Free The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello

first inclination was to say six-thirty, the time they usually ate at home, but partly because he felt she might have predicted that too, and partly because he thought it might sound unsophisticatedly early, he amended it to seven-thirty. On an impulse, he asked what time his grandfather had usually had dinner.
    “Ten o'clock, maybe eleven. It was always different. Mostly he liked his food cold—cold lamb, cold chicken.” The timer buzzed. “Tonight,” she said, opening the door of the oven and peering in, “I get to show off.” She turned the temperature dial to off.
    Meg was rather subdued when Peter went back up to the room; she was leafing through a copy of American Heritage she'd taken from the study.
    Peter snapped his fingers and said, “I must be losing my mind.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I went downstairs to ask Leah where the key was to that locked bookcase under the painting, and I forgot to ask her.”
    “You told her we'd be here for dinner?”
    “Yes.” Meg turned another page. “That's okay, isn't it?”
    She murmured her assent. He was about to ask if she'd enjoyed her bath, then decided it might be best not to bring it up. He went into the bathroom to wash—the sink was as large as their kitchen counter at home—then out onto the terrace until the evening air became too chill. It was a relief to both of them whenLeah rapped lightly on the half-open door, earlier than they'd expected her to, to tell them everything was ready downstairs.
    She had set two places for them at one end of the dining room table, with lighted candles and, as a centerpiece of sorts, the platter of fruit and cheese, studded now with bright black olives. They sat down, self-consciously, in the hard straight-backed chairs, while Leah brought out bowls of the egg-and-lemon soup.
    “Smells wonderful,” said Meg, unfolding her linen napkin.
    Leah smiled. “It's an old Greek favorite. We call it avgolemono.”
    As they bent their heads to take the first spoonful, their eyes met, and the strangeness, even absurdity, of the situation—the two of them being served ancient Greek specialties, by a maid or cook or whatever you wanted to call her, in a house the size of the college conservatory, a house that belonged to them yet—was too much, and they exchanged a look of affectionate confederacy. Meg stretched out one leg under the table and touched his foot with her own. Whatever tension there had been between them even an hour before seemed to evaporate; feeling like two imposters known only to each other, they sipped the hot and fragrant soup.
    In the kitchen, they could hear Leah opening the oven and removing the pastitsio. Then they heard her say something, and another voice, Nikos's, answer. There was the jangling sound of his boot clasps, and then with a bump the swinging door opened and Nikos appeared, dressed exactly as he had been that afternoon but with a red bandanna tied around his neck, and clutching in one hand a bulbous straw-covered wine bottle.
    "Yasou,” he exclaimed, waving the bottle. “I knew that you would be too much in love with this place togo back to . . .” He waved the bottle again, to indicate that he'd forgotten where. He plopped the bottle down on the table. “You cannot eat without also drinking. This I have made myself.”
    Neither Peter nor Meg knew what to say; Nikos grunted and, taking their silence for assent, popped the cork with one thumb and hastily filled their empty wine goblets.
    Peter hadn't had even a beer since the night of the accident, and Meg had no idea what he'd do now; she fumbled for some excuse he could use. “Peter,” she said, “do you think you ought to—” She was going to add something about medication and mixing it with alcohol, but he had already taken the glass in his hand and, with Nikos's stubby fingers planted on his shoulder, raised it to his lips.
    “ Stin eeya sas— drink up!”
    Meg raised her own glass and watched with concern as Peter tilted the