"I'll just be a minute," he said, turning to acknowledge her, but she was already gone.
He finished typing his e-mail message to William Harrell, then clicked the send button. Piled on his desk were notes, charts, and schedules, each a vital facet of the overall ICP Strategic Alliance report he had been working on all day. Another Saturday devoted to work, but that was nothing new. Glancing at his watch he figured he could probably finish most of the outline by morning, so long as he hurried through dinner.
Leaving the light of his library office, he strolled through the uncharacteristically dark house. He padded down the long hallway and passed the closed dining room door, crossed the foyer, and rounded the corner to the family room and kitchen area. The room was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day's mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours earlier.
"Greta?" he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.
"In here," came his wife's voice softly.
He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office had brought in bunches for everyone.
"Oh," was all he managed to say before he seated himself.
"I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off," Greta said. "I fixed it myself."
"It smells wonderful," Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so formal all of the sudden?
She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint of awareness.