R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

"She's gone for weeks on end. There's no way in the world she's going to give that up."

"Why should she give it up?" William said, exasperated. "Let her do anything she wants. You can live six months up there and the other six months down. We can all benefit from a change of scene – you more than most. And don't give me that song and dance about 'roots.' She can keep her place and you can keep yours, and you can go back and forth."

"I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay right here."

"I'll tell you your problem. You don't want to do anything that involves risk," William said.

"Neither do you."

"Not so! No sir. You're completely incorrect. By golly, I got married at the age of eighty-six and if you don't think that's taking a risk, then ask her," he said, pointing to me.

"Really, it is," I murmured dutifully, my hand in the air as though swearing an oath. "But guys? Excuse me…" They both turned to stare at me. "Don't you think Mattie's feelings count? Maybe she's no more interested in him than he is in her?"

"I didn't say I wasn't interested. I'm discussing the situation from her point of view."

"She's interested, you dolt!" William said. "Look at this. She's coming back to town in a day. She said so herself. Didn't you hear her say that?"

"Because it's right in her path. She isn't stopping off to see me."

"Oh yes she is, or why wouldn't she drive straight on through?"

"Because she has to buy gas and stretch her legs."

"Which she could do without taking the time to see you."

"William has a point. I'm with him," I said.

Henry began to coil the hose, his hands picking up bits of grit and cut grass. "She's a wonderful person and I value our friendship. Let's just leave the subject. I'm tired of it."

William turned to me. "That's how this started. All I did was point out the obvious, that she's a wonderful person and he'd better get a move on and snap her up."

Henry said, "Nuts!" waving William off as he returned to the house. He opened the screen door and banged it shut.

William shook his head, leaning on his walking stick. "He's been like this all his life. Unreasonable. Stubborn. Having temper tantrums at the slightest hint of disagreement."

"I don't know, William. If I were you, I'd back off and let them work it out for themselves."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Henry hates to be helped."

"Because he's mulish."

"We're all mulish when it comes right down to it."

"Well, something has to be done. This may be his last chance at love. I can't bear to see him make a hash of it." There was a gentle pinging sound and William reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. "Time for my snack." He took out a small cellophane packet of cashews that he opened with his teeth. He popped two in his mouth, chewing them like pills. "You know I'm hypoglycemic. The doctor says I shouldn't go more than two hours without eating. Otherwise I'm subject to faintness, weakness, clamminess, and palpitations. Also, tremulousness, which you've doubtless observed."

"Really. I hadn't noticed."

"Precisely. The doctor's encouraged me to instruct friends and family in recognizing the symptoms because it's imperative to render immediate treatment. A glass of fruit juice, a few nuts. These can make all the difference. Of course, he wants me to undergo tests, but in the meantime, a diet high in protein, that's the trick," he said. "You know, with deficient glucose production, an attack can be triggered by alcohol, salicylates, or in rare cases, by ingesting the ackee nut, which produces what's commonly known as the Jamaican vomiting sickness…"

I cupped a hand to my ear. "I think that's my phone. I better run."

"Certainly. I can tell you more over supper since you're interested."

"Great," I said. I began to edge toward my door.

William pointed at me with his walking stick. "As for this business with Henry, isn't it better to feel something intensely even if you're wounded in the process?"

I pointed at him. "I'll get back to you on that."

Chapter 6

I had a brief debate with myself about working in a three-mile jog. I'd had to skip my morning run in the interest of reaching CIW by nine. I usually run at 6:00 when I'm still half-asleep and my resistance is down. I've discovered that as the day wears on my sense of virtue and resolve both rapidly diminish. Most days, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is change into my running clothes and drag myself out. I'm not so fanatic about exercise that I don't occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I'd noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.