He fabricated
a possible explanation: She was doing her laundry and had asked
Alice if she could borrow some of his old clothes while hers went
around.
"Mmm. Not bad. Here. Eat."
It was probably nothing, he told himself. He was probably
overreacting. He'd ask her about it later, no big deal. Still, it
had given him one hell of a little scare there. Enough, already.
Right now, he was hungry.
"Delicious," he said truthfully. "I can't believe you don't do
this all the time."
"I could," she said, and stopped chewing. He caught her look,
edged with some unknown meaning. "I mean," she went on, waving at
the pot on the stove, "I could eat like this all the time, but
who has the time, right?"
Peter just nodded. He took another bite of pizza. He was thirsty.
"Wine. That's what we need."
"Yes."
"White? Is that good for what you're making?"
"Red's better."
He went to the tall narrow wine rack hidden inside a cabinet. His
fingertips lingered on the neck of a particular reserve, a
special bottle. He deliberated for a moment, then selected a
younger vintage. He opened it and poured them each a glass,
handed one to her. There was an awkward moment, in which both
stood motionless. He didn't know what to say and, gratefully, she
made it easy for him.
"To new friends."
"New friends," he said, slipping in a small emphasis on the
latter.
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