“Fine. Until Monday, then. Oh, and be sure to look at the Press-Herald. The story won’t be in the newspaper until tomorrow, of course, but it’s online now.”
Sure it is, Scott thought. In the twenty-first century, print newspapers are also buggy-whip factories.
“I’ll do that.”
“Did you think it was lightning? There at the end?”
“Yes,” Scott said. What else would it have been? Lightning went with thunder like peanut butter went with jelly.
“So did I,” DeeDee McComb said.
He dressed and fired up his computer. The story was on the Press-Herald ’s homepage, and he was sure it would be on the front page of Saturday’s paper, maybe above the fold, barring any new world crisis. The headline read: LOCAL RESTAURANT OWNER WINS CASTLE ROCK TURKEY TROT. According to the paper, it was the first time a town resident had won the race since 1989. There were only two photographs in the online edition, but Scott guessed there would be more in Saturday’s print version. It hadn’t been lightning at the end; it had been the newspaper photographer, and he’d gotten class-A pix despite the rain.
The first one showed Deirdre and Scott together, with the Tin Bridge stoplight a smeary red in the background, which meant she must have fallen not even seventy yards from the finish. He had his arm around her waist. Hair that had come loose from her ponytail was plastered to her cheeks. She was looking up at him with exhausted wonder. He was looking down at her… and smiling.
SHE GOT BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM A FRIEND, the caption read, and below that: Fellow Castle Rocker Scott Carey helps Deirdre Mc Comb to her feet after she took a spill on the wet road just short of the finish line.
The second photo was captioned VICTORY HUG, and named the three people in the picture: Deirdre McComb, Melissa Donaldson, and Scott Carey. Deirdre and Missy were embracing. Although Scott hadn’t actually touched them, only raised his arms and curled them around the women in an instinctive gesture to catch them if they fell, he looked like he was joining the hug.
The body of the story named the restaurant Deirdre McComb ran with “her partner,” and quoted a review that had run in the paper back in August, calling the food “veggie cuisine with Tex-Mex flair that has to be experienced; this is a trip worth making.”
Bill D. Cat had taken his usual position when Scott was at his desktop, perched on an endtable and watching his pet human with inscrutable green eyes.
“Tell you what, Bill,” Scott said. “If that doesn’t bring in customers, nothing will.”
He went into the bathroom and stepped on the scale. Its news didn’t surprise him. He was down to 137. It might have been the day’s exertions, but he didn’t actually believe that. What he believed was that by booting his metabolism into a higher gear (and overdrive at the end), he had sped the process up even more.
It was starting to look like Zero Day might come weeks earlier than he had anticipated.
Myra Ellis did come to dinner with her husband. She was timid at first—almost skittish—and so was Missy Donaldson, but a glass of Pinot (which Scott served with cheese, crackers, and olives) loosened both ladies up. And then, a miracle—they discovered they were both mycologically inclined, and spent most of the meal talking about edible mushrooms.
“You know so much about them!” Myra exclaimed. “May I ask if you went to culinary school?”
“I did. After I met DeeDee, but long before we were married. I went to ICE. That’s—”
“The Institute of Culinary Education in New York!” Myra exclaimed. A few crumbs tumbled onto her frilly silk blouse. She didn’t notice. “It’s famous! Oh my God, I’m so jealous!”
Deirdre was looking at them and smiling. Doctor Bob was, too. So that was good.
Scott had spent the morning at the local Hannaford’s, with Nora’s left-behind copy of The Joy of Cooking propped open in the child seat of his grocery cart. He asked many questions, and research paid off, as it usually did. He served vegetarian lasagna Florentine with garlic toast points. He was gratified—but not surprised—to see Deirdre put away not one or two but three big slices. She was still in post-run mode, and stuffing carbs.
“For dessert it’s only store-bought pound cake,” he said, “but the chocolate whipped cream I made myself.”
“I haven’t had that since I was a kid,” Doctor Bob said. “My mom made it for special occasions. We kids called it choco-cream. Bring it on, Scott.”
“Plus Chianti,” Scott said.
Deirdre applauded. She was flushed, her eyes sparkling, a woman with every part of her body clearly operating in top form. “Bring that on, too!”
It was a fine meal, and the first time he’d pulled out all the stops in the kitchen since Nora had decamped. As he watched them eat and listened to them talk, he realized how empty this house had been with just him and Bill to ramble around in it.
The five of them demolished the pound cake. As Scott began to collect the plates, both Myra and Missy rose. “Let us do that,” Myra said. “You cooked.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” Scott said. “I’m just going to put everything on the counter and load up the dishwasher later on.”
He took the dessert plates into the kitchen and stacked them on the counter. He turned and Deirdre was standing there, smiling.
“If you ever want a job, Missy’s looking for a sous chef.”
“I don’t think I could keep up with her,” Scott said, “but I’ll keep it in mind. How was business over the weekend? Must have been good if Missy’s looking for help.”
“Sold out,” she said. “Every table. People from away, but also people from the Rock that I’ve never seen before, at least not in our place. And we’re booked solid for the next nine or ten days. This is like opening all over again, when people come to see what you’ve got. If what you’ve got isn’t tasty, or even just so-so, most don’t try again. But what Missy makes is a lot more than so-so. They will come back.”
“Winning the race made a difference, huh?”
“The pictures were what made the difference. And without you, the pictures would have just been a dyke winning a footrace, big deal.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t think so. Brace yourself, big boy, I’m coming in for a hug.”
She stepped forward. Scott stepped back, holding his hands out, palms forward. Her face clouded.
“It’s not you,” he said. “Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to hug you. We both deserve it. But it might not be safe.”
Missy was standing in the kitchen doorway with wineglasses held between her fingers by the stems. “What is it, Scott? Is something wrong with you?”
He grinned. “You might say.”
Doctor Bob joined the women. “Are you going to tell them?”
“Yes,” Scott said. “In the living room.”
He told them everything. The relief was enormous. Myra only looked puzzled, as if she hadn’t quite taken it in, but Missy was disbelieving.
“It’s not possible. People’s bodies change when they lose weight, that’s just a fact.”
Scott hesitated, then went to where she was sitting next to Deirdre on the couch. “Give me your hand. Just for a second.”
She held it out with no hesitation. Total trust. This much can’t hurt, he told himself, and hoped it was true. He had pulled Deirdre to her feet when she’d fallen, after all, and she was all right.