I dimmed the overhead lights and turned on the old brass lamp near the harbor windows. Its amber glow softened the room. I placed the food in ceramic bowls, hid the takeout containers, and set out the pear soda in short tumblers.
Then I remembered the dessert.
I put it in the refrigerator.
Noah returned wearing a dark cardigan over his shirt.
He stopped when he saw the arrangement.
“You changed the room.”
“Only temporarily.”
The chairs faced the windows.
Beyond the glass, evening gathered over the marina. Rain clouds broke above the western headland, leaving a narrow strip of copper light near the horizon. Boat masts stood black against it.
“This is nice,” Noah said.
Relief loosened something in me.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Too dim?”
“No.”
“Do you need the green lamp?”
His gaze moved toward the hallway.
“Leave it on.”
I did.
He maneuvered beside one chair, transferred with my help, and settled with his injured side supported by cushions.
I placed the tray across his lap.
“What is everything?”
“Lamb with preserved lemon. Rice with herbs. Carrots. Flatbread. A chickpea dish that may be too spicy.”
“You’re not telling me what I used to order.”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
“Scientific.”
He tasted the rice first.
Then the lamb.
His face gave nothing away.
