I was sitting on the couch when I heard something coming from the kitchen that immediately made me suspicious. It wasn’t a crash, an argument, or the sound of John Mercer trying to fix something he had no business taking apart. It was humming. Actual, cheerful humming, coming from Karen, who was standing at our stove stirring a pot of something that smelled considerably better than anything I’d managed to cook in the past month. Now, I know humming isn’t a crime. I’m fairly certain there’s nothing in the Constitution about it. But Karen is my coworker, and in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her hum while doing anything. At work, she usually has the expression of someone mentally calculating how many hours remain until she can go home. Yet here she was in our kitchen, smiling to herself like she’d just won a vacation.
The arrangement was unusual enough without the humming. Karen had come over for dinner, except somewhere between arriving and taking off her coat, she’d ended up cooking it. Pandora had apparently suggested they try a recipe together, then conveniently disappeared upstairs to retrieve something. John Mercer had gone to the gym, leaving me alone with a humming coworker and a cat who had positioned himself directly beneath her feet. Mr Whiskers was looking up at Karen with the sort of devotion he normally reserves for an open can of tuna. I couldn’t blame him. Whatever was in that pot smelled fantastic, although I was beginning to suspect the cat’s loyalty could be purchased for considerably less than mine.
I watched Karen for another minute, trying to identify the tune. It sounded familiar, but every time I thought I recognized it, she changed direction. At one point I was reasonably certain she was humming something from an old television commercial. Then it turned into what might have been a Christmas song, which was particularly troubling because it was November and I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that yet. I finally asked what had put her in such a good mood. She glanced over her shoulder, smiled, and said, “Oh, nothing. It’s just nice to cook something without having to answer emails at the same time.” That was a perfectly reasonable explanation, which naturally made me suspicious.
You see, Karen had been having a difficult week at work. A project had gone sideways, somebody had scheduled three meetings to discuss why it had gone sideways, and the third meeting had apparently produced a fourth meeting. I’d heard enough about the situation to know that humming would not have been my first response. I probably would have been lying facedown on the carpet, reconsidering every career decision I’d ever made. But Karen seemed almost delighted to be here. She stirred the pot, checked the oven, and occasionally bent down to tell Mr Whiskers that he was a handsome boy. The cat accepted these compliments without the slightest trace of humility.
That’s when I started thinking about Pandora. Earlier that morning, she’d mentioned that Karen sounded exhausted when they spoke on the phone. She’d also asked whether I’d mind having company for dinner, which was a strange question because she knows perfectly well that I don’t mind company as long as somebody tells me before I settle into my comfortable pants. At the time, I assumed she was simply being considerate. Now I wondered whether the whole evening had been arranged for a reason. Pandora had been unusually cheerful herself, and she’d made a point of asking John to clear the kitchen counter before he left. I remembered thinking that was optimistic, considering John treats every available horizontal surface as temporary storage.
I got up and wandered into the kitchen, pretending I needed a glass of water. Karen was chopping vegetables, and Mr Whiskers was supervising from a safe distance now that he’d discovered the possibility of falling onion pieces. I leaned against the counter and asked whether Pandora had specifically requested this recipe. Karen looked at me for a moment, then said, “She said you three have been eating the same five meals for about six months.” I considered objecting, but she had a point. We did have a fairly predictable rotation, and one of those meals was technically just sandwiches with ambitions. Still, that didn’t explain why Karen was doing all the work. I asked whether Pandora had offered to help, and Karen laughed. “She did. I told her to stay out of my way.”
Well, that was interesting. Pandora had invited Karen over, encouraged her to cook, and then been dismissed from her own kitchen. There was a certain elegance to the arrangement. I was beginning to wonder whether my girlfriend had discovered a new method of getting dinner prepared without actually preparing it. If so, I wanted to know whether the technique could be applied to laundry, vacuuming, and the mysterious pile of mail John had been promising to sort since August. I was still considering the possibilities when Mr Whiskers reached up and placed one paw against Karen’s leg. She looked down, said, “Not for you,” and continued chopping. He waited three seconds before trying again. Persistence, apparently, was a household trait.
Pandora came downstairs carrying a stack of clean dish towels. She stopped when she saw me standing beside Karen and immediately gave me that look she uses when she suspects I’ve been asking unnecessary questions. “What are you investigating now?” she asked. I told her I was simply interested in the circumstances surrounding dinner. She glanced at Karen, who was still humming, and said, “Hal, she’s making pasta. It’s not a federal inquiry.” I pointed out that nobody had said anything about a federal inquiry, which I thought was an unnecessarily specific denial. Pandora rolled her eyes and handed Karen a towel. Karen laughed so hard she nearly dropped the wooden spoon.
I returned to the couch, but the situation continued to occupy my attention. Pandora had clearly arranged the evening, Karen was enjoying herself far more than I would have expected, and Mr Whiskers was behaving as though he’d been promised a percentage of the proceeds. Then John came home from the gym, took one look at the kitchen, and said, “Oh, good. The plan worked.” He said it casually, like someone announcing that the mail had arrived. I sat up so quickly I nearly spilled my drink. “What plan?” I asked. John looked at Pandora, then at Karen, and made the expression of a man who had just realized he’d stepped on a conversational land mine.
Pandora sighed. “It’s not a secret, Hal.” She explained that Karen had been complaining about how stressful work had become and how much she missed cooking for people. Apparently, cooking was something Karen genuinely enjoyed, especially when she didn’t have to rush through it after a long day. Pandora had suggested a relaxed dinner at our place, with no work talk, no deadlines, and no expectation that Karen would have to entertain anyone. John had agreed to clean the kitchen beforehand, and Pandora had promised to handle the dishes afterward. The only reason Karen was doing the cooking was that she’d insisted on it. In other words, the elaborate operation I’d been piecing together was a thoughtful invitation from my girlfriend to a friend who needed an evening away from work.
I should have been satisfied with that explanation. Any reasonable person would have been. Unfortunately, John was still standing there with the expression of someone enjoying himself at my expense. “You thought we were planning something, didn’t you?” he asked. I told him I hadn’t reached any conclusions. “You were standing in the kitchen asking Karen who requested the pasta,” Pandora said. I explained that I was interested in the origins of the recipe, which was technically true. John nodded solemnly and said, “Of course. Important work. Follow the noodles.” Karen had to put down her spoon again.
Dinner turned out to be excellent. Karen made a pasta dish with roasted vegetables, garlic, and a sauce that tasted like it belonged in a restaurant where the waiter explains the menu with both hands. John had two servings. Pandora kept telling Karen how wonderful everything was, and Karen seemed genuinely happy for the first time all week. Even I managed to stop thinking about the suspicious humming long enough to enjoy myself. Mr Whiskers, however, was less pleased with the arrangement. After spending the better part of an hour campaigning for a sample, he discovered that nobody intended to share. He sat beneath the table with his back to us, making a point of looking personally betrayed.
The real trouble started after dinner, when Pandora announced that we’d be taking care of the cleanup. That seemed fair enough, considering Karen had done all the cooking. John began collecting plates, I carried the serving dishes into the kitchen, and Pandora packed up the leftovers for Karen to take home. Everything was proceeding smoothly until I noticed Mr Whiskers slipping beneath the dining table with something in his mouth. At first, I thought he’d found one of his toys. Then I realized it was a dish towel. Not just any dish towel, either. It was the clean one Pandora had handed Karen earlier, which had apparently fallen from the counter during dinner.
I followed him into the living room, where he had dragged the towel beneath the coffee table and was attempting to pull it into a space approximately half his size. He’d managed to get most of it underneath before noticing me. We stared at each other for a moment. Then he gave the towel another determined tug, as though the fact that I was watching had no bearing whatsoever on the legality of his operation. I bent down to retrieve it, and he immediately planted both front paws on the fabric. “You can’t have that,” I told him. He looked at me with an expression suggesting that my opinion had been considered and rejected.
John appeared behind me carrying a stack of dishes. “What’s he doing?” he asked. I explained that the cat had stolen a towel. John looked down at Mr Whiskers, who was now lying across his prize like a dragon guarding treasure, and started laughing. Pandora came over to see what was happening, followed by Karen, who had apparently never witnessed our cat’s particular approach to household ownership. I tried pulling the towel free, but Mr Whiskers held on with surprising determination. Karen crouched beside him and said, “You know, I think he just wants to help with the cleanup.” At that exact moment, he rolled onto his back, wrapped all four paws around the towel, and began kicking it enthusiastically.
Pandora laughed so hard she had to sit down. John suggested we let the cat handle the laundry from now on, since he was clearly passionate about textiles. Karen offered to bring him his own towel the next time she visited, which I considered an extremely dangerous precedent. I finally retrieved the stolen item by distracting Mr Whiskers with his favorite toy mouse. He abandoned the towel immediately, proving that his principles were negotiable. Karen was still laughing when she left, and before going she told Pandora it was the most fun she’d had in weeks. I couldn’t argue with that. Even my investigation had turned out to be entertaining, although not quite in the way I’d intended.
Later that evening, Pandora found me putting the rescued towel into the laundry basket. “You know,” she said, “I really did plan the whole thing.” I looked at her. “The dinner?” She nodded. “Karen needed a break, and I thought it would be nice to have everyone together.” I admitted that it had been a good idea. Then she added, “I just didn’t plan on you interrogating the cook or the cat stealing the linens.” I told her that no successful operation could account for every variable. She kissed me on the cheek, called me ridiculous, and went upstairs.
I stayed in the living room a little longer, thinking about the evening. I’d spent most of it trying to uncover a secret, and the only thing Pandora had been hiding was a genuinely nice gesture. Karen had enjoyed herself, John had gotten a decent meal, and Mr Whiskers had nearly escaped with a perfectly good dish towel. It was difficult to say who’d benefited most, although the cat was still sitting beside the laundry basket, staring at it with unmistakable interest. I moved the basket into the closet before going to bed. Pandora might have planned dinner, but I wasn’t about to let Mr Whiskers plan the next robbery.