"It's one of them. Listen to you, huffing and puffing like an old man."

Insulted-mortified-he pivoted to the defensive. "I walked all the way to the village-and some of that through this d.a.m.n snow. And I'm climbing steps."

"And these excuses from a former Harvard basketball star."

"I wasn't a star," he muttered.

"You were to me. You are to me."

He paused at the top of the steps-yeah, to catch his breath, and to wait for the heart she'd managed to stir to settle.

"Did you see my new gym?" she asked him.

"I did. Very nice. How much can you bench-press, Hester?"

She laughed. "You think you're smart and sa.s.sy. I'm not going out scrawny and used up, I'll tell you that. You make use of that gym, Eli."

"I did-once already. I got your memo. I'm standing across from The Lobster Shack."

"The best lobster rolls on the North Sh.o.r.e."

"Things haven't changed much."

"Here and there, but the foundation's what counts. I expect you to remember yours. You're a Landon, and you've got the grit of Hawkin blood that comes down through me. n.o.body holds us down, not for long. You take care of Bluff House for me."

"I will."

"And remember. Sometimes a pancake is just a pancake."

She made him laugh. The sound might've been rusty, but it was there. "Okay, Gran. Use the walker."

"I'll use the d.a.m.n walker-for now-if you get that ma.s.sage."

"All right. Check your e-mail for some pictures. I'll call you in a couple days."

He pa.s.sed places he remembered-Cones 'N Scoops, Maria's Pizza-and new enterprises like Surf's Up with its beach-pink clapboard. The white spire of the Methodist church, the simple box of the Unitarian, the dignified edifice of the North Sh.o.r.e Hotel, and the charm of the scattering of B&Bs that would welcome tourists through the season.

Light traffic chugged by, then petered out almost completely as he made his way home.

Maybe he'd go back to the village on the next clear afternoon, pick up some postcards, write quick notes to make his parents-and the couple of friends he could still claim-smile.

It couldn't hurt.

And it couldn't hurt to check out some of the shops, old and new, get a feel for the place again.

Remembering his foundation, so to speak.

But right now he was tired, and cold, and wanted home.

His car sat alone in the driveway, and that was a relief. He'd stalled long enough for Abra to finish. He wouldn't have to make conversation, or avoid it. Considering the state of his boots, he circled around, let himself in through the laundry room/mudroom.

His shoulder felt fine now, he decided as he took off his gear. Or close enough. He could text Abra, tell her the walk had worked out the kinks.

Except for that deal he'd made with his grandmother. So he'd keep the deal-but he could put it off for a few days. He had a couple hours to work that out, he thought. He was a lawyer, for Christ's sake-practicing or not-and a writer. He could compose a clear and reasonable communication.

He stepped out into the kitchen, spotted the sticky note on the counter.

Chicken and potato ca.s.serole in the freezer.

Fireboxes restocked.

Eat an apple, and don't forget to hydrate after your walk. See you at 5:30ish.

Abra

"What are you, my mother? Maybe I don't want an apple."

And the only reason he got water out of the fridge was that he was thirsty. He didn't want or need somebody telling him when to eat, when to drink. The next thing, she'd tell him to remember to floss or wash behind his ears.

He'd go up, dig into some research, then compose that text.

He started out, cursed, circled back and grabbed an apple out of the bamboo bowl because, d.a.m.n it, now he wanted one.

He knew his irritation was irrational. She was being kind, considerate. But at the base of it he just wanted to be left alone. He wanted s.p.a.ce and time to find his footing again, not a helping hand.

There'd been plenty of those hands at the outset, then fewer and fewer as friends, colleagues, neighbors had started to distance themselves from a man suspected of killing his wife. Of smashing in her skull because she'd cheated on him, or because a divorce would cost him a great deal of money.

Or a combination thereof.

He didn't intend to reach out for those hands again.

In his stocking feet, still a bit chilled from the long walk, he detoured to the bedroom for shoes.

He stopped, the apple halfway to his mouth, and frowned at the bed. Moving closer, he peered down and choked out his second laugh of the day-a definite record.

She'd folded, twisted, curved a hand towel into what looked like some strange bird squatting on the duvet. It wore sungla.s.ses with a little flower tucked between the cloth and the earpiece.

Silly, he thought-and sweet.

He sat on the edge of the bed, nodded at the bird. "I guess I'm getting a ma.s.sage."

He left the bird where it was, went into the office.

He'd do some research, maybe fiddle around with the next scene, just get that springboard.

But out of habit he checked his e-mail first. Among the spam, a post from his father, another from his grandmother in response to the photos he'd sent her, he found one from his lawyer.

Rather not, he thought. Rather not click on it. But then it would just be there, waiting, waiting.