Pale Phoenix (10 page)

"Like a bib, you mean?" she teased. "To catch all the hamburger grease and ketchup?"

"Don't you have an evening gown or something?"

"Listen, I'll wash my jeans in your honor."

She had decided only minutes ago to attempt a festive look. After all, usually Mrs. Hooton cooked for the family. This was a special effort Dan was making, and she wanted to show she appreciated it. After dinner they'd probably go up to his room to listen to music the way they usually did.
Maybe he'll give me another back rub.

She heard a tinkle of keys, and Abby's piano music flooded the house with ragtime. The bouncy, toe-tapping beat made Miranda's head ache. She turned from the mirror, grabbed her usual baggy green sweater out of the bottom drawer of her dresser, and pulled it on. This would have to do. She threaded silver earrings in her ears, left the dressy blouses crumpled on the bed, and hurried downstairs.

Her parents were shimmying around the kitchen while they prepared dinner together. They waved from the doorway as Miranda shrugged into her heavy coat and boots.
What
goofs.
She left the house, pulling the heavy front door closed on the rollicking piano music. She trudged across the street, snow crunching underfoot. Her headache receded as Dan opened the door even before she pressed the bell. Light from the house shone out in warm welcome around him.

He looks different,
thought Miranda, studying him. Although he wore his usual jeans, his shirt was one she had never seen before, and he had borrowed one of his father's corduroy jackets. Dan's dark hair was carefully combed, and he smelled faintly of some unidentifiable after-shave. Miranda wondered whether he really did shave and, if so, why he had never told her about it before. It was the sort of news they would have shared—before.
Before things started changing between us,
she thought. She smiled at him, suddenly regretting the baggy green sweater after all.

"Right on time," he said, and ushered her into the front hall.

"You said seven on the dot, and so here I am." She unzipped her coat, looking around for the other Hootons. Usually Buddy was the first to bound into the hall to greet her. But only Dan was there. "Where's Buddy? Where are your parents?"

"We have the house to ourselves." He actually helped her take off her coat. She looked at him incredulously. Should she offer him the chance to remove her boots as well? But he made no move toward her feet, so she slipped the boots off herself, and started through the dining room to the big, cozy kitchen.

"No, wait," he said, catching her elbow. "In here."

Surprised, she followed him into the living room. The cavernous living room was not often used at the Hootons' in winter because it was too large to be heated properly in cold weather. The big double doors into the front hall were normally kept closed, the draperies pulled across the long windows, and the upholstered furniture covered with old sheets to keep off the dust. In warmer months the room was a gathering place for the whole family, but winter found them back in the old-fashioned kitchen, seated around the old oak table or curled up on the battered couch.

Miranda raised her brows now as she took in the changes in the living room. Two-thirds of the room remained in shadow, the furniture still covered with sheets. But the far section of the room beckoned warmly. Dan had pulled a table close to the roaring fire in the large brick fireplace and set it with a linen cloth and what Miranda thought she recognized as Mrs. Hooton's best antique china. Long tapered candles in silver holders stood sentry on the table next to a bouquet of dried flowers. Dan had pulled a love seat close to the fireplace and piled pillows and an afghan on the floor. Soft light beckoned Miranda onward across the room till she stood before the fire.

"This is—nice," she said to Dan, who was looking at her expectantly. "But a little strange. I mean—why in here? Why not in the kitchen—as usual?"

"I don't want things to be usual," answered Dan. "My parents and Buddy are in Cambridge until tomorrow night. I wanted some time with you. Without parents and little brothers. Or Abby. You know,
alone.
"

Miranda smiled slowly at him, but felt cut off from the rest of the world here in this big, shadowy room, with the rest of the house stretching endlessly around them. Her own parents and Abby in their kitchen across the street seemed miles away.

"What's wrong?" asked Dan. "Don't you like a little atmosphere to set the mood?"

"The mood for what?"

"For dinner, of course," said Dan. "Do you want some wine?"

Miranda shook her head, gazing at him steadily. "No thanks."

"Come on, not even a drop?" He walked over to the table and poured a glass of red wine. "It's called retsina, and it's supposed to go with the meal." Dan swirled the wine in the glass, then held it up to the fire. "Look at that. Isn't it beautiful?"

"It is, but I'll just have water." Miranda could hear the wind rise outside the heavily curtained windows, could sense the whirl of white as the snow blew up from the drifts.

"Water's not right on a night like this. I'll warm up some apple cider." Dan left the wine glass on the table and crossed the room to switch on some music. The strains of a Vivaldi concerto filled the room. "
The Four Seasons,
" Dan said. "To bring a little bit of spring into winter."

"My favorite music," murmured Miranda.

"I know," said Dan with satisfaction. "Now, dinner is just about ready, so you wait here and I'll heat up the cider and bring everything in."

"Can't I help?"

"No, you just hang out here by the fire and stay warm. I'll only be a minute."

He left the room and Miranda sank onto the pillows in front of the fireplace. She listened to the music and thought how long it had been since she'd played her flute. Mrs. Wainwright was getting impatient.

Miranda watched the flames and waited for Dan. The candles on the table flickered. In the dim light the mounds of covered furniture were distant hills. The table and love seat, gilded by firelight, formed a shelter. The Vivaldi soothed her. It erased Abby's thumping piano from her head.

In a few minutes Dan returned with a tray of steaming food. He set it on the table with a flourish. She blinked, turning from the fire as if coming out of a trance, and stood to help him serve the meal.

He had worked hard, she saw that immediately. One large bowl held fluffy rice, another a green salad with tomatoes and wrinkled olives. Small bowls held crumbled feta cheese and nuts. There was a casserole of layered lamb, eggplant, and mushrooms in a thick sauce of cheese and garlic and basil. The aroma made Miranda's mouth water.

"This is called moussaka," Dan said, scooping up a slice of the casserole and putting it on her plate. "It's Greek."

"Well, I'm impressed," she admitted.

"I was going to try to make something called dolmas," he told her, "which are grape leaves wrapped around a filling—but this seemed a better bet."

"How did you learn to cook like this? Are you sure your mom isn't hiding out in the kitchen? The last food you cooked me was—" She broke off, and he grinned.

"You mean the hamburger mixed with tuna? That was when I was a mere child."

"Yeah—last August!"

Their laughter relaxed them and dispelled the formal feeling. They sat down to eat, chatting as comfortably as always. Dan inquired about things at home, how Abby was doing, but Miranda shook her head. "Don't ask. I just want one night of peace when I don't have to look at Abby or hear Abby or talk about Abby! I don't even want to
think
about Abby."

Dan held out his hands as if to fend her off. "Okay, okay, the name won't pass my lips again tonight."

Miranda looked at him slyly over the flickering candles. "What name?"

They talked about the Prindle House project, about school, about the upcoming dance. "Let's go to the dance with Susannah and the kids from the school newspaper," suggested Miranda. "Unless Susannah goes alone with Dave Dunlop. I know that's what she's hoping."

Dan frowned. "That egomaniac? I don't know what girls see in him. He's such a jerk. I think she should come with us."

But Miranda remembered how eagerly Susannah spoke of going out on real dates soon—alone with a boy. She didn't seem content anymore with their group activities. "In any case, the dance will be fun—even if we can't dance very well."

"Who says we can't dance?"

"Oh—nobody." Miranda cast Abby's mocking smile resolutely out of her mind.

After dinner Dan cleared the table, refusing Miranda's offers of help. She settled herself on the love seat, but when Dan returned with a plate of little cakes, he sat on the floor in front of the fire and patted the space next to him.

She slid to the floor and pushed a pillow against the love seat behind her back. They watched the fire, and Miranda was freshly aware of the empty house all around them. "Well, that was really a great meal," she said to break the silence. "You get an A+."

"I'll be sure to tell my mom when she gets home." He held out the plate of cakes. "These are baklava."

"What do you mean, tell your mom?" Miranda bit into one of the sweet pastries concocted of layers of tissue-thin dough, sugar, cinnamon, chopped nuts, and honey. The bite melted in her mouth. "Mmmm," she said. "Are you telling me your mom cooked these after all?"

"No, I did it all myself. But Mom bought the food and helped me plan the menu."

"You mean, she knew you were cooking tonight? She knew I was coming over for dinner?"

Dan glanced at her. "What do you think?"

Miranda relaxed a little. "Oh, I don't know. I guess I thought this was some big secret. Like maybe we were sneaking around and they weren't supposed to know."

"Of course they knew you were coming over." He smiled a little self-consciously and added, "Well, I
didn't
tell them I was going to use the living room, and I didn't tell them—"

"About the wine."

"Well, yeah." He hesitated. "But I wanted the meal to be special, Mandy. Really special."

"It was delicious. I told you, I'm totally impressed."

"No, I don't just mean the food. I guess I wanted..." His voice trailed off. He kept his eyes on the flames. "I wanted the whole night to be special. You know."

Miranda was silent.

"You look really nice tonight, Mandy. I really like that sweater. Is it new?" He reached over and put his arm around her shoulders.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Dan, I've worn this sweater just about every day of my life."

He removed his arm and laughed awkwardly. He made her feel awkward, too. They both listened to the wind whistling around the corner of the house. "Nice weather we're having," he said suddenly.

"Now I know you're a lunatic," she said. "I thought so before, but I wasn't sure. Now it's confirmed."

Dan scowled at her. "Look, can't you help me out at all? If you won't talk about your clothes or the weather, then we'll have to talk about current events. I can't do this if you won't cooperate."

"Dan Hooton, I don't know what you're talking about! What's your problem?"

He sighed and pulled her into his arms. He pressed his lips against her hair. "Oh, damn it, Mandy. I sometimes wish you hadn't moved here just across the street, that we hadn't been friends for so long. It would be easier if I'd met you at school. Then I could ask you out for a date—just us, all alone—and not feel like I was breaking some sacred trust."

She pulled back a little, enough to see his face but not far enough that he had to let go of her. "I know what you mean," she murmured. "We know each other too well. It's like you're my brother—no, not really, but you know what I mean."

"Susannah's not the only one who wouldn't mind splitting from the pack," he said. "It's just harder for me with you." He released her and tugged a thin booklet out of his back pocket. "Here, look at this. Everything a guy could want to know. You can see how desperate I am for advice."

She took the booklet and read the title aloud, laughing. "
Every High School Boy's Guide to Social Occasions.
Oh, Dan!"

"It's from the museum—copyright 1951. Tells you how to make conversation on a date. Talk about the girl's clothes. Talk about the weather. Talk about current events." Then he grinned ruefully. "But it doesn't tell you what to do if the girl won't follow the script."

Miranda was giggling uncontrollably now; she couldn't help it. "Nice after-shave you're wearing! Nice weather we're having! What do you think about the situation in the Middle East?"

Dan grabbed her again, and they rolled back onto the floor, gasping with laughter, crazy with the sheer stupidity of social games. Finally they quieted, looked at each other, then away at the flickering fire, then back again.

Though it felt strange being so close, to hold Dan next to her this way, Miranda knew she could very easily—and very happily—get used to this new stage of their friendship. She did not have any friend she loved so well as Dan. Even Susannah, with whom she shared many interests, did not come close to being the special companion she had in Dan. Companion, and now maybe something more.

They kissed then, a long kiss that left Miranda near tears. Dan was silent a long moment after they sat apart again. Then he put more wood on the fire and poked it into flame. Miranda listened to the wind outside and thought now it sounded friendly—like the whisper of a treasured friend.

"How about a back rub?" she asked him suddenly.

He turned with a pleased smile. "Sure thing. Lie down."

"No," she told him. "You lie down this time."

His eyes lit up and he lay down obediently in front of the fire. She sat on him and pounded his shoulders.

"How about we ditch the newspaper staff?" asked Dan after a moment. "And try to get Susannah to the dance with Dave Dunlop after all? Then you and I can go together. Just us."

"You mean on a real date?" She kneaded his muscles smoothly.

"You got it." He turned over and sat up so he could see her face.