The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell Page B

I appreciate that you treat me as a competent professional, Mr. Edwards. It’s nice to work without being patronized. Or chatted up."
    "Well, I hope this doesn’t count as chatting you up," George said dryly, "but that dinner invitation is still open. What do you say?"
    She had decided, upon reflection, to accept his invitation if he repeated it. People were often hostile to her work and, by extension, to her; she had not been invited to anyone’s home since childhood. "I’d be happy to come, Mr. Edwards."
    "Good. Anne’s been wanting to meet you. Sunday afternoon? About two?"
    "That will be fine. Thank you. I have some questions about weather effects on radio reception, if you wouldn’t mind," she said, setting her plate aside and pulling out her notebook. And they went on to business.

    O N S UNDAY, SHE drove to San Juan, allowing time for the dreadful traffic. She parked with difficulty, found a flower stall with ease, and bought a bouquet for Dr. Edwards. She liked Puerto Rico, actually, and had been pleasantly surprised to find how close Spanish and Ladino were. There were spelling differences, divergences in vocabulary, but the basic words and grammar were often identical. She asked the flower vendor the way to the Edwardses’ address and climbed the stair-street to the shell-pink stucco house she was directed to. The doors to an ironwork balcony overlooking the street were open, as were the windows, and she clearly heard a woman’s voice call, "George? Did you get that pump fixed down in the clinic?"
    "No, I forgot all about it." She recognized Mr. Edwards’s voice. "Hell. I’ll get to it. It’s on the list."
    A peal of laughter rang out. "So’s world peace. I need the pump working tomorrow."
    Sofia knocked. Anne Edwards, white hair pulled into a messy bun, flour up to her elbows, answered the door. "Oh, no!" she cried. "Not just brilliant but good bones as well. I do hope you have a terrible personality, dear," Anne Edwards declared. "Otherwise, I shall lose faith in a just God."
    Sofia hardly knew how to respond, but George Edwards called from the kitchen, "Don’t let her fool you. She gave up believing in a just God when Cleveland blew the World Series last year. The only time she ever prays is the ninth inning."
    "And the night before a presidential election, for all the good it does. God is a Republican from Texas," Anne asserted, bustling Sofia into the living room. "Come into the kitchen and keep us company. Dinner’s almost ready. The flowers are lovely, dear, and so are you."
    They passed through the living room, a pleasing jumble of books and watercolors and prints, with mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture and quite a good Turkish rug. Anne noticed Sofia take it all in and waved her floury hands at the place dispiritedly. "We’ve only been here a year. I keep thinking I should do something about this place but there’s never any time. Oh, well, maybe someday."
    "I rather like it as it is," Sofia said honestly. "It looks like someplace where you could fall asleep on the sofa."
    "Aren’t you splendid!" Anne cried delightedly. Emilio often did exactly that. "Oh, Sofia, that is so much nicer than thinking it’s just a plain mess!"
    They joined George in the kitchen. He directed Sofia to what Anne called the Kibitzer’s Stool and handed her a glass of wine, which she sipped as George finished slicing vegetables for the salad and Anne went back to whatever it was that involved flour. "George does all the knife work," Anne explained. "I can’t afford to get cut. Too much risk of infection. I dress like an astronaut when I’m in the ER or the clinic but it’s better to keep my hands out of harm’s way. Do these cookies look familiar?"
    "Why, yes. My mother used to make those," Sofia said, a little startled by the memory of meringue-topped sweets.
    "Ah, lucky guess," Anne murmured. The menu had been easy and Anne had