there, as well.
“I enjoyed that. Thanks,” she said.
He opened his eyes. She was watching him intently. And, for the moment, she was too comfortable to hide her interest.
“You’re welcome.”
“Tomorrow, maybe we’ll do this again.”
“You’re on.”
She stood up.
“When we get back, I’m making scrambled eggs and sausage,” she said. “After I take a shower, of course. Would you like that?”
“You bet.”
On the way back, he could feel a new intimacy and a new tension between them.
They had breakfast in the dining room, her hair still damp from the shower. She was wearing a pastel-flowered summer dress and sandals. Her dark eyes seemed a little softer behind the austere, rimless glasses. She was still reserved, but in a different way. He waited for her to take the lead.
“Do you really want to work at the nursery? You can do better than that.”
“It’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours a day.”
“Wouldn’t you rather do something more interesting? I’m sure you could find a better job around here: in Fulton, maybe. Or at Exeter College.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“What will you do the rest of the day? What do you do the rest of the day?”
He answered her only with a smile.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“That’s all right. When my drums arrive, you won’t have to ask again.”
“Ah, those fabled drums!”
He laughed, paused a moment and said, “I spent most of my life working very hard. Long hours. Weekends. I’m trying to depressurize. I read. Drive around. Find a little lake somewhere and watch the water. As you know, I stop in at the library, now and then. I go to Sarge’s Diner for lunch or dinner and I eavesdrop. Ernie Hynes is usually there with—what’s his name? Billy Miles?”
“He owns the liquor store. And he’s been the First Selectman for as long as I can remember. Nobody else wants the job.”
“They’re always talking about the old factory.”
“They’re trying to persuade Emily Grant—Emily Schuyler Grant, who lives at the Grange—to sell the property to a client of theirs. A developer who wants to build a shopping mall. Emily’s not interested. She doesn’t need the money. She’d rather leave things the way they are.”
“And I’d rather have a job I can do on automatic pilot.”
She shrugged. “As you say, it’ll be fine.”
He nodded.
“Now that we’ve settled my future, what about yours?”
“I’m doing work that I enjoy. Living in my home town, in the house I grew up in. I’m healthy. And I don’t have to see that much of Joey.”
She smiled and added, “I’m even in training to become a long-distance runner. What more could I ask for?”
“That’s a good question. But I can’t answer it.”
She looked at her watch. “There’s no doubt about my immediate future: it’s almost time to open the library. I’d better get going.”
“See you tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ready to run.”
She groaned, “I can hardly wait!”
That evening, after dinner alone, Lucas sat in the stiff armchair in the living room of his apartment, drinking coffee and staring at one of the dark prints on the wall behind the sofa. It was a sepia-toned portrait of a slender young woman walking through a gloomy, deep-shadowed forest. She was looking back over her shoulder fearfully, as if she saw something following her, beyond the frame of the image. Or was it only fear itself that she saw?
The cellular phone was on an end table beside the chair. Lucas looked at it for a moment. Then back at the picture on the wall, expectantly, as if he thought that the frozen drama would continue—that the young girl’s pursuer would have moved forward into view.
He picked up the phone and pressed a quick-dial button.
“Hello.”
“Margot?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Lucas Murdoch. How are you?”
“Fine, Luke. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“I’m glad you called. And surprised.”
“I said I’d call you.”
“I know. But I thought you were just being polite.”
“Being polite is not one of my virtues.”
“Are there any other virtues I should cross off the list?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Okay. By the way, how’s your good friend, Joey?”
“As charming as ever.”
“I can believe that.”
They both laughed.
She said, “I’m not busy Saturday night.”
“No blind date?”
“Not yet. How about you?”
“I think I’ve got a date. Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Anything special you’d like to do?” he asked.
“We could fly to Paris and stay at the Ritz.”
“My passport just expired.”
“In that case, how’d you like to go to a jazz club? Do you like jazz?”
“I did. Years ago.”
“There’s a place just outside of Fulton called Babe’s. Nothing fancy, like you’d find in New York City. It’s owned by a lady in her seventies—Babe, of course—who says she sang with Chick Webb’s band long, long ago. Maybe she did. Anyway, she thinks she did. She gives young musicians a chance to play there. She doesn’t pay them much, but they have an audience. Sometimes you can see some real talent.”
“What about dinner?”
