Peter knew that El was an extrovert and that included her loving to be with people. He accepted that. It did not mean that he enjoyed having an hour notice that he was going to dinner with people he did not know.
"They'll make quinoa," she said.
"Quin-what?"
"Quinoa. It's delicious. A super food."
"And I thought you were getting dressed up for me," Peter sighed. He would have preferred to stay at home any day. "You know, I heard some new lingo from cyber crimes that I could whisper in your ear."
"Oh, you can…" she smiled, putting on earrings. "After we have dinner with the Ryans."
"I don't know about new neighbors. You know, it starts with dinner, then the next thing you know, one of them still has my belt sander."
"Aw, I know, honey. I know."
"At least when crooks take your stuff, you can arrest them."
"Well, who knows? Maybe the Ryans are crooks, and maybe you'll have to arrest them."
"No, I'm not telling them what I do," Peter sighed. "You know they'll start asking me to make their parking tickets go away."
"Okay, well, just remember two things," El said, adjusting his jacket. "We're redoing our kitchen, and you love quinoa."
"We're redoing our kitchen?"
"Or we can invite them over, and you can give Ben a private tour of your carpentry cabinet."
She gave him a quick kiss. Something did not made any sense here. His wife, used to catering and a great chef, had claimed they were redoing their kitchen to not have the neighbors over. Or what? So why where they going to them, if she didn't want them over to them?
They left their house and walked to the few yards and rang the doorbell.
"Hi!" the woman opening the door said and held out her hand to Peter "Welcome." She showed them inside. "Babe, the Burkes are here," she called out.
"Six-thrity already?"
"Um, Rebecca, this is my husband," El said. They shook hands.
"Hi. Peter. Always glad to meet new neighbors."
"Hi."
Then her husband appeared. Tall, dark, and handsome. Why were he not surprised.
"Hey. Ben." He held out his hand and Peter shook it.
"Peter."
"Hey." He shook El's hand.
"Elizabeth. Hi."
"So, I was just finishing cleaning up in here," Ben said, "but, uh, why don't you
come on in, have a seat?"
"Lovely house," El smiled.
"Oh, we're still in boxes, but it's coming," Rebecca said.
"Well, we brought you some rosé," Peter said, handing over the bottle El had jammed into his hands just before leaving.
"Thanks. Let me open this."
"There's a corkscrew in the side table," Ben said from the other room. "I'll be right down."
"They get dinner, and we're trapped here in the car," Neal sighed to Moz, still surprised that his friend had turned up with a car at his place. A Ford old enough to be his grandfather's but still.
"Oh, Mrs. Suit thought of that," Moz said, turning towards the backseat. "She packed a meal."
"And out comes the deviled ham."
Mozzie grinned.
"No, wait. No foul odors of mayo or flaked pig. Ah… A nice Beaujolais." He held up the wine bottle.
"Oh. Peter gets apple juice." But Peter, on the other hand, drove a car and had an FBI badge. Neal opened one of the plastic boxes. "She made croque-monsieur."
"Oh, one with gruyère, one sans." Moz said and switched their boxes.
"Definitely a notch above the typical FBI stakeout."
"Merci for stating the obvious."
Mozzie turned the radio on.
"Oh, Peter always puts on the game…" Neal felt odd listening to anything else. "I don't know if you want to..."
"Oh, nine innings. The same number as Dante's circles. You know, if you play your cards right, your days of deviled ham may be coming to an end."
"If my sentence gets commuted? Yeah… That's true. No more long nights in parked cars." He chewed on his sandwich.
"Small mercies."
"Yeah… I don't know… Sometimes Peter will tell a story about a bust or an old case, and those nights are all right."
"You're bordering on nostalgia."
And that was all Mozzie had to say about that it seamed. Was it so wrong to enjoy what he was doing? Would Moz ever understand? No, probably not.
Peter stared at the plate and wondered what he was looking at and how he was supposed to eat it without making a face. Peter cut a piece from what looked like a square of fried porridge or a sponge. It felt like foam rubber in his mouth.
"This is delicious!" El said as Peter cut himself another piece. "Thank you so much for having us."
"Your peas really make the meal," Ben said, and Peter blinked, looking at the plate. Ah, summer peas… Had El bought them peas? Why?
"Let's call it a group effort," El said, all smiles. "Rebecca, by the way, what did you do to this tofu?" So the sponge was tofu, Peter thought, and tried what then must me the quinoa.
"Nothing," Rebecca answered. "That's the beauty. We let the food speak for itself."
Peter swallowed the quinoa and pressed a smile to his face. He would have preferred to have them over after all, showing them what real food and good cooking was like.
"So, Ben, what do you do?" El went on, all charm.
"I'll let you guess," Ben said and showed his hands.
"Hand model?"
Peter saw paint stains.
"Painter?" he guessed.
"Commercial painter. Running rollers fourteen hours a day is a grind, but it pays the bills for now."
"Maybe Ben can look at your kitchen after the renovation's done."
"Oh, that's not necessary."
"Yeah, don't want to start using you for your job," Peter said. "I hate it when neighbors do that."
"Damn straight," Ben agreed. "To good neighbors." He raised his glass.
"To good neighbors."
"Cheers."
"So, Rebecca, what do you do?" El asked after they sipped the rosé. Peter sighed. He knew that sooner or later he would get the same question.
"I'm a dancer."
"Mm. A dancer?" Peter joined the conversation. "Broadway?"
"Way off Broadway. I'm thinking about retiring, looking for a change."
"Mm."
"How about you, Peter?" Ben asked.
"Me? Oh, I'm boring. I want to talk more about dancing."
"Come on," Ben said. "Now you got me curious."
"Really, it's…" El said. "It's not that interesting."
"Nice teeth. Good smile. Orthodontist," Rebecca guessed.
"No."
"No tan," Ben noted. "I'm guessing office job."
"Honey, come on. Give them a hint."
Peter gave it some thought.
"I like the Vikings," he said, as if it was a clue at all.
"Vikings?" Ben was puzzled.
"Excuse me," El said. "Um, where's your restroom?"
"We're doing some work on the ground floor, so all the way upstairs, third floor." El excused herself and left the room. Peter felt even more uncomfortable now. If this was an undercover job, he would have been prepared, but this was his neighbors. A lie now and he would have to live with it until one of them moved, which could be years.
"So, Vikings…" Ben pried. "Pillage and plunder?"
"Yeah, you know those long ships with the dragon heads? Love 'em."
"I know!" Rebecca said. "You're a professor."
"Of Nordic History," Ben filled in.
"No, but close."
There was a squeak from the ceiling above their heads.
"Ben, did you hear that?" Rebecca asked her husband.
"Yeah…"
"House still settling?" Peter asked. It was not newly built and should been set. Why did he get a feeling it was El upstairs? Though she was supposed to be on the third floor.
"Or a rat. You know they outnumber New Yorkers ten to one?" Ben asked.
"I've heard that."
"I'll go check."
And so Peter was alone with Rebecca and the tofu. And maybe a wife where she shouldn't be, for reasons he could not figure out. He must be imagining. Of course, El just went to the bathroom.
