January 21st
It is a blustery, snowy evening, with substantial amounts of accumulation expected overnight. Greg is delighted to be inside a warm house seated near the office woodstove, with the prospect of a hot dinner in the not too distant future. He's about to open a box of books when there's a knock at the front door. He hesitates, his head bowed. Douglas. The thought makes anxiety flood his body. His stomach clenches as he grips the box's flaps, and waits to see who it is. He catches a glimpse of Gene as he goes to answer the door, journal in hand, his finger between the pages to mark the place where he stopped. "Hey Roz," he says after a moment, "Come on in," and Greg relaxes, but only a little. It's a somewhat lesser evil, at least. In as much silence as he can manage, he gets up and limps to the doorway. He moves behind the wall and looks out into the living room.
"I've got a few minutes so I thought I'd stop by and take a look at the room you want wired." Roz stamps her feet on the mat and removes her gloves as she comes in. She wears a forest green parka that's seen better days, shabby jeans and worn boots, with a faded multi-colored hat perched on her head. She turns her head and catches a glimpse of Greg. Her expression darkens but she says nothing, only follows Gene as he leads her to the office. Greg is tempted to stick his tongue out at her. Instead he opens the door and moves aside, ready to exit when they come in. He's prevented from this action by Gene, who says with vile cheerfulness,
"I don't think you've met our friend Roz Lombardi. Roz, this is Greg House."
"We've met," she says, and turns away in dismissal. Greg glares at her.
"More's the pity," he says, but she ignores him and does a slow turn in the middle of the room. Gene spares Greg a glance, his expression unreadable.
After a few moments Roz says "It'll be easier to put outlets in the interior walls, of course. Your service can carry them, but you should probably upgrade to two hundred amp. Sarah says you're thinking about a chest freezer." She has a dark, cool voice, a little husky, but when she talks about technical issues she sounds different. It's an odd sort of change, but it suits her somehow. She pulls a tape measure from her coat pocket. It's a laser model, not the old-fashioned kind. "You could easily go off-grid if you put in a combination of windmill and solar panels. I have a line on the new thin-film technology, it would be perfect for you here. Bob's generated enough juice at his place to sell some of it back to the co-op since he put in panels."
"That's what we thought too," Gene says. "We can work on it this spring. I'll be home by the end of March at the latest, if everything goes according to plan."
"Yeah, well you know how that usually works." Roz measures a wall. Her movements are relaxed, quick and efficient; she knows what she's doing. "I'll send you the specs. It'll give you something to take your mind off things." She turns the tape measure off and tucks it into her coat pocket, rummages in another pocket and produces a small pad and pencil. She scribbles a few notes. The contrast between ultra-modern and old school should be laughable, but Greg is surprised to find it's rather charming. "Anything else while I'm here?"
"Yes. You can stay to dinner," Sarah says behind them. Roz's angular face lights up. Greg cannot believe the transformation. She is actually something close to pretty when she smiles. There are dimples in her lean cheeks, her strong features soften and her eyes sparkle, and she looks a lot younger. Her thick dark hair even curls just a little at the ends as she lowers her shoulders out of the defensive hunch they've been in since she arrived. Huh, he thinks. Miracles can happen.
"That depends," Roz says. A teasing note lightens her rather sardonic tone. "Whatcha havin'?"
"Gene's calling the shots this week, so tonight we're doing burgers with three-chile spread and some homemade slaw." Sarah sounds happy. Greg feels a stab of something like shame because she's been worried about him, upset over what happened earlier in the week and anxious because Gene will leave soon; he knows all of that and can do nothing to make her feel better.
"Three-chile spread—that nuclear stuff Gene gets in Texas? I've always wanted to try it." Roz shrugs out of her coat. "Tell you what, next time you have me over I'll bring some meatball sandwiches with provolone and an extra jar of Poppi's marinara."
"You don't have to trade," Sarah says as she takes Roz's parka and hat, "but if you're offering I won't pass it up, Poppi's recipes are too good to miss. Supper's on in fifteen minutes." She moves to the front hall closet to hang up the coat. As she does so, it's possible to see she still favors her right foot a bit.
"What happened? You're limping." Roz's voice is sharp. Greg hears the concern in it and is intrigued. He hadn't figured her for someone who cared about others to that extent.
"Lost my temper," Sarah says. "Kicked the couch."
"Ha," Roz offers a genuine smile. That elusive prettiness is back; she's a different woman when she lets herself relax a bit. "Glad I'm not the couch, it probably lost the contest."
The meal is a much more pleasant experience than Greg thought it would be, at least initially. Sarah knows how to put people at ease. The kitchen radio plays the regional NPR station in the background, with the evening's news and commentary; everything is set out buffet style and consists of a big basket of fresh, hot home fries and bottles of cold beer to accompany the burgers on grilled sourdough rolls. He piles his plate and gives the much-vaunted spread a taste. It is way beyond nuclear; he wonders how the glass jar hasn't melted from contact with it. Well-used to the insane heat of vindaloo beef, he slathers the spread on his burger, takes some fries, and sets to work.
Ten minutes later sweat runs down his spine and his entire upper digestive tract is on fire. He grabs his beer and takes a huge slug, winces as the blast-furnace heat intensifies for a moment, then fades somewhat. It is pure heaven.
"Wow, ten minutes," Sarah says, and gives him a grin. "That's the second-best time."
He downs another swallow of beer. "'Time'?"
"Between the first bite and the first drink," Gene says. He's flushed and sweat beads his forehead too. "I've got you beat by two minutes."
"Yeah, but you cheat," Roz says. Her face is almost scarlet. "You've eaten this stuff for years."
"So what's your secret?" Sarah's the only one not affected, because she declined to have even a taste of the spread. Greg gives a loud belch and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
"Vindaloo," he says. Roz gives him a blank look, but Gene is impressed.
"Holy crow," he says. "Masochist."
"What's that?" Roz wants to know. Greg stares at her.
"You're kidding."
"I wouldn't ask if I already knew," she says, and frowns at him. "What is it?"
"The Indian equivalent of three-chile spread," he says. Roz looks even more confused.
"Indians don't eat hot stuff," she says. "The Mexicans on the landscaping crews do, but—"
"Not Native Americans or whatever the hell they're called now," he interrupts, annoyed at her ignorance. "East Indians—from India. That's outside New York State, in case you didn't know that either."
She glares at him. "I know where India is, you jerk. I've even had Indian food before, just not whatever vindaloo is."
"Jerk is Jamaican," he says, and almost smiles as her glare intensifies.
"I know that too," she shoots back.
"Bet you've never had that either. Have you EVER been outside this blink town?"
And just that fast she closes down. Quite clearly this is a sore spot; good to know. "I went to tech school in Buffalo," she says quietly. There's a touch of defiance in her words. "That doesn't mean I'm ignorant."
"So no doubt you think haute cuisine is hot-wing platters with celery and ranch dressing." He can't help but taunt her. It's not fair, he knows she can't help her insular experiences, but something in him wants to slap at her.
"Actually I think you're a snob who likes to hurt people before they hurt him," she says. Her eyes flash; they're deep green, the color of moss. "Too bad it doesn't work."
The scatter-shot attack throws him for a second, but then he's been off his game for months. He opens his mouth to reply and catches a glimpse of Sarah's face. She watches him and Roz too, with a cool speculation that pulls him up short. "Says you," he mutters, and glares at Sarah. She raises her brows, then pops a fry in her mouth, just as she did at the diner days ago. Gene looks impassive, but his dark eyes are full of amusement.
Once dinner's over, Greg is surprised to see Roz help with cleanup. She clears the table and knows where the containers are kept for leftovers; it's plain she's been invited over many times. She and Sarah do the dishes together. Greg sits at the dining room table, half-hidden in shadows, and watches her. She moves with a quick efficiency that is still graceful; her thick hair shifts and glimmers as she reaches up to put plates away, and turns to open the silverware drawer. She's a bundle of contradictions—awkward and sullen, practical, affectionate by turns. He wonders about her history, what her family is like, then pushes the thought away. Once she's done with her work here he won't see much of her, if at all. Pointless to want to know more about her.
After dinner Roz sits down with Sarah to discuss plans for the office. Sarah invites Greg to join them. He stays on the opposite side of the table and watches them as he sips his beer. Under the mellow light of the overhead pull-down lamp Roz's dark hair has a faint coppery sheen. Her skin is pale but not like Sarah's creamy color; it's more gold than white, and it suits her. She tucks a thick lock behind her ear, and Greg sees a few small curls hidden by the long strands. If she wore her hair in a shorter style it would be wavy or even loosely curly, not straight. He wonders what she would look like in a bob. She has a long slender neck and swimmer's shoulders, well-set and straight; she's not skinny as he first thought, just a naturally slender build; she's got a little bit of muscle after all. Now that he can see her in half-profile, she has a long straight nose and prominent cheekbones, a small mouth compressed into a straight line, but when she smiles her lips show themselves to be full and nicely shaped. She's probably a great kisser . . .
What the hell am I thinking? He pushes the image away and realizes Sarah has just asked him a question.
"Is there anything you'd like to add? Anything special you need?"
Greg doesn't even glance at the rough plan Roz has sketched on her notepad. "Nope," he says, gets to his feet and limps away.