She busied herself in the kitchen behind the bakery finding more candles and opening the refrigerator quickly to pull out the things that were most likely to go bad if the electricity wasn’t restored—although, if the temperature inside kept dropping, the fridge might be warmer than the surrounding room by tomorrow evening. From the front, she could barely hear the muffled strains of Ms. Wahbi—Rana, she reminded herself—speaking in another language, soothingly, into the phone. Arabic, maybe? Rana was from Egypt, if she remembered correctly. She was embarrassed to realize she wasn’t even sure if that’s what they spoke in Egypt. It was, wasn’t it? She knew people always thought Fatima spoke Arabic, despite being from Pakistan, and the error annoyed the heck out of the whole Siddiqui family. Marianne didn’t want to make the same mistake with Rana.
Finally, she heard the jingle of the bell over the door and then a thud as it closed again. Had she left just like that?
Rana reappeared, the front of her jacket dripping with snow. “I think I may take you up on your kind offer,” she said. “I’m so sorry to impose.”
Marianne smiled. “That’s all right.” She hefted the bag she’d filled. “I need someone to help me eat the food that would be going bad down here, anyway.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Come on,” said Marianne. “You can keep me company while we’re snowed in.”
Rana nodded, face breaking into a smile that showed slightly crooked teeth and the depth of her relief. “All right.” She has a beautiful smile, Marianne thought, forcing herself to look away. I’m in trouble.
As they climbed the stairs, Marianne was suddenly very aware of how drab and bare the apartment was. Ever since moving back in ten years earlier, she’d meant to decorate and pull some more of the old heirloom furniture out of storage. And every year she didn’t do it. So, the apartment had nothing but the battered old furniture they’d left for the renters with a few personal touches. She hadn’t thought of what it might look like to a stranger.
“Just through here.” She closed the door behind Rana, shivering a little. The air in the apartment had cooled considerably. She was glad Anna and Jacob had put plastic over her windows at Thanksgiving. The extra insulation would keep the heat in a little bit longer. “So, why didn’t you go home before the storm hit?” she asked as she began stacking kindling and newspaper in the fireplace. “This isn’t a great night to be stuck out and about.”
Rana laughed a little. “I meant to go home, but customers kept coming in and wanting takeout. Besides, I didn’t think it was going to get so bad so quickly.”
“Still not used to Massachusetts winters?” She lit a match and smiled in satisfaction as the flames caught on the crumpled newspaper below the fireplace grate and then flipped the damper open. She shivered as a blast of cold air nearly extinguished the fledgling flames.
“I suppose not.” She glanced out the window at the swirling gray. “I’ve been here fifteen years, and winter still surprises me every year.” She shook her head. “On nights like this one, I wonder if I should have stayed in Charleston. Though it is pretty out there.”
“Why’d you come up north?” asked Marianne, curious. “You’re Egyptian, right? I’m thinking the climate down south is more what you’re used to.”
“It is,” admitted Rana. “But I had a friend in Boston. She let us stay with her for a few months when we first arrived, before we settled in Charleston. I loved the area, so when all my children moved out, I came back.”
“You have more than the one son?”
“Oh yes,” said Rana. “My daughter Nour is my oldest, then Amir, then my twins Samia and Sayed. Can I help with the fire?”
Marianne stacked a pair of logs on the grate. “That’s all right. I’ve got a process. Former Girl Scout.” She sat back on her heels as the kindling crackled. “Are they nearby, your kids?”
“No. Samia and Amir are in California. Nour and Sayed are in Cairo, in Egypt.”
“My son Jacob is in California too,” said Marianne, setting the bag of perishables from downstairs on the counter by the window where the air was coldest. “Berkeley. I can’t imagine having him any farther. My other two are in Pittsburgh and Detroit, so they’re a little closer. And they’re near enough to each other just in case.”
“I’m glad my children are in pairs, at least,” said Rana. “Nour offered to let Sayed stay with her while he studied,” she said. “I don’t see them as often as I would like.”
“Me either,” said Marianne. “And Anna calls me, but the other two? I have to hunt them down for a ten-minute update.”
“My boys are like that,” Rana sighed. “I miss them on nights like this especially. This has been harder than I expected it to be, running this business without them to help. I’ve always had at least my twins to wait tables.”
“None of my kids wanted anything to do with the bakery,” admitted Marianne. “I thought one of them might someday, but it isn’t looking good.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what’ll happen to this place when I’m gone.”
“I’m sure nothing else Mr. Leventi put in would be as lovely as your bakery,” said Rana.
Marianne stared at her. “Mr. Leventi? He’ll own this place over my dead body.”
“He isn’t your landlord?”
Marianne bristled. “Absolutely not.” She waved at the building around them. “The Windmere family has owned this building since we built it in 1866.”
“Even my restaurant?”
“My father had to sell part of the building back in the sixties,” Marianne admitted grudgingly. “But yes, even that.”
“I’m glad you still own your bakery,” said Rana. “Mr. Leventi has not been the easiest landlord to have. Especially not now that he’s running for office.”
“I’ve heard,” said Marianne. “Most businesses don’t last long in that space. I’m amazed yours seems to be thriving despite that.” The temperature was really starting to drop, even in the warmth of the room above the oven. Rana shivered, tucking her hands inside the sleeves of her shirt. Marianne reached behind the couch and pulled out a few blankets, draping one over Rana. “Here,” she said. “You look cold.” She wrapped herself in the other and set a tray beside the fire, pouring marinara in a bowl near the flames and setting a loaf of bread to warm. “Does this need to be heated?” She held up the bag Rana had brought her.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” replied Rana. “It’s only a few cheese turnovers, and they’re good either way.”
Marianne opened the bag, letting out a waft of a delicious savory scent, and arranged them beside the bread next to the fire.
“Have you ever considered switching from electric heat?” asked Rana. “Then you wouldn’t be in this bind.” She smiled, dark brown eyes twinkling. “Although the fire is helping. As is the company.”
“No room for an oil tank,” Marianne said, pulling the blanket tighter around herself and settling back on the couch. “And the gas lines aren’t the most reliable around here. It was hard enough switching the ovens from wood in the nineties.” Somehow in their shifting around with the blankets she’d come closer to Rana. It should be awkward. She didn’t know what this lady wanted besides a warm place. Why was she being so friendly? Rana’s shoulder rested right next to hers, and her warmth seeped through the layers of cloth. The smell of warm tomatoes and cheese started drifting through the room as the fire chased some of the chill from the air. Everything about the situation was overwhelming and strange, and Marianne didn’t know where to look.
“Thank you again for letting me impose,” said Rana. “I hate to disturb your evening.”
If someone had asked Marianne a week ago whether she was likely to welcome her neighbor into her home after simmering about the parking lot all autumn, she might have laughed in their face. But this woman wasn’t anything like she’d expected. She’d built her up as some extension of Luke Leventi, some boogeyman through the wall, but instead—
She liked Rana.
She was funny, smart, and she loved her kids, and she obviously knew how to cook. Maybe Marianne was getting soft, or maybe she was lonely, but something about Rana was very, very appealing to her.
She got up and shifted the pastries around and then stirred the marinara, which seemed to be heating nicely. “It’s not much of a meal,” she said regretfully. “But it’s a nice little snack, at least.”
“You don’t have to feed me!” Rana laughed. “If I’d known this was what the service was like over here, I would have stopped by months ago!” She took the tray Marianne handed her. “Would you like me to slice? Where would I find a knife?”
Marianne handed her a serrated knife from the kitchen drawer, and Rana sliced half the loaf into neat one-inch cubes. Marianne was impressed: she didn’t think she could have done that as quickly. She decided not to admit it, and instead took a piece of bread to dunk in the sauce. “So, tell me. What was Charleston like? I’ve never been south of Virginia.”
“Hot,” said Rana. “And I was not expecting the way people drive down there.” She laughed. “You hear stories about Boston drivers, but they are so much better than in Charleston! Although the weather this time of year has much to recommend it, compared to Massachusetts.”
Marianne leaned back into the couch, letting her shoulder rest against Rana’s—for warmth, that’s all—as Rana launched into a few examples of the dangerous Charleston streets. She listened, letting Rana’s voice wash over her. It was soft and low and matched her perfectly, the slight accent not any impediment to understanding.
Marianne hadn’t been attracted to anyone since she and Kevin had broken up—she’d thought about the occasional person idly, every once in a while, but the timing had never seemed right. But Rana’s face in the candlelight—her broad cheekbones, her dark curls loose around her shoulders, her bright laugh—Marianne sat transfixed.
Rana finished the story, which had transitioned into an argument Joe Mitchell and Ray Bell had gotten into in her shop over the right of way rules at a certain intersection in town, and stretched out long fingers to pluck another piece of bread from the plate, dipping it in marinara before popping the piece into her mouth. Her eyes closed as she chewed, and Marianne let herself stare at the line of her throat and the curve of her jaw where glossy hair brushed olive skin. Her dark and sleek hair, mostly black with a scattering of white, hung in a heavy bun. Rana had a comfortably rounded shape with the same strong shoulders and legs Marianne herself had from decades in the kitchen. She didn’t know what she’d imagined these past few months as neighbors: someone older, someone meaner, someone less beautiful? And Rana wasn’t what she usually thought of as beautiful. If they’d passed on the street, Marianne might not have looked twice. But she glowed when she smiled, and she had a power in her shoulders and hips that made Marianne shiver.
It had been years since Marianne had kissed anyone, and it had been a lot longer since she’d kissed a woman. But sitting here in the near-dark, the warmth of the oven seeping up through the floor and into the upholstery of the couch and filling the air with the familiar scent of yeast and flour and home, she wanted. Oh, how she wanted. And she didn’t even know what she wanted from Rana, besides closeness. Marianne had never been big on the physical side of relationships—it was something that had frustrated Kevin to no end. Sure, once in a blue moon someone struck her fancy: she found people attractive all the time, but with their clothes on. She wanted to look. She didn’t usually want to touch.
Anna, her eldest, had a word for Marianne once she was old enough to have discussions with her mother on that kind of adult level after the questions raised by the divorce; she’d said that Marianne was probably somewhere on the asexual spectrum. Marianne had brushed the conversation aside, but it had stuck with her for years. She didn’t quite know what to make of the idea. She had known she was bisexual her whole life, but this new dimension was a little scary to label. Having a way to describe how she felt might have made things easier once upon a time, back when she was dating and confused by not wanting all the things everyone else seemed to, but now? She didn’t need to think about it that often.
But there was Rana, sitting beside her in the candlelight, smiling with sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes as she watched Marianne in the comfortable silence. And Marianne leaned in closer.
“I want to kiss you,” said Rana, the straightforward words softened by the lilt of her accent. “Is that all right?”
Marianne’s breath caught, and she nodded.
Rana stayed still for another moment, searching Marianne’s face with dark brown eyes nearly black in the low light. Then she brought up her hand to brush back Marianne’s hair, tucking it behind her shoulder, and kissed her.
Rana’s lips were soft and dry, perfect against Marianne’s own, and Marianne let her eyes close as she sank into Rana’s embrace. They kissed for long enough that Marianne gasped for breath, and Rana’s hands began to wander, sliding over the fabric of Marianne’s shirt and slipping beneath the hem. Marianne loved the feeling of skin against her own, loved the warmth and intimacy of it, but when Rana’s hand brushed the clasp of her bra she tensed and pulled back, shaking her head.
“I can go slow,” whispered Rana. “If that’s what you want.”
“Can we keep things like this?” asked Marianne. “I don’t think I want more than this.”
It had been so long since she’d wanted anything more than a kiss from anyone. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if she ever had, really. Sex with Kevin had been fine—fine enough to produce three children, but now that she was approaching sixty, she could admit sex hadn’t ever been what she wanted for its own sake; only a way to be close to him. This fluttering in her stomach, this heat in her cheeks—that was terrifying, and if she didn’t slow down, she didn’t know what might happen.
Rana pulled away a bit, scrutinizing Marianne. “If you want to stop, you can tell me that,” she said, the sultry tone fading.
“I don’t!” Marianne caught her wrist and pulled her back in, feeling Rana’s resistance melt away. “I just want to keep doing what we’re doing. Is that okay? I don’t want you to think I don’t like you if I stop you later.” If it wasn’t—well, she’d gone years without wanting to kiss anyone. There was something between her and Rana—a spark, a tension—and part of her wanted to explore it, but another part was honestly terrified. She didn’t know what she wanted. She had never really let herself think about what she wanted…and what she didn’t.
Rana smiled, lips moist and dark, eyes filled with kindness and heat. “Certainly.” She brushed a hand over Marianne’s hair. “I like kissing you. If that’s what you want, I’m happy to stay right here.”
Chapter Three
Marianne woke slowly, noticing first that her right leg was asleep, and her left was freezing. Then she noticed the heavy weight all along her right side and the soft, sweet-smelling hair tickling her nostrils. As she tried to surreptitiously regain blood flow to her extremities, Rana stirred from where her head lay on Marianne’s chest.
“Good morning.” Rana’s voice was huskier in the morning than it had been the night before. “Oh, I’m sorry. It seems I fell asleep on you.”
“That’s all right,” said Marianne. She ran a gentle hand over Rana’s hair, fingers sliding over the smooth strands.
“We don’t have to get up,” said Rana, eyes drifting closed again.
Marianne considered pulling herself free and getting up, but her leg had stopped tingling, and she’d found a more comfortable position on the old wide couch. She dozed back off.
The next thing she knew she was alone, a blanket tucked around her securely and sunlight streaming in the window. The fireplace was dark and cold; the last embers long since burned out.
“Rana?” she called quietly. No reply.
Marianne sat up and looked around, her pleasant sleepiness fading into the slightest frisson of anxiety. Did Rana leave? Had she done something wrong? She shook her head to clear it a little, pushing down the ri
sing, tingling thread of panic winding its way through her stomach. Rana was an adult, and even if she had left, she had probably done so for a good reason.
The stairs creaked, and Rana appeared in the doorway holding a tray. “Hi,” she said, cheeks pink and pants damp from the knee down. “I made breakfast. And a little bit of a mess on the floor by the door. Sorry. I couldn’t find a mop.”
“That’s all right. Zeke keeps it in the customer bathroom, so it’s not easy to find.” She paused. “And besides, you’re a guest. You shouldn’t be cleaning.” Marianne sat up, wincing at the tightness in her neck from a night on the couch.
Rana ignored the comment on doing the dishes. “Who is Zeke? One of your employees?”
Marianne laughed. “My only employee. He’s been with me a few years, but he’s Joe’s great-grandson.”
“Oh, Joe talks about him all the time!” Rana smiled, set the tray on the table, and sat beside Marianne. “The famous Ezekiel. I’ll have to stop by and meet him some day. I didn’t realize he worked for you. But first—” She gestured at the plate. “I hope you aren’t a vegetarian,” she said. “Just in case, I made one of the eggs without meat.”
The eggs glistened, crisp fried edges and barely wobbling yolks, atop a pile of thin-sliced cured beef. Marianne’s mouth watered at the savory smell. “You went all the way around the building?” she asked, realizing there was nothing like that in her kitchen.
Rana smiled a little awkwardly. “Just to get the meat from my shop,” she said. “I cooked in your restaurant since the gas is still working. I hope that’s all right. It was much warmer than mine, and brighter.”
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