Tonight, however, I’ve been handed a gift. The job offer, regardless of my tenuous interest, might be just the excuse I’ve needed to reach out to hear how he’s been faring.

If nothing else, it could provide a chance to—

“Bath’s all yours!” The unseen boarder gives me a courtesy knock from the hall, then her steps shuffle away.

My rejuvenating soak is waiting.

As is the telephone downstairs.

I release a breath and rise to my feet. Surrendering the seclusion of my room, I head toward the door.

***

In the study, a lamp’s glass mosaic shade casts ghostly streaks over the ceiling-high shelves. From a painted portrait on the wall, the black eyes of a mustached dignitary stare down, accusing.

The instant the operator connects the call, launching a series of strident rings, my throat goes dry. Seated at the telephone table, I yearn for a cup of water, a pitcher. Scents of lemon oil and aged books further strangle the air.

There’s still time to hang up and leave well enough alone. My two-handed grasp on the handset alternately tightens and loosens from a mental skirmish that halts when the call to his apartment is answered.

“Jansen here.”

Despite my sprinting pulse, Arie’s velvety rasp eases something inside me. Even as a young boy, he possessed that ability, the soothing timbre.

“Anyone there?”

I realize I haven’t spoken.

“Hello…” My greeting barely surpasses a whisper. I try again. “Arie, hi. It’s—”

“I know.” His voice thins, hollow with shock. After four years with no word from me, the reaction is natural.

Then comes a noise—is it a click? The operator switching off? I’m gripped by fear that Arie has hung up. Only traces of his breathing assure me that he hasn’t.

Yet.

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I know it’s rather late.” I’d considered the hour briefly but was certain from experience my resolve wouldn’t last the night.

“I was up.”

“Oh…right. Silly me. Of course you were.”

Ever a restless sleeper, he’d often receive chidings from his mother over his morning grumpiness. From the next room, I’d hear her liken him to a bear, her accent labeling him an “angry berry.”

My smile at the memory withers in the silence, as does the speech I mentally rehearsed before daring to make the call. Say something, Fenna! Talk.

“Tell me, how have you been?”

A pause. “I’m fine.”

“That’s marvelous. And your parents? They’re well?”

“Yeah,” he says. Nothing more.

I wonder if he knows I send them funds when I’m able, against his father’s insistence. It’s hardly a fortune but the least I can do.

I mention only, “I ring them to check in. From the road. When I can.”

“I’ve heard.”