipped perilously close to the floor and placed it in a circular rack to one side of the table.
He looked toward the woman in the green sari. The red that tipped his ears matched the dusty crimson spreading across his chest just below the notch of his collarbone.
Carter had wanted to see him thrown off balance and now she did.
As they sampled each dish it was whisked away by a hovering waiter and a different offering replaced it. Carter watched Reese eat in small portions, tentatively as if he was unsure or shy. She had never seen him eat before and had to catch herself from staring as he maneuvered the fork from plate to lips.
She, on the other hand, downed her food with relish. It tasted so good. It felt so good to talk about simple things.
…
When the platters had mostly been cleared from the table and they were leaning back against the booth's high walls, Carter placed the file folder on the white table cloth and pushed it toward Reese.
He placed his hand over the file, but didn't open it.
Carter leaned forward so that he would hear her clearly over the restaurant's din.
"You know, Fiona Narducci was my first mentor, my lieutenant when I joined the force."
He nodded as if he knew what was coming next.
"And she died at her desk, of a heart attack, twelve years ago.
"The HR folder on Fiona is empty, except for a single sheet of paper reporting her death and closing her personnel file."
"I know."
"And yet you sent me on that pointless wild goose chase. To get a file you knew was empty."
"And you went on that pointless wild goose chase. To bring me the file you knew was empty."
The inverted downward curl of his lips greeted her wider grin. They both lowered their eyes.
At that moment, the four small water bearers re-appeared beside the table.
The tallest girl crooked her finger at Reese who obediently bent his head to her level. She reached her brown hand to cup his ear and whispered briefly.
Reese turned to Carter.
"I should have introduced you to the children earlier this evening," he began.
"Here are Avani, Bijal, Leena, and Hari." He touched each one on the head as he pronounced their names.
"I am pleased to meet you." Carter matched the formality of the occasion.
"Avani tells me that her sister and her cousins would like to know if you are really a police officer." His silver eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter.
"I told them, yes. But now they insist that they want to see your badge for proof."
"Of course they do."
She fished the badge from her jacket pocket and presented it to Avani who examined it carefully before passing it down the line. With the inspection satisfactorily concluded, the boy Hari placed the badge in Carter's hand with a solemn nod.
As the children marched away, Carter excused herself to find the bathroom. When she returned the booth was empty. She saw Reese near the kitchen door in an intense conversation with the short old woman in green. Smiling, he bent forward to level their eye contact. She laid her brown hand against his jaw for emphasis as she spoke.
Reese came back to their booth with the woman following closely. The two stood side by side to address her as if in a ceremony whose rules she was just beginning to learn.
"Mrs. Soni, this is Jocelyn Carter. Joss, this is Mrs. Soni."
"Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Soni." Carter noted that the sari's fabric was iridescent with a vivid blue stripe through the dominant emerald.
"Welcome to Pooja's, Detective Carter. I hope you have enjoyed your dinner tonight."
"Oh, thank you. Yes, I have. And all the ones that came before, too."
Mrs. Soni bowed her head in acknowledgement and smiled broadly. Her hair, which had seemed solid black from a distance, now revealed its liberal lacing of silver threads. The lights of the room danced off the glossy braid that hung to her waist.
"I have prepared several delicious dishes for dessert now. You will find them, along with coffee and tea, in my parlor." This was definitely an order rather than an invitation.
"Up the stairs and first door on the right. Everything is arranged. John will show you the way."
As Mrs. Soni glided away, Reese shrugged his shoulders. His raised eyebrows suggested to Carter that it was far better to go along than resist a direct command.
…..
The upstairs parlor was decorated in a wild confusion of flowers, vines, and fruits. In particular, the tangled forest of exotic birds and imaginary animals reminded Carter of the humid style of the old house her maiden great-aunts shared in Roanoke.
That Reese seemed so comfortable in this place struck her as strange at first. But as the conversation expanded and the desserts were consumed she appreciated how this tropical setting framed his austere and wintry beauty. He seemed utterly male and at ease here.
They ate the mango ice cream first, as it was in danger of turning to soup. She enjoyed the slimy texture of the rice pudding and the vague grittiness of the saffron almond paste best. But under Reese's insistent guidance, Carter also sampled the milk balls soaked in syrup and the salty sweet cheese bathed in cardamom scented cream.
He chose coffee; she had chai, spiced tea with milk.
With only a simple prompt, Reese began talking. As he offered her his stories, Carter savored their fugitive variety and quirky melancholy. The flash of his teeth as he spoke beguiled her and she believed every word he said.
There was the Albanian girl who dyed her hair – drapes and rug – a cotton candy pink in honor of the jaunty color on the façade of her apartment block in Tirana.
There was the ex-pat jazz trombonist in Prague who was equally skilled at knitting and playing cutthroat bridge even though the ring fingers on both hands had been amputated. Reese still kept a navy blue scarf he had received as a gift from this asset before he disappeared.
Sipping Mrs. Soni's coffee reminded him of drinking thimble-sized glasses of sweet green tea as he waited in the shimmering heat for a contact to emerge from the green tiled Grand Mosque in Dakar.
Which reminded him of drinking rounds of tart milky palm wine under a canopy of trees in southern Senegal. The drunk you got from new palm wine, he claimed, especially if it was served in an old gourd by the old man who tapped it, was the sweetest sensation in the world.
Which reminded him of riding in the long, brightly painted pirogues of Lebou fishermen who rowed miles out into the Atlantic in search of their daily catch, yet never learned to swim.
Which reminded him of the Kiraly Turkish bath in Budapest, where he nearly got killed.
Each story Reese told was another block struck from the imposing wall, another brick laid to pave a new path.
At she listened to him, Carter wondered when they had become so comfortable together.
She imagined this was how they would be after they'd had sex. The talk easy, tension gone, expectations met, the longing appeased.
She would know how the sweat tasted along the curve of his throat. The way the skin of his bicep rippled as he moved over her. And how far down his torso the flush on his chest went. She would feel the excitement of his hard nipple against her tongue, the slide and pressure of him inside her.
She would touch the scar on his stomach from the bullet wound she had caused and the other one on his thigh.
Her scars, so distinct and precious among all the others on his body.
But now she needed to go home. Taylor needed her, her mother needed her, her job was waiting.
With his fierce attention, Reese seemed to sense her mood shift.
"I can call a car for you, if you want."
He excused himself to go to the bathroom and make the call.
Carter waited for him outside the restaurant. He held out her raincoat and she slipped her arms into it. His fingers grazed the crinkly hairs at the nape of her neck as he smoothed the coat across her shoulders. They stood side by side on the curb.
Without turning to her, Reese said at last, "I'm sorry Syzmanski got shot."
"It's not alright, just because you feel bad."
"I know that, Joss."
"Talking to Elias, giving him leverage over you, exposing me. That was a bad idea."
"Don't you think I get that?"
"Then promise never to do it again."
"I can't promise that. I wish I could, but I can't."
She knew he was being honest, but it still hurt.
Carter didn't want the evening to end on such a melancholy note. So she rounded on Reese, raising her hand to touch the tender skin behind his ear.
She pressed her brown fingers against his jaw and drew his face down to hers. A light kiss to memorialize this night.
"Rice pudding," she murmured and took another taste.
"Milk. Syrup. Mango." He punctuated each word with a slow kiss.
"Coffee. Almonds. Cardamom." She drew her tongue across his lower lip and he accepted the offer.
Some hectic moments later, he released the embrace and set her back down on her feet, taking another light sip from her lips.
She looked over his shoulder to the restaurant's gleaming window.
"What is this place, John?"
"It's Pooja's Restaurant."
"No, I mean, what is it to you?"
"It's where I live, Joss."
So this was his home, even if he would never call it that.
The black hired car slid to a stop in front of them. The night's warm breeze touched her cheek, a hint of an early summer to follow on this early spring.
As the car pulled away, she turned in the back seat to see if he had disappeared.
But he was standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, as if waiting for something new to occur.