She gestured absently at the clock as she got down plates. “Are you going to ask me to dinner?”
“Sure.” He stared at the clock, then back at Abra. “You made meat loaf.”
“Hester gave me a list. Meat loaf was in the top three. Plus I think you could use some red meat.” She began to plate the meal. “Oh, by the way. If you ask for ketchup to put on this, I’ll hurt you.”
“So noted, and accepted.”
“One more stipulation.” She held the plate just out of reach.
“If it’s legal, I can almost guarantee agreement in exchange for meat loaf.”
“We can talk about books, movies, art, fashion, hobbies and anything in that general area. Nothing personal, not tonight.”
“That works.”
“Then let’s eat.”
Five
IN THE CHURCH BASEMENT, ABRA BROUGHT HER CLASS OUT of final relaxation slowly. She’d had a class of twelve that morning, a solid number for the time of year, the time of day.
The number kept her personal satisfaction high, and her budget steady.
Conversation broke out as her ladies—and two men—got to their feet, began rolling up their mats, or the extras she always carted in for those who didn’t bring their own.
“You had a really good practice today, Henry.”
The sixty-six-year-old retired vet gave her his cocky grin. “One of these days I’m going to hold that Half Moon longer than three seconds.”
“Just keep breathing.” Abra remembered when his wife had first dragged him—mentally kicking and screaming—to her class, Henry hadn’t been able to touch his toes.
“Remember,” she called out, “East Meets West on Thursday.”
Maureen walked over as Abra rolled up her own mat. “I’m going to need it, and some serious cardio. I made cupcakes for Liam’s class party today. And ate two of them.”
“What kind of cupcakes?”
“Double chocolate, buttercream frosting. With sprinkles and gumdrops.”
“Where’s mine?”
Maureen laughed, patted her stomach. “I ate it. I have to go home, grab a shower, put on Mom clothes and take the cupcakes in. Otherwise, I’d beg and bribe you to take a run with me so I could burn that double chocolate off. The kids have an after-school playdate, I’m caught up on paperwork, and filing, so I have no excuse.”
“Try me later, after three. I’ve got to work until then.”
“Eli?”
“No, he’s on tomorrow’s schedule.”
“Still going good there?”
“It’s only been a couple weeks, but yeah, I’d say it is. He doesn’t look at me like ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ every time he sees me. It’s more like every other time now. When I’m there during the day, he’s usually closed up in his office writing—and he avoids me by slipping outside for a walk when I head up to do the upstairs. But he’s eating what I leave for him, and doesn’t look as hollow.”
Abra zipped her personal mat into its bag. “Still, every time I give him a massage—I’ve managed four now—it’s like starting from scratch. He carries so much tension, plus he’s at that keyboard for hours a day.”
“You’ll crack him, Abracadabra. I have every faith.”
“That’s my current mission.” Abra pulled on her hoodie, zipped it. “But right now I’ve got some new jewelry to take into Buried Treasures—so fingers crossed there—then I’m running some errands for Marcia Frost. Her boy’s still got that virus and she can’t get out. I’ve got a massage booked at two, but I’m up for a run after that.”
“If I can juggle it in, I’ll text you.”
“See you later.”
While her class headed out, Abra secured her mats, tucked her iPod into her bag. As she pulled a jacket over her hoodie, a man came down the stairs.
She didn’t recognize him, but he had a pleasant enough face. Baggy eyes that made him look tired, a thick crop of brown hair, a slight paunch, which would have improved if he didn’t slouch.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Are you Abra Walsh?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Kirby Duncan.” He held out his hand to shake, then offered her a business card.
“Private investigator.” Instinctively, her barriers went up.
“I’m doing some work for a client, out of Boston. I’m hoping I can ask you a few questions. I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee if you can spare me a few minutes.”
“I’ve already had my quota for the day.”
“I wish I could stick with a quota. God knows I drink too much coffee. I’m sure that coffee shop just down the street serves tea, or whatever you like.”
“I have an appointment, Mr. Duncan,” Abra said as she pulled on boots. “What’s this about?”