Nellie squinted at the return label as she retreated inside, wondering if Gina Marsh had come up with some other nefarious way to try and ruin her day. Alas, she had no hazmat suit to hand in case he had decided to resort to biological warfare.
She sat back down at the table and gingerly opened the box.
What greeted her instead was far more unexpected: a pharmaceutical-grade ice pack—the reusable flexible-gel kind that actually conformed to the joint rather than the flimsy disposable sort that went lukewarm in eleven minutes—a bottle of ibuprofen, and, wrapped in white tissue paper so neatly folded it looked like Christmas had come early, a cookbook.
La Cucina Italiana. Hardback, illustrated, heavy.
There was no note.
Nellie sat with it in both hands and then did something she was faintly embarrassed about. She hastily flicked to the inside cover, searching for some sort of heartfelt inscription, but there was nothing, just the clean white page and the faint smell of new binding.
She put it back down with a sigh.
Then she called Paloma.
“I think she just sent me a cookbook,” she said, without preamble.
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of slow chewing coming through the phone. “Who sent you a cookbook?”
“Who do you think?”
Then came an even longer pause, and Nellie could hear, very clearly, the quality of Paloma’s silence that meant she was making a face. “Sawyer Alburn sent you a cookbook?”
“And an ice pack. And ibuprofen.”
“Hm.” Paloma took another bite of something that sounded like very chewy toast, probably sourdough. “Okay, the ice pack and the ibuprofen are reasonable. That’s someone responding to an injury. Liability, you could argue.”
“You could.”
“The cookbook is not a liability thing.”
“No,” Nellie agreed. “It is not.”
“Nellie.” This was Paloma’s having-considered-from-multiple-angles voice. “What if she’s like… pursuing you?”
“She’s not?—”
“She drove forty-five minutes to deliver diesel. She canceled meetings to walk with you through the forest. And now she’s sending weird gifts?—”
“I don’t think we should read that deep into it.” Nellie cut her friend off before she started making too much sense.
“I’m not saying she has feelings. I’m saying she’sbehavinglike someone who has feelings, and for someone like Sawyer Alburn that may be more alarming.” Nellie heard another crunch and more chewing, and she knew that her best friend was digesting more than just bread. “I think—and I’m saying this out of genuine love for you—you need to be careful. She could be trying to get close to you just so she can sabotage your progress. Her head of development is already trying to wall off your survey.”
“Iknowthat.”
“Do you? Because you said it in the voice you use when you know a thing intellectually and you’re choosing to feel something else about it anyway.”
Nellie didn’t answer immediately. The cookbook sat on the table beside her coordinate annotations, looking unreasonably at home there, which was its own problem.
“I’ll be careful,” she sighed.
“Uh-huh.” Paloma grunted around a mouthful of food. “Ice the ankle.”
“I have a pharmaceutical-grade ice pack.”
“Of course you do.” She slurped at whatever breakfast beverage was accompanying her toast. “Have there been any other hints she might be trying to flirt with you or something?”
“Nope,” Nellie said, immediately.
