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I nodded. “In the middle of the night,” I said.
“How did you get him to serve you?”
I shrugged. “I have magical powers.”
He nodded, putting the claw back in the bag.
“No arguments here,” he said. “That was sweet of you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, smiling, like it was no big deal. It fact, it had been a fairly exhausting ordeal that ended with me begging Lasse for a few small claws, being forced to barter them for several items I had no idea how I’d get my hands on, including a first edition copy of my newspaper and a Jack Nicholson autograph.
I stood up, and headed toward the stove, firing it up. “So what do you say?” I asked. “Can I make you some eggs?”
“Annie, you don’t have to do that.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “I want to. I’m starving too. I mean, it goes without saying that they may not turn out as good as yours did, but you never know, right? I do have the magical claws on my side.”
This was when I opened the refrigerator, and saw what I didn’t have on my side, what it turned out was missing. Maybe the most obvious thing. The eggs.
“We have no eggs?” I said.
Griffin smiled. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”
It was too much. I sat down, depleted, my head falling into my hands.
“Who has no eggs?” I asked. “And do we know anyone who can put us in touch with Jack Nicholson?”
He looked at me, confused, and then reached over and put his hand on my arm, calming me. “It’s okay,” he said.
I shook my head. “You don’t understand,” I said. “I wanted to do one thing right. I thought if I could do one thing right . . .”
“You do a lot of things right,” he said.
“But I ruined your night, or Nick ruined it. And I couldn’t stop that.” I looked right at him. “I am so sorry about that, Griffin. I’m so sorry. You have no idea how much I want to make it okay.”
“I have an idea.”
“You do?” I said. “So you’re not mad?”
He gave me a look, just a flash, which let me know he was. Then he looked back at his coffee mug, which was getting dangerously close to empty.
“Mad might not be the right word,” he said.
“What is, then?”
Griffin walked over to the stove, and started to pour himself some more coffee—reaching in the cupboard to get another mug, and bring some over to me too.
“Michael from your paper came in after you left,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, it taking me a minute to connect the dots—the many Michaels I knew at work, until I could picture him: a small guy, originally from Martha’s Vineyard, who wrote the “Wine & Spirits” column. “Michael Thomas?” I said. “The wine critic?”
He nodded, taking his seat again, handing over my mug.
“He was visiting his daughter at Smith College. Thought he’d check out the restaurant, see if he could find an angle to write about it.” He paused, putting his coffee mug to his lips. “He asked me to congratulate you on your promotion.”
I looked up at him, but he wasn’t meeting my eyes.
“They offered you a job in London?”
