it was exactly the right question. And the kind he wanted to answer rather than brush off or avoid. “I understand him, and I’m invested in him. He’s evolving into someone I like.”
“Understanding him is more important than liking him, I’d think.” She frowned as Eli rubbed at his shoulder, the back of his neck. “You hunch.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Over the keyboard. You hunch. Most people do.” She set the laundry aside, and before he realized what she meant to do, she’d stepped up to dig her fingers into his shoulder.
Pain, sudden and sweet, radiated straight down to the soles of his feet. “Look, ow.”
“Good God, Eli, you’ve got rocks in there.”
Annoyance edged to a kind of baffled frustration. Why wouldn’t the woman leave him alone? “I just overdid it yesterday. Clearing the snow.”
She lowered her hands as he stepped back, opened the cupboard for the Motrin.
Partly overdoing, she thought, partly keyboard hunch. But under all that? Deep, complex and system-wide stress.
“I’m going to get out for a while, make some phone calls.”
“Good. It’s cold, but it’s beautiful.”
“I don’t know what to pay you. I never asked.”
When she named a price, he reached for his wallet. Found his pocket empty. “I don’t know where I left my wallet.”
“In your jeans. Now it’s on your dresser.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be right back.”
Poor, sad, stressed Eli, she thought. She had to help him. She thought of Hester, shaking her head as she loaded the dishwasher. “You knew I would,” she murmured.
Eli came back, set the money on the counter. “And thanks if I don’t get back before you leave.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m just going to . . . see what the beach is like, and call my parents, my grandmother.” And get the hell away from you.
“Good. Give them all my best.”
He stopped at the door to the laundry room. “You know my parents?”
“Sure. I’ve met them several times when they’ve come here. And I saw them when I came to Boston to visit Hester.”
“I didn’t realize you came into Boston to see her.”
“Of course I did. We just missed each other, you and I.” She started the machine and turned. “She’s your grandmother, Eli, but she’s been one to me, too. I love her. You should take a picture of the house from down at the beach and send it to her. She’d like that.”
“Yeah, she would.”
“Oh, Eli?” she said as he turned to the laundry room and she walked over to pick up the laundry 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
HE 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,