basket. “I’ll be back about five-thirty. My schedule’s clear tonight.”
“Back?”
“Yeah, with my table. You need a massage.”
“I don’t want—”
“Need,” she repeated. “You may not think you want one, but trust me, you will after I get started. This one’s on the house—a welcome back gift. Therapeutic massage, Eli,” she added. “I’m licensed. No happy endings.”
“Well, Jesus.”
She only laughed as she sailed out. “Just so we understand each other. Five-thirty!”
He started to go after her, make it clear he didn’t want the service. And at the jerk away from the door, dull pain shot across the back of his shoulders.
“Shit. Just shit.”
He had to ease his arms into his coat. He just needed the Motrin to kick in, he told himself. And to get back inside his own head without her in it, so he could think about the book.
He’d walk—somewhere—call, breathe, and when this nagging stiffness, this endless aching played out, he’d just text her—better to text—and tell her not to come.
But first he’d take her advice, go down to the beach, take a picture of Bluff House. And maybe he’d wheedle some information out of his grandmother about Abra Walsh.
He was still a lawyer. He ought to be able to finesse some answers out of a witness already biased in his favor.
As he followed the path he’d cut down through the patio, he glanced back and saw Abra in his bedroom window. She waved.
He lifted his hand, turned away again.
She had the kind of fascinating face that made a man want to look twice.
So he very deliberately kept his gaze straight ahead.
Four
H E ENJOYED THE WALK ON THE SNOWY BEACH MORE THAN he’d anticipated. The winter-white sun blasted down, bounced off the sea, the snow, sent them both sparkling. Others had walked before him, so he followed the paths they’d cut down to the wet and chilly strip of sand the sweep of waves had uncovered.
Shore birds landed on the verge to strut or scurry, leaving their shallow stamps imprinted before water foamed over and erased them. They called, cried, chattered, made him remember the advance of spring despite the winterscape around him.
He followed a trio of what he thought might be some sort of tern, stopped, took a couple more pictures and sent them home. Walking on, he checked the time, calculated the schedule back in Boston before he tried his parents’ house line.
“And what are you up to?”
“Gran.” He hadn’t expected her to answer. “I’m taking a walk on Whiskey Beach. We’ve got a couple feet of snow. It looks a lot like it did that Christmas back when I was, I don’t know, about twelve?”
“You and your cousins and the Grady boys built a snow castle on the beach. And you took my good red cashmere scarf and used it as a flag.”
“I forgot that part. The flag part.”
“I didn’t.”
“How are you?”
“Coming along. Annoyed with people who won’t let me take two steps without that damn walker. I’ll do
fine
with a cane.”
As he’d had an e-mail from his mother detailing the battle of the walker, he’d come prepared. “It’s smarter to be careful, and not risk another fall. You’ve always been smart.”
“That roundabout won’t work with me, Eli Andrew Landon.”
“You haven’t always been smart?”
He made her laugh, considered it a small victory. “I have, and intend to continue. My brain’s working just fine, thank you, even if it can’t pull out how I fell in the first place. I don’t even remember getting out of bed. But no matter. I’m healing, and I
will
be done with this old-lady-invalid walker. What about you?”
“I’m doing okay. Writing every day, and making what seems like real progress on the book. I feel good about that. And it’s good to be here. Gran, I want to thank you again for—”
“Don’t.” Her voice held the hard edge of New England granite. “Bluff House is as much yours as mine. It’s family. You know there’s firewood in the
“Back?”
“Yeah, with my table. You need a massage.”
“I don’t want—”
“Need,” she repeated. “You may not think you want one, but trust me, you will after I get started. This one’s on the house—a welcome back gift. Therapeutic massage, Eli,” she added. “I’m licensed. No happy endings.”
“Well, Jesus.”
She only laughed as she sailed out. “Just so we understand each other. Five-thirty!”
He started to go after her, make it clear he didn’t want the service. And at the jerk away from the door, dull pain shot across the back of his shoulders.
“Shit. Just shit.”
He had to ease his arms into his coat. He just needed the Motrin to kick in, he told himself. And to get back inside his own head without her in it, so he could think about the book.
He’d walk—somewhere—call, breathe, and when this nagging stiffness, this endless aching played out, he’d just text her—better to text—and tell her not to come.
But first he’d take her advice, go down to the beach, take a picture of Bluff House. And maybe he’d wheedle some information out of his grandmother about Abra Walsh.
He was still a lawyer. He ought to be able to finesse some answers out of a witness already biased in his favor.
As he followed the path he’d cut down through the patio, he glanced back and saw Abra in his bedroom window. She waved.
He lifted his hand, turned away again.
She had the kind of fascinating face that made a man want to look twice.
So he very deliberately kept his gaze straight ahead.
Four
H E ENJOYED THE WALK ON THE SNOWY BEACH MORE THAN he’d anticipated. The winter-white sun blasted down, bounced off the sea, the snow, sent them both sparkling. Others had walked before him, so he followed the paths they’d cut down to the wet and chilly strip of sand the sweep of waves had uncovered.
Shore birds landed on the verge to strut or scurry, leaving their shallow stamps imprinted before water foamed over and erased them. They called, cried, chattered, made him remember the advance of spring despite the winterscape around him.
He followed a trio of what he thought might be some sort of tern, stopped, took a couple more pictures and sent them home. Walking on, he checked the time, calculated the schedule back in Boston before he tried his parents’ house line.
“And what are you up to?”
“Gran.” He hadn’t expected her to answer. “I’m taking a walk on Whiskey Beach. We’ve got a couple feet of snow. It looks a lot like it did that Christmas back when I was, I don’t know, about twelve?”
“You and your cousins and the Grady boys built a snow castle on the beach. And you took my good red cashmere scarf and used it as a flag.”
“I forgot that part. The flag part.”
“I didn’t.”
“How are you?”
“Coming along. Annoyed with people who won’t let me take two steps without that damn walker. I’ll do
fine
with a cane.”
As he’d had an e-mail from his mother detailing the battle of the walker, he’d come prepared. “It’s smarter to be careful, and not risk another fall. You’ve always been smart.”
“That roundabout won’t work with me, Eli Andrew Landon.”
“You haven’t always been smart?”
He made her laugh, considered it a small victory. “I have, and intend to continue. My brain’s working just fine, thank you, even if it can’t pull out how I fell in the first place. I don’t even remember getting out of bed. But no matter. I’m healing, and I
will
be done with this old-lady-invalid walker. What about you?”
“I’m doing okay. Writing every day, and making what seems like real progress on the book. I feel good about that. And it’s good to be here. Gran, I want to thank you again for—”
“Don’t.” Her voice held the hard edge of New England granite. “Bluff House is as much yours as mine. It’s family. You know there’s firewood in the
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