Steven James - The Knight

“Cooking.”

“Cooking?”

“Yeah,” she said. “C’mon in.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Uh-huh. Do you want a glass of wine or something with your meal?”

I joined her in the kitchen and saw that the table was set for two. Our finest plates. One wine glass, one can of root beer. “Tessa, what’s going on?”

She blinked. “I made supper.”

“You hate cooking.”

“I’m branching out.” She held up two wine bottles. “Red or white?”

I gazed around the kitchen, tried to take everything in. The salad. The simmering sauce. The bowl of noodles. “I thought you and Dora were going out for supper and then seeing a movie?”

“We cancelled.” She waved the ladle toward the stove, sending drops of red sauce splattering across the tiling. “I kept the sauce simmering to keep it warm.”

I had no idea what to say.

“This is great and everything, but I have dinner plans already.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promised someone I’d meet them for dinner.”

“Oh.” She lowered the ladle. Set it down. “OK.” Slowly, she turned toward the stove and then shut off the burner that was warming the sauce.

“No, listen. I’m impressed, though, that you made dinner. I mean, it looks great, really.”

Her back was to me. “No, it’s no big deal. Seriously.”

Oh boy.

“Hey, look. I’ll cancel. It’s OK. I’ll just call my friend and tell them-”

“Is it a woman?” Tessa still hadn’t turned around.

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is that I told him-her-whoever it was that I’d eat in their general vicinity.”

Tessa faced me. “Their general vicinity?”

“Yes.”

“You may not have noticed, but you keep switching the case of your personal pronouns from singular to plural, using ‘them’ and ‘their’ to refer to individuals. You wouldn’t bother doing that if you were eating out with one of the guys, so I’m guessing you’re having dinner with a woman.” She folded her arms. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It’s a professional acquaintance.”

“A female one.”

“Well, it’s-”

“Is it a date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“What is it?”

“Dinner.”

“A dinner date.”

“No.”

She cocked her head. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m positive. It’s not a date.”

“Good.” She pulled off the apron and draped it over the top of one of the chairs beside the table. “Then I can come too.”

“Um, maybe it is a date.”

“Too late. I’m coming. Just gimme a sec to grab my purse.”

She disappeared into the other room.

What just happened here?

“Tessa, I’ll cancel!” I called.

“Naw, it’s all right. I don’t mind eating out,” she yelled back. “We can have the spaghetti tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about-”

“So, Detective Warren, huh?” She was shouting to me from behind her bedroom door. “Is she that cute redhead who was at the newspaper office?”

I rubbed my forehead. This can’t be happening. “I’m serious, I’ll just call her and-”

“That’s rude. Keep your word. Go on your date.”

It’s not a date!

OK, so options: (1) cancel eating in the vicinity of Cheyenne; (2) lay down the law with Tessa, tell her you’re going out and that she needs to stay here-but that would mean leaving her alone with her thoughts of that pot of basil. Besides we’d argued earlier in the day about the diary, and it might be nice to spend time with her tonight letting her know that I wasn’t mad at her.

I headed to my bedroom. “All right, you can come,” I said to her door. “We leave in twenty minutes.”

“Sweetness.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower and get cleaned up-I was almost burned alive this afternoon.”

“Cool.”

I stopped and stared at the door. “It’s cool that I was almost burned alive?”

“That you were almost burned alive.” The door opened a crack, and her head appeared. “If you had been, it would have totally sucked.”

Oh. Well in that case.

She ducked back inside.

I showered, changed clothes, and when I returned to the kitchen I found that Tessa had put the food away. Then we left to pick up Cheyenne.

Steven James

The Knight

I knocked on the door to Cheyenne’s condo.

On the drive over, I’d borrowed Tessa’s cell and called Cheyenne to tell her about the slight change of plans, but she hadn’t answered. I’d left two voicemails, but she hadn’t returned either of them.

She opened the door. “Hey.”

I hardly recognized her. She wore a stunning black dress that accentuated all the right parts of her figure in all the right ways. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear makeup before, but maybe she thought this was a special occasion. She looked gorgeous.

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know cowgirls dressed like that.”

“I told you before, I’m hard to pigeonhole. How are those arms of yours?”

“Excuse me?”

“The burns.”

“Oh. Yes. Good,” I said. “Hey, um, did you get my message?” “Message?”

“Voicemail. I called you about-well, it doesn’t matter. I was just trying to tell you that my plans had changed a little.” I stepped aside and gestured toward the car. Tessa rolled down the backseat window and waved two fingers at us. “We have company.”

“It’s Tessa.”

I tried to read her tone of voice, but I couldn’t tell what she might have been thinking.

“Listen,” I said. “It’s kind of a long story. If this isn’t going to work, it’s OK. We can just postpone-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Cheyenne stepped onto the porch and swung the door shut behind her. Started for the car. “Like you told Reggie, it’s not a date.”

And the night was off to a brilliant start.

On the way to the restaurant, Tessa just happened to mention that she was a vegetarian and just happened to ask if the place we were eating at would be serving any recently slaughtered calves or other inhumanely treated, brutally murdered animals because if they were, it might-she was sorry-but it might totally make her sick.

“We’re letting Detective Warren choose the restaurant,” I told Tessa, remembering that Cheyenne had told me she wanted to go to a steak place near Union Station. “So wherever she wants to go, we go. And I don’t think vegetarian is on the menu.”

I parked in front of Sahib’s Vegan Cuisine and sighed, but I managed not to say anything as we climbed out of the car.

After we were seated and had given our drink and appetizer orders to the server, Tessa gazed around admiringly. “This place rocks. I’ve never been here before.”

“Best Indian restaurant in Denver,” Cheyenne said.

“Thanks for, you know, choosing…”

“You’re welcome.”

Tessa leaned toward Cheyenne. “Patrick’s been to India four times.”

Cheyenne gave me an approving nod. “Really?”

“Just to do a little teaching and consulting in Mumbai. It wasn’t really a big deal-”

“Sure it was,” Tessa interrupted. “He helped catch five people who were kidnapping girls and selling them into the sex trade.”

Cheyenne looked at me solemnly. “That is something to be proud of.” I sensed a depth of emotion in her words I’d never heard her express before. “I mean that.”

“Thank you.”

Then the drinks and naan arrived and we ordered our food. I don’t remember the Indian names for everything, but the names didn’t really matter. Everything was pretty much just vegetables and rice. Not steak. Not even close.