Page 21 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

Silly human. He doesn’t understand that there are not enough jewels in the world to put a beauty like Andrea with a beast like me.

I brought flowers, anyway. I didn’t want to be rude and not bring a gift. I didn’t want to bring food, in case that indicated that I didn’t trust her cooking, or maybe that I’m too rigid to try the food of her culture. I don’t bring a bottle of wine, even though I’ve seen a few movies where guests bring that to the host of a meal, because what if that makes it seem as though I want Andrea to get tipsy and then...

“Hi!” Andrea greets me with a wide smile, apron on over a black sundress and flip-flop shoes that I think are probably supposed to be sexy, not functional. They look almost painful to wear, and I have the mad desire to tell her to put on slippers and be comfy in her own home. I’m not here to be impressed.

But I am. “Hi. That smells so good!” I can’t keep the note of appreciation out of my voice, even as my nose betrays me, and I start sniffing like a hungry stray dog.

“It’s not fancy, but it is really good,” Andrea chuckles, welcoming me inside.

“Here.” I thrust the bouquet of summer flowers at her—pinks and purples, oranges and whites.

“Oh. Oh, these are so beautiful, Gordon!” she exclaims. Her eyes are bright, and her smile brighter, but then it all goes still.

“Are you allergic?” I demand, wondering if this could turn into an EpiPen situation.

“No. No, I just realized that no one ever brought me flowers except at recitals. I always had to earn them, and this is... this is so nice, to have the flowers without the stress first,” she laughs, hurrying away.

The cat circles my legs, purring loudly. I bend down to give him a single, quick pet, but that’s not enough. The feline rubs his little face all over my ankle, shedding on my dark blue pants. “I don’t have any catnip,” I whisper. “Next time, okay?”

Except there won’t be a next time.

And that makes me go still, too.

“Is Chopin bothering you?” Andrea asks, pulling a simple glass vase down from a neat, sparsely filled cabinet.

“No, he’s being very friendly.” Like his owner. “I was just thinking that this... this will be the first time anyone has ever made me a home-cooked meal.”

“Since you moved out? Or to Pine Ridge?”

“Uh. No. My mother didn’t cook.” I blink away images of raw cuts of meat, fresh kills, blood dripping over the table, my mother devouring everything with savage anger, and my father picking at his meal. He eventually convinced her to try meat from the store. She still didn’t want it cooked. She still found the idea of serving food ridiculous. Un-troll-like.

“Your mother never... Or father?” Andrea puts the flowers in the vase with a horrified look.

“No. She... She was into the raw diet,” I bend the truth. “There was always food, don’t get me wrong. It just wasn’t made with any kind of love. Or heat.”

“Well, I hope this is good. It’s a good kind of spice, but I wouldn’t call it too hot, though,” Andrea says, gesturing to a covered ceramic casserole dish in the center of her small table.

It looks so pretty. She put so much effort into this. For me. I don’t understand why, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe for an hour, I can just pretend it’s okay to like this little bit of softness, this little taste of friendship.

“You have a piano. A big one,” I say, sitting down, then standing up like I’m spring-loaded, remembering that a lady sits first.

“I know... It’s why I’m too broke to go on another vacation.” She puts the vase on the table, stopping to smell the flowers, her eyes closed. “I bought a piano, a good one, as good as I could anyway. It’s used, but has a beautiful tone.” She moves to the piano, which is near the dining room table in this rather small apartment, and runs her fingers over the keys, her feather-light touches pulling out a snatch of music that I heard today.

“Chopin’s Nocturne. I don’t know which one, though,” I say, pleased I know something of her craft and her favorite composer.

Andrea looks at me, frozen in place, hand on the edge of the piano. “Yeah. It is. In E-Flat Major.”

“I like that one. I like his mazurkas, too.”

“You know Chopin?” she asks, slowly sinking into a chair.

“I do after today. I, uh, listened to a lot of piano playlists while I was prepping paperwork for the 4th of July event at the high school.”

“That’s... That’s a huge bunch of brownie points,” she murmurs, lifting the lid off the casserole dish and letting heavenly steam escape.

“Forget the brownies, I want that,” I almost groan at the sweet, spicy smell of savory goodness tickling my nostrils, making my tusks itch.

Andrea springs into action, serving me a plate, even though I could easily do it myself. She heaps it with rice, then chicken, a spoonful of the sauce, two fluffy rolls, and a scoop of greens and red onions. “You can have that and dessert. Although, it’s not brownies, it’s just cookies and ice cream.”