Whiskey Beach Part 25

"I'm writing pretty steadily. I'm taking walks on the beach. I'm eating regular meals because Gran's housekeeper keeps making them."

"Abra? She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

"No. She's interesting."

Amused, Tricia sat on the arm of a wide leather chair. "Among other things. I'm glad to hear all that, Eli, because it sounds like just what you should be doing right now. But if it's all going so well, why are you back in Boston?"

"I can't come in, see my family? What am I, banished?"

And even then the way her finger shot up, pointed, reminded him of their grandfather.

"Don't evade. You didn't have any plans to come back until Easter, but here you are. Spill it."

"It's no big deal. I wanted to talk, face-to-face, with Neal." He glanced toward the doorway. "Look, I don't want to upset Mom and Dad, there's no point. And I can see they look less stressed. The Piedmonts are making noises about a wrongful-death suit."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, just bulls.h.i.+t. It's straight-out hara.s.sment at this point, Eli. You should ... talk to Neal," she ended, and blew out a breath. "As you did. What does he think?"

"He thinks it's noise, at least for now. I told him to hire a new investigator, to find a woman this time."

"You're coming back," Tricia stated, and her eyes filled.

"Don't. Jesus, Tricia."

"It's not just that-you-or not altogether. It's hormones. I'm pregnant. I cried this morning singing 'Wheels on the Bus' with Sellie."

"Oh. Wow." He felt a grin start up from his feet, straight up through his heart. "That's good, right?"

"It's great. Max and I are thrilled. We're not telling anybody yet, though I think Mom suspects. I'm only about seven weeks. What the h.e.l.l." She sniffed back the tears. "I'll clear it with Max. We'll tell everybody at dinner. Why not make it a celebration?"

"And keep the topic off me."

"Yes, don't say I never did anything for you." She rose, wrapped her arms around him. "I'll s.h.i.+ft everyone's focus if you promise no more careful e-mails, not to me. You tell me when you're having a bad day. And if you are, and you want company, I can work it so Sellie and I come up for a couple days. Max if he can manage it. You don't have to be alone."

She would, he thought. Tricia would shuffle, realign, reschedule-she was an expert at it-and she'd do it for him.

"I'm doing okay alone, no offense. I'm figuring things out I let go of for too long."

"The offer stands. And we won't wait for one if you're still there this summer. We'll just come. I'll float like the whale I'll be by then and let everybody wait on me."

"Typical."

"Say that when you haul around an extra twenty pounds and obsess about stretch marks. Go ahead back. I'm just going to peek in and make sure Selina hasn't sweet-talked Alice into those pre-dinner cookies."

At nine o'clock that evening, Abra finished her at-home yoga cla.s.s, grabbed a bottle of water as her students rolled up mats.

"Sorry I was a little late," Heather said-again. "Things just got away from me today."

"It's no problem."

"I hate missing the warm-up breathing. It always helps me." Heather let out a sigh, pushed air down with her hands and made Abra smile.

Nothing brought Heather down. She imagined the woman talked in her sleep, just as she did through a sixty-minute ma.s.sage.

"I ran out of the house like a maniac," Heather continued. "Oh, I did notice Eli's car wasn't at Bluff House. Don't tell me he's already gone back to Boston."

"No."

Unwilling to leave it at that, Heather zipped up her coat. "I just wondered. It's such a big house. With Hester, well, she's a fixture, if you know what I mean. But I imagine, especially with everything he must have on his mind, Eli just rattles around in that place."

"Not that I've noticed."

"I know you see him when you go over to take care of the house, so that's some company. But I'd just think, with all that time on his hands, well, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. That can't be healthy."

"He's writing a novel, Heather."

"Well, I know that's what he says. Or that's what people say he says, but he was a lawyer. What does a lawyer know about writing novels?"

"Oh, I don't know. Ask John Grisham."

Heather opened her mouth, closed it again. "Oh, I guess that's true. But still-"

"Heather, I think it's starting to rain." Greta Parrish stepped up. "Would you mind giving me a ride home? I think I may have a little cold coming on."

"Oh, well, sure I will. Just let me grab my mat."

"You owe me," Greta murmured as Heather dashed off.

"Big time." She gave the older woman a grateful squeeze of the hand, then hurried off to look busy stacking mats.

The minute her house was empty, she let out a sigh.

She loved her at-home cla.s.ses, the intimacy, the casual conversations before and after. But there were times ...

After she'd straightened the sunroom, she went upstairs, put on her favorite pajamas-fluffy white sheep frolicking over a pink background-then walked back down.

She intended to pour herself some wine, build up the fire and snuggle in with a book. The sound of rain plopping on her deck made her smile. A rainy night, a fire, a gla.s.s of wine-

Rain. d.a.m.n it, had she closed all the windows in Bluff House?

Of course she did. She wouldn't have forgotten to ...

Did she? Absolutely every one? Like the one in Hester's home gym?

Squeezing her eyes tight, she tried to visualize, tried to see herself walking through, securing the windows.

But she just couldn't remember, just couldn't be sure.