The Solace of Bay Leaves

secret.”
I was half a block away when the drizzle turned to downpour and I broke into a sprint, not stopping until I reached the front door of my building.
No sign of a tail, in the car or now that I was on foot. Though if he were any good, we wouldn’t notice. And he, whoever he was, probably knew where each of us lived and worked.
You’re giving yourself the willies for no good reason, Pep, I told myself as I reached for the door, key in hand.
My loft is in a 1920s warehouse. During build-out, in developer-speak, the builder created a new entrance with a modern lock and intercom system. The door is one of those pneumatic thingies that close firmly on their own, the lock making a satisfying snick when it catches.
So why was it already open?

Nine
In October I’ll be host
To witches, goblins and a ghost
I’ll serve them chicken soup on toast
Whoopy once, whoopy twice
Whoopy chicken soup with rice
—Carole King and Maurice Sendak,
“Chicken Soup with Rice”
I’D TOLD LAUREL TO CALL THE POLICE IF ANYTHING SEEMED amiss.
Would I follow my own advice?
No damp footprints dotted the slate entry way. None led up the wide plank stairs to my floor, or down to the lower level. But the rain had only just turned serious. An intruder could easily have had dry feet.
How could someone have broken in? The doors were state-of-the-art. The developer had assured me of that, and when Tag helped me move in, he’d confirmed that the locks were all but unpickable. If that’s a word.
“Don’t be an idiot twice in one day,” I muttered and reached into my bag for my phone.
“How” turned to “who.” Who would break into a downtown residential building on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Surely a burglar would pick a more opportune time.
Someone who wasn’t after jewels or fancy electronics. Someone with more personal harm in mind. Under the circumstances, it was not necessarily narcissistic to imagine that someone was after me.
My thumb hovered over the keypad. Was I really going to call 911 for a balky door latch? I could practically hear Tag saying “better safe than sorry—it’s what we do.” But calling felt like a waste of precious police officer time. It felt foolish.
From a lower level came the sound of—what? A door, closing softly. Deliberately.
Then, footfalls.
I pressed the nine and moved my thumb across the keys to the one. A loud burst of laughter rose up the stairs. Female, followed by male tones, low and indecipherable. She laughed again and so did he, the sounds growing closer.
I hit pause on my panic. Burglars might work in pairs and close doors quietly, but they don’t climb stairs laughing and joking.
A young couple came into view, she in a bright yellow slicker, the hood back, her blond hair in a French braid, he wearing the same kind of navy outdoor jacket as the man at the hospital, though the coat was the only resemblance.
They caught sight of me and stopped. She found her tongue first. “Were we disturbing you? Sorry.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I had never seen them before. I jerked my thumb over my shoulder toward the entrance. “The door—” I said.
“Oh, geez. Did we leave it open again?” She turned to him. “I told you I didn’t hear it shut.”
“Sorry,” the man said. He looked about thirty, clean-shaven, his dark hair in a short fade. “We’ll be more careful, I promise.”
“Oh-kay. Thanks.” I glanced between them, aware that my heart was beating too fast. “But who are you? What are you doing here?”
Turned out that the owner of the unit below mine, a man who used it a few weeks a year when business brought him to Seattle, had decided to rent the place on Airbnb. I think I’d seen him twice, maybe three times. This couple had taken the train up from Portland for a few days. They were quite sweet, actually, and felt terrible about having scared me. Sadly, that made me feel like an old lady in need of coddling.
But whatever our age, we all need a little coddling now and then, I thought as I headed up the stairs after they left, the door firmly shut behind them.
Inside my loft, I double-checked my own door. It was a silly incident with an innocent explanation. Short-term rentals were hot downtown. I didn’t know if our building rules allowed them, but at the moment, the idea of strangers coming in and out was unnerving.
I stripped off my damp clothes and pulled on fleecy pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. Wool socks. In Seattle, in October. If you’d told me last August, when the mercury rose past ninety for so long we all thought it was stuck, that October would feel like an ice bath, I’d have said “bring it on.” But now that the rainy season was here, I was less impressed.
In the kitchen, I brewed a cup of Earl Grey. Normally, I’m a coffee drinker, and I’d recently become quite fond of chai. But when you need to warm up in a hurry, nothing works quite like hot tea.
Nate had taken Arf and gone to visit a fishing buddy. He wouldn’t be home until evening. When we started seeing each other and I’d fretted to my mother about his here again–gone again work schedule, she’d pointed out that time apart is good for a couple. Now that Nate planned to stay in Seattle until spring, we were working out our own schedule. At the moment, half of me wished he were here to wrap his strong arms around me, and half was relieved that he couldn’t see how I’d overreacted. Twice.
I was starving. Breakfast had long worn off. I put together a small antipasto platter, with chunks of cantaloupe,