Instead of going home, as he had intended, Scott walked to the town common to page through his new purchase and look at the photos. He strolled along the other side of Main and saw what he now thought of as the Deirdre Poster one more time, in the knit and yarn shop. Nowhere else.
Mike had kept saying they and those women, but he really doubted that. It was all about McComb. She was the in-your-face half of the partnership. He thought Missy Donaldson would have been happy to keep it on the DL. That half of the partnership would have serious problems saying boo to a goose.
But she came to see me, he thought, and she said a lot more than boo. That took guts.
Yes, and he had liked her for it.
He put New England Fixtures and Furnishings on the park bench, and began to jog up and down the steps of the bandstand. It wasn’t exercise he craved, just movement. I’ve got ants in my pants, he thought. Not to mention bees in my knees. And it wasn’t like climbing the steps, more like springing up them. He did it half a dozen times, then went back to his bench, interested to find he wasn’t out of breath, and his pulse was only slightly elevated.
He took out his phone and called Doctor Bob. The first thing Ellis asked about was his weight.
“204 as of this morning,” Scott said. “Listen, have you—”
“So it’s continuing. Have you thought any more about getting serious and really digging into this? Because a loss of forty pounds, give or take, is serious. I still have contacts at Mass General, and I don’t think a total soup-to-nuts exam would cost you a dime. In fact, they might pay you.”
“Bob, I feel fine. Better than fine, actually. The reason I called was to ask if you’ve eaten at Holy Frijole yet.”
There was a pause while Ellis digested this change of subject. Then he said, “The one your lesbian neighbors run? No, not yet.”
Scott frowned. “You know what, there might be a little more to them than their sexual orientation. Just sayin.”
“Mellow out.” Ellis sounded slightly taken aback. “I didn’t mean to step on your corns.”
“Okay. It’s just . . . there was an incident at lunch. At Patsy’s.”
“What kind of incident?”
“A little argument. Over them. Doesn’t matter. Listen, Bob, how about a night out? Holy Frijole. Dinner. I’ll buy.”
“When were you thinking?”
“How about tonight?”
“I can’t tonight, but I could on Friday. Myra’s going to spend the weekend at her sister’s down in Manchester, and I’m a lousy cook.”
“It’s a date,” Scott said.
“A man-date,” Ellis agreed. “Next you’ll be asking me to marry you.”
“That would be bigamy on your part,” Scott said, “and I will lead you not into temptation. Just do one thing for me—you make the reservation.”
“Still sideways with them?” Ellis sounded amused. “Wouldn’t it be better to just give it a pass? There’s a nice Italian place in Bridgton.”
“Nope. I’ve got my face fixed for Mexican.”
Doctor Bob sighed. “I guess I can make the reservation, although if what I’m hearing about that place is true, I hardly think one will be necessary.”
* * *
Scott picked Ellis up on Friday, because Doctor Bob no longer liked to drive at night. The ride down to the restaurant was short, but long enough for Bob to tell Scott the real reason he had wanted to put off their man-date until Friday: he didn’t want to get into a squabble with Myra, who was on church and town committees that had no love for the two women who ran the Rock’s newest fine dining experience.
“You’re kidding,” Scott said.
“Unfortunately not. Myra’s open-minded on most subjects, but when it comes to sexual politics . . . let’s just say she was raised a certain way. We might have argued, perhaps even bitterly, if I didn’t believe shouting matches between husband and wife in old age are undignified.”
“Will you tell her you visited the Rock’s Mexican-vegetarian den of iniquity?”
“If she asks where I ate on Friday night, yes. Otherwise I’ll keep my mouth shut. As will you.”
“As will I,” Scott said. He pulled into one of the slant parking spaces. “Here we are. Thanks for doing this with me, Bob. I’m hoping it will put things right.”
* * *
It did not.
Deirdre was at the hostess stand, not wearing a dress tonight but a white shirt and tapered black slacks that showcased those admirable legs. Doctor Bob entered ahead of Scott, and she smiled at him—not the slightly superior one, with the lips closed and the eyebrows raised, but a professionally welcoming one. Then she saw Scott, and the smile went away. She gave him a cool appraisal with those green-gray eyes, as if he were a bug on a microscope slide, then dropped them and grabbed a couple of menus.
“Let me show you to your table.”
As she led them to it, Scott admired the decor. It wasn’t enough to say McComb and Donaldson had taken pains; this looked like a labor of love. Mexican music—he thought the type they called Tejano or ranchera—played from the overhead speakers. The walls were soft yellow, and the plaster had been roughed up to look like adobe. The sconces were green glass cacti. Large wall hangings featured a sun, a moon, two dancing monkeys, and a frog with golden eyes. The room was twice the size of Patsy’s Diner, but he saw only five couples and a single party of four.
“Here you are,” Deirdre said. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”
“I’m sure we will,” Scott said. “It’s good to be here. I’m sort of hoping we can start over, Ms. McComb. Do you think that would be possible?”
She looked at him calmly, but without warmth. “Gina will be right with you, and she’ll tell you the specials.”
With that she was gone.
Doctor Bob seated himself and shook out his napkin. “Warm packs, gently applied to the cheeks and brow.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Treatment for frostbite. I believe you just took a cold blast, directly to the face.”
Before Scott could reply, a waitress appeared—the only waitress, it seemed. Like Deirdre McComb, she was dressed in black pants and a white shirt. “Welcome to Holy Frijole. Could I bring you gentlemen anything to drink?”
Scott asked for a Coke. Ellis opted for a glass of the house wine, then put on his specs for a better look at the young woman. “You’re Gina Ruckleshouse, aren’t you? You must be. Your mother was my PA when I still had my office downtown, back in the Jurassic Era. You bear a strong resemblance to her.”
She smiled. “I’m Gina Beckett now, but that’s right.”
“Very good to see you, Gina. Give my regards to your mom.”
“I will. She’s at Dartmouth-Hitchcock now, over on the dark side.” Meaning New Hampshire. “I’ll be right back to tell you about the specials.”
When she returned, she brought appetizers with their drinks, setting the plates down almost reverently. The smell was to die for.
“What have we got here?” Scott asked.
“Freshly fried green plantain chips, and a salsa of garlic, cilantro, lime, and a little green chile. Compliments of the chef. She says it’s more Cuban than Mexican, but she hopes that won’t keep you from enjoying it.”
When Gina left, Doctor Bob leaned forward, smiling. “Seems you’ve had some success with the one in the kitchen, at least.”
“Maybe you’re the favored one. Gina could have whispered in Missy’s ear that her mother used to labor in your medical sweatshop.” Although Scott knew better . . . or thought he did.
Doctor Bob waggled his shaggy white eyebrows. “Missy, eh? On a first-name basis with her, are we?”
“Come on, Doc, quit it.”
“I will, if you promise not to call me Doc. I hate it. Makes me think of Milburn Stone.”
“Who’s that?”
“Google it when you get home, my child.”
They ate, and they ate well. The food was meatless but terrific: enchiladas with frijoles and tortillas that had obviously not come from a supermarket package. As they ate, Scott told Ellis about his little set-to in Patsy’s, and about the posters featuring Deirdre McComb, soon to be replaced by less controversial ones starring a flock of cartoon turkeys. He asked if Myra had been on that committee.
“No, that’s one she missed . . . but I’m sure she would have approved the change.”
With that he turned the conversation back to Scott’s mysterious weight-loss, and the more mysterious fact that he appeared not to have changed physically. And, of course, the most mysterious fact of all: whatever he wore or carried that was supposed to weigh him down . . . didn’t.
A few more people came in, and the reason McComb was dressed like a waitress became clear: she was one, at least tonight. Maybe every night. The fact that she was doing double duty made the restaurant’s economic position even clearer. The corner-cutting had begun.
Gina asked them if they wanted dessert. Both demurred. “I couldn’t eat another bite, but please tell Ms. Donaldson it was superb,” Scott said.
Doctor Bob put two thumbs up.
“She’ll be so pleased,” Gina said. “I’ll be back with your check.”
The restaurant was emptying rapidly, only a few couples left, sipping after-dinner drinks. Deirdre was asking those departing how their meals had been, and thanking them for coming. Big smiles. But no smiles for the two men at the table beneath the frog tapestry; not even a single look in their direction.
It’s as if we have the plague, Scott thought.
“And you’re sure you feel fine?” Doctor Bob asked, for perhaps the tenth time. “No heartbeat arrhythmia? No dizzy spells? Excessive thirst?”
“None of that. Pretty much the opposite. Want to hear an interesting thing?”
He told Ellis about jogging up and down the bandstand steps—almost bouncing up and down them—and how he had taken his pulse afterward. “Not resting pulse, but pretty damn low. Under eighty. Also, I’m not a doctor, but I know what my body looks like, and there’s been no wasting in the muscles.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Ellis said.
“I don’t think there’s going to be. I think mass stays the same, even though the weight that should go with mass is somehow disappearing.”
“The idea is insane, Scott.”
“Couldn’t agree more, but there it is. The power gravity has over me has definitely been lessened. And who couldn’t be cheerful about that?”
Before Doctor Bob could reply, Gina came back with the slip for Scott to sign. He did so, adding a generous tip, and told her again how good everything had been.
“That’s wonderful. Please come again. And tell your friends.” She bent forward and lowered her voice. “We really need the business.”
* * *
Deirdre McComb wasn’t at the hostess stand when they went out; she was standing on the sidewalk at the foot of the steps and gazing toward the stoplight at the Tin Bridge. She turned to Ellis and gave him a smile. “I wonder if I could have a word with Mr. Carey in private? It won’t take a minute.”
“Of course. Scott, I’m going across the street to inspect the contents of the bookshop window. Just give me a honk when you’re ready to roll.”
Doctor Bob crossed Main Street (deserted as it usually was by eight o’clock; the town tucked in early) and Scott turned to Deirdre. Her smile was gone. He saw she was angry. He had hoped to make things better by eating at Holy Frijole, but instead he had made them worse. He didn’t know why that should be, but it pretty clearly was.
“What’s on your mind, Ms. McComb? If it’s still the dogs—”
“How could it be, when we now run them in the park? Or try to, at least. Their leashes are always getting tangled.”
“You can run them on the View,” he said. “I told you that. It’s just a matter of picking up their—”
“Never mind the dogs.” Those green-gray eyes were all but snapping off sparks. “That subject is closed. What needs to be closed is your behavior. We don’t need you standing up for us in the local grease-pit, and restarting a lot of talk that had just begun to die down.”
If you believe it’s dying down, you haven’t seen how few shop windows have your picture in them, Scott thought. What he said was, “Patsy’s is the farthest thing in the world from a grease-pit. She may not serve your kind of food there, but it’s clean.”
“Clean or dirty, that’s not the point. If standing up needs to be done, I’ll do it. I—we—don’t need you to play Sir Galahad. For one thing, you’re a little too old for the part.” Her eyes flicked down his shirt front. “For another, you’re a little too overweight.”
Given Scott’s current condition, this jab entirely missed the mark, but he felt a certain sour amusement at her employment of it; she would have been infuriated to hear a man say some woman was a little too old and a little too overweight to play the part of Guinevere.
“I hear you,” he said. “Point taken.”
She seemed momentarily disconcerted by the mildness of his reply—as if she had swung at an easy target and somehow missed entirely.
“Are we done, Ms. McComb?”
“One other thing. I want you to stay away from my wife.”
So she knew he and Donaldson had talked, and now it was Scott’s turn to hesitate. Had Missy told McComb that she had gone to Scott, or had she, perhaps in order to keep the peace, told McComb that Scott had come to her? If he asked, he might get her in trouble, and he didn’t want to do that. He was no marriage expert—his own being a fine case in point—but he thought the problems with the restaurant were already putting the couple’s relationship under enough strain.
“All right,” he said. “Now are we done?”
“Yes.” And, as she had at the end of their first meeting, before closing the door in his face: “Good discussion.”
He watched her mount the steps, slim and quick in her black pants and white shirt. He could see her running up and down the bandstand steps, much faster than he could manage even after dropping forty pounds, and as light on her feet as a ballerina. What was it Mike Badalamente had said? I can’t wait to run with her, not that I’ll be running with her long.
God had given her a beautiful body for running, and Scott wished to God she was enjoying it more. He guessed that, behind the superior smile, Deirdre McComb wasn’t enjoying much these days.
“Ms. McComb?”
She turned. Waited.
“It really was a fine meal.”
No smile for this, superior or otherwise. “Good. I suppose you’ve already passed that on to Missy by way of Gina, but I’m happy to pass it on again. And now that you’ve been here, and shown yourself to be on the side of the politically correct angels, why don’t you stick to Patsy’s? I think we’ll all be more comfortable that way.”
She went inside. Scott stood on the sidewalk for a moment, feeling . . . what? It was such a weird mix of emotions that he guessed there was no single word for it. Chastened, yes. Slightly amused, check. A bit pissed off. But most of all, sad. Here was a woman who didn’t want an olive branch, and he had believed—naively, it seemed—that everyone wanted one of those.
Probably Doctor Bob’s right and I’m still a child, he thought. Hell, I don’t even know who Milburn Stone was.
The street was too quiet for him to feel okay about even a short honk, so he went across the street and stood beside Ellis at the window of the Book Nook.
“Get it straightened out?” Doctor Bob asked.
“Not exactly. She told me to leave her wife alone.”
Doctor Bob turned to him. “Then I suggest you do that.”
He drove Ellis home, and mercifully, Doctor Bob didn’t spend any of the trip importuning Scott to check into Mass General, the Mayo, the Cleveland Clinic, or NASA. Instead, as he got out, he thanked Scott for an interesting evening and told him to stay in touch.
“Of course I will,” Scott said. “We’re sort of in this together now.”
“That being the case, I wonder if you’d come over, perhaps Sunday. Myra won’t be back and we could watch the Patriots upstairs instead of in my poor excuse for a man-cave. Also, I’d like to take some measurements. Start keeping a record. Would you allow that much?”
“Yes to the football, no to the measurements,” Scott said. “At least for now. Okay?”
“I accept your decision,” Doctor Bob said. “That really was a fine meal. I didn’t miss the meat at all.”
“Neither did I,” Scott said, but this wasn’t precisely true. When he got home, he made himself a salami sandwich with brown mustard. Then he stripped and stepped on the bathroom scale. He had declined the measurements because he was sure Doctor Bob would also want a weigh-in each time he checked Scott’s muscle density, and he had an intuition—or perhaps it was some deep physical self-knowledge—which now proved to be correct. He had been at a little over 201 that morning. Now, after a big dinner followed by a hefty snack, he was at 199.
The process was speeding up.