July 17
Nik pushed open the door to his apartment, greeted by a blast of “I Put a Spell on You” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. “Gyp,” Nik said sternly as he stepped across the threshold, “you’re in big trouble. I’ve warned you for the last time about romping around the condo near my stereo equipment when I’m not here.”
Inside there was a note taped to the hallway mirror. It was from the dog walker. The note said she had Gyp and they were on a long walk in Rock Creek Park.
“Hello?” Nik called out, sounding perplexed.
“In here.” It was Sam. She was sitting in an armchair by the living room window overlooking the building’s tidy courtyard, dressed in jeans and a peach-colored cotton sweater, a magazine resting in her lap.
“Sam,” Nik said, relief in his voice, “what a wonderful surprise. I’ve been trying to reach you for days to apologize and make things right.”
She gave him a faint smile. “That’s not why I came by, Nik.”
“Oh,” Nik said and sank into his couch, a worried look on his face. “Why, then?”
“To return some of your things that you left at my house,” Sam said and motioned to a box on the far side of the room that Nik had not noticed, “and to explain to you, even though I don’t believe I owe you an explanation, why Chase was at my place that day.”
“I see. How’s he doing?” Nik asked and winced.
“He’s better. He’s scheduled to get a walking boot. Doctors told him the steel plate would make his ankle even stronger than it was before the break.”
“I feel terrible about what happened. Give him my best.”
“Not sure it’d be appreciated,” she said.
Nik asked, “Want something to drink?”
“Sparkling water would be nice, if you have any.”
Nik got two bottles out of the refrigerator, opened them, and handed one to Sam. “So, Chase?”
Sam took a slow drink from the bottle and set it down on a side table. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but when I quit my job at the Washington Post, I left without giving notice. Fact is, I walked out one day and never went back.”
“I knew it was abrupt,” Nik said.
Sam had been romantically involved with another Post reporter, Gregg Robbins, who was killed when he stepped off a turboprop plane and inexplicably walked directly into the aircraft’s churning blades. Sam had not seriously dated anyone for two years after that, until Nik came along.
“I left everything behind at the Post. My editor kept my desk untouched for a couple months in case I came back. Eventually the company moved all my belongings to storage. From time to time over the years, someone from the Post would call and leave a message asking me what I wanted them to do with my things. I never returned the calls.”
“I wasn’t aware.”
“After I saw Chase at your baseball game, I phoned him and asked if he’d go into storage and retrieve some of the more personal items I left behind. That’s what he was doing. Returning my things to me. As a favor.”
Sam sighed and turned back to the window. She knew she could have asked any number of former colleagues to collect her belongings, but she’d chosen to call Chase. That was no accident, and she was all but certain he’d jump at the chance to hand deliver the items to her home. At least, that’s what she suspected and even, at some level, anticipated.
“Sam . . . ,” Nik began.
“Not now, Nik. I put your clothes, a couple books, DVDs, dog leash, toothbrush, a baseball glove in the box. I think that’s everything.”
Sam stood and headed for the door, but before walking out, she dropped Nik’s apartment keys on the coffee table. She felt vaguely sad, but mostly what she felt was relieved.