“What about this one?” An accompanying photograph looked like a Georgia O’Keeffe–esque orchid which, of course, meant that it looked like a vulva. “What’s this one of?”
Kia started fussing with a loose drawer pull.
“It’s just a flower with petals that… It doesn’t look like… That’s not why I bought it. I like the purple.” She looked like she’d die from blushing.
Sullivan wasn’t sure what game they were playing, but Kia wasn’t good at it.
“You can dish it, but you can’t take it.”
“Dish what?”
“Light my crème brûlée on fire,” Sullivan said, as if to herself. “Tsk. Tsk.”
Sullivan had definitely won this round.
“The thing I really want for Old Girl is the 1968 Wind Searcher Pop-Up Pavilion,” Kia said too loudly. “They only made them for one year. They’re these pop-up pergola-type things that you mount on top of the RV. Then you can sleep up there or just sit and watch the sunset, and there’s no way anything can get you.”
“Like people?”
“Like snakes. And you can hang netting to keep out bugs. I’ve been looking for one for years.”
“If you don’t want the snakes and the bugs, why do you go camping?” Sullivan had to ask.
“I don’t camp.”
“So this RV is for…?”
“My home.”
Kia hadn’t had a chance to study Sullivan’s house when she’d stumbled in covered in mud and determined to secure an engagement, like some odd version of a Jane Austen heroine. Now she followed Sullivan in. The house definitely said old money, but in a cozy way. Miele appliances gleamed in the kitchen. The marble counters were spotless. White ceramic trays in the windowsills held a variety of greens that blended into the greenery outside the windows, giving the space a springlike feel.
“That’s the kitchen,” Sullivan said, although it was obvious. “Don’t cut directly on the marble. Knives are hand-wash.”
“Chef Sullivan, you dragging me? That’s low.” Kia stepped in front of Sullivan, smiling to let her know she was trying to play. “As if I would cut on your marble and then throw the knives in the dishwasher. I was not raised in a barn.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Sullivan’s mouth.
“I don’t know. Someone who’d forget to calibrate the dough sheeter before running their puff pastry dough…”
“That was one time,” Kia complained.
“And who saved your ass before you ruined the whole batch?”
“You did.” Kia pretended to huff. “But who saved your ass every time you forgot the aromatics in your beef bourguignon? How could you forgeteverytime?”
“I was just testing you to see if you cared,” Sullivan said.
“I cared.”
“I know.” They froze for a second. Had they just had a moment?
Sullivan whirled away as if to deny what she had just said. “I try to do as much by hand as I can, but there’s a stand mixer up there.” She pointed to a cupboard. “And in the pantry I’ve got a sous vide, blender, immersion blender, food processor, mandoline. Wine fridge is over there. Help yourself.” She paused as if a wearisome thought had crossed her mind. “Opal and Nina think I should be drinking at the Tennis Skort.”
“Because you drink…” Kia opened the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. “Two thousand fourteen Gevrey-Chambertin alone?”
“No, because they think I should meet someone.” Sullivan looked like she hadn’t meant to say it. She pressed her lips together, searching the ceiling. “I guess I have.” Sullivan turned away. “There’s the living room.”
The living room was comfortably cluttered. A chenille blanket pooled at one end of the sofa. Built-in bookshelves housed photographs and ephemera: driftwood, stones, pottery vases of dried herbs. A record player sat on an ornate cabinet by the window, records in sleeves spilling out on the floor in front of it. A surprisingly lacy bra draped over the back of the staircase banister. And two life-sized abstract nudes framed a large fireplace.
