The stories. He sighed. Oh, the stories. He started at the top of the pile. “The Dancing Banana Woman.” Oh, God. The naïve, unschooled prose. The knee-jerk misogyny, the oblivious racism. The odd turns of phrase and lines lifted wholesale from some shabby paperback or other. And then he’d read all the stories, eaten all the pancakes, and was in need of a compensatory Scotch.

That evening, Mrs. Park returned. Raymond had washed and dried her pink melamine platter, and it sat on the demi-lune console by his door waiting for her.

“Thank you for the pancakes. They were scrumptious.”

He handed back the set of stories, which he seemed to have ironed flat for her. He’d also secured them with a black binder clip.

“And thank you so much for sharing your husband’s stories.”

“Oh! You finish!” She hugged the sheets. “Maybe you can help for selling?”

Raymond chuckled instinctively, then caught himself. The woman was dead serious.

“Would you like to step inside? I only have mint tea to offer you, but maybe we could have a quick little chat.”

Mrs. Park sat lightly on the red leather chesterfield. The dents her heels made in Raymond’s thick Chinese rug made her feel like a barbarian, yet he wouldn’t let her take them off. She sipped at the mint tea, wiping away traces of lipstick on the bone china with the piece of tissue she’d kept in her bra. She observed how he held his teacup with his pinky aloft and she did the same.

His house was at least twice as large as hers. Even the paint on the walls looked expensive. Built-in bookcases were everywhere. Many of the books had matching spines containing the words Raymond van der Holt.

“What type of books you write?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . One could say they’re all love stories, essentially.”

“Oh! Romance!”

“Well . . .”

“What is your name?”

“Raymond van der Holt. There—you can see my name emblazoned on all the books in this room. Awfully narcissistic, I suppose you’re thinking, but I spare myself the embarrassment by never having people over.” He glanced at her. No reaction. “I may even have Japanese editions of my novels upstairs. But I don’t suppose they’ll be of any use to you.”

She pointed at the framed picture of a young man on his grand piano. “Your son?”

“No, I’m afraid that’s Marlon Brando.” When she drew a blank, he explained, “In his earlier, funnier days.”

“You play piano?”

“Alas, you shame me again, Mrs. Park. I don’t. That’s set decoration. Like the books. And the photo.”

“Is nice piano.”

Raymond cleared his throat. “About your husband’s stories, Mrs. Park . . .”

She put her teacup down and held herself up.

“They no good, right?” She had an I’m-tough-I-can-take-it grimace.

“They were very entertaining. You should be proud of your husband.”