A Hidden Affair: A Novel by Pam Jenoff

Author:Pam Jenoff
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2010-06-18T04:00:00+00:00

chapter TWELVE

I AWAKEN TO THE sounds of pots banging. Bright sunlight fills the tiny cabin and the savory smell of grilled meat tickles my nose. Swinging my feet to the ground, I pad toward the kitchen where Ari stands, open boxes of salt, flour, and other ingredients strewn across the countertop, spilling onto the floor.

“Good morning . . . ?” I say, as much question as greeting. He does not answer but continues staring into a frying pan, perplexed. “Everything okay?”

“I wanted . . . ” he begins then stops again, gesturing to the mess on the stove top. “The eggs are all right, but the pancakes . . . ” He holds up a bowl of what was supposed to have been batter but is instead a thin gray water.

I suppress a smile. He is trying to make me an American breakfast, I realize, touched. “Why don’t I finish up here?” In truth, I’ve never been much of a cook. My father grew up in the restaurant business, a skilled but unwilling disciple of the culinary trade. Then he met my mother who, as the child of bohemian artists, had never cooked a meal in her life, and he taught her the basics before permanently abdicating all kitchen duties. She never quite caught on, though, instead relying on premade mixes and packaged foods. But once, when I was six and my mother was away for the weekend, my father made pancakes, teaching me his secret recipe for the batter, how to heat the griddle just enough. After that, I subjected all houseguests, regardless of the meal or time of day, to my breakfast specialty.

Ari gives me the spatula, then raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “What time is it?” I ask.

“Nearly eleven.” I blink at him, surprised. I had no idea I’d slept so late. “It’s the sea air,” he explains. “Good sleep, no?” I nod. I cannot remember the last time I felt so well rested.

He disappears up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, I climb to the deck, balancing two plates. Ari is shirtless and barefoot, working on a coil of rope at the bow of the boat. Watching him, I feel a tug in my stomach.

“Breakfast,” I call.

He turns toward me. “Good news. I’ve done some checking with one of my contacts, and he confirmed that Nicole has been seen on the eastern side of Zakynthos in the main town Zante. He didn’t have an exact address, but he told me of a restaurant there, Café Nikolai, where I can ask for her.”

I look at him evenly. “You have some impressive contacts for a private investigator.”

“You know how it is,” he replies, seemingly unruffled. “Some of my army pals are now in government, and we trade favors every so often.”

Thinking of Lincoln, I decide that the explanation is a plausible one and that pressing further would be fruitless. I scan the horizon. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Just off Croatia, north of the Albanian coast. We should reach the island by midmorning tomorrow, all being well.

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