Prohibition

Chapter 44

Evelyn knocked on the door Raymond had given her the address for. The first several times she had called him, he hadn't answered. Finally, just as she was about to give up, he had picked up. Evelyn had told him about her meeting with Rose—though she hadn't relayed what Rose had told her—and said she wanted to meet him in a few hours. After getting the address for Raymond's apartment, she had run several errands before driving to his building. Now, she stood outside his door, a feeling of nervous anticipation rising in her stomach.

After a few moments, the door opened. "Hello," Raymond said, smiling out at Evelyn.

"Hello." Evelyn blushed. Raymond had shed his usual vest and tie, in favor of a simple shirt, untucked and half unbuttoned—which was showing a distracting amount of his torso. Had he dressed that way on purpose, or was this what he always wore at home? Knowing him, it had probably been on purpose.

"Come in," he said, opening the door wider and ushering Evelyn inside. "What's that?" He looked down at the overnight case Evelyn was holding.

"Just my bag," she replied. "Can I leave it here?" She set the case down by the hooks on the wall that held Raymond's coats and hats.

"Leave it wherever you want," Raymond said, leading Evelyn into the main room of his apartment—a combination of kitchen, living room, and study. "What's mine is yours."

Evelyn's blush deepened. "Your apartment is nice," she said, to change the subject. Wandering around the room, she took everything in. On one side of the room, a fire crackled in a small brick fireplace. Flanking the fireplace on both sides leaned two tall bookshelves with sagging shelves. Haphazard stacks of books, magazines, notebooks, letters, music records, and board games spilled across the shelves. On one shelf, a record player perched precariously. A radio with a long gash down the wood stood in front of the bookshelf. A tattered sofa and a few cushy chairs—one with stuffing spilling out of a rip in the seat—were arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. Many of Raymond's shoes and socks had found homes under them. In another corner of the room, a large desk, cluttered with stacks of paper and empty coffee mugs, balanced on uneven legs. A tattered book had been shoved under one of the legs in a futile attempt to make the desk less wobbly. By a closed door, a rumpled mass of coats, scarves, and gloves piled onto a table almost engulfed a shiny new telephone. Only the kitchen area was the moderately tidy. Nothing spilled out of the neat row of cabinets or piled up on the freshly-dusted countertops. A clean, red-checked tablecloth adorned the small kitchen table, and a pot of something simmered on the stove.

"You can cook?" Evelyn asked, walking over to the pot. Lifting the lid, she sniffed the food. It smelled heavenly.

"Yes, my mother taught me," Raymond replied, joining her beside the pot. His hand rested on the counter beside Evelyn's hip, almost—but not quite—touching her. He seemed nervous, awkward, as if he were a stranger in Evelyn's home instead of her being a stranger in his. "She was a cook before she married my father. Even after she was married, she never saw a point in hiring a cook when she could do just as well. And then, when I was old enough, she taught me to cook too. And—" Raymond stopped suddenly. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, go on." Evelyn smiled at Raymond as he ran his fingers through his hair. "I like hearing about your family. Where was your mother a cook at?"

"She worked at a small hotel in South Carolina. Father met her there while he was on business."

"Ah." Evelyn arched an eyebrow. "So, there's a Southern boy somewhere in there?"

"No." Raymond grinned slightly. "I'm a New Yorker, born and bred."

"Well—"