Every time the front doorbell rang at the store the following day, Harry thought it might be Grace, returning to find out more about a possible job. He didn’t really believe she’d return—why would she when he’d told her he would call?—but he found himself disappointed, anyway. He’d been obsessing over their conversation the previous afternoon, telling himself that maybe she was just what she said she was—new in town, and looking for a job. But she wasn’t, was she? She had obviously come in for some purpose other than a job. Why else would she have been at the funeral, and walking past the house on his first night back in Maine?

But each time the bell rang, it was either a customer—usually coming to offer condolences instead of buying a book—or Alice, who stopped by at lunchtime to bring chicken sandwiches and then again midafternoon, because she was shopping and wanted to see if Harry or John needed anything. Dinner at home the previous night had been less intimate, and less awkward, than the night before, but only because Harry told her he wasn’t feeling well, passed on a drink, and ate in record time. He spent the evening in his room, finishing the Ed McBain and starting another, but mostly just thinking about his father and what might have happened on the path that afternoon. He also thought of Alice, sexualized images of her flashing unwanted through his mind. He kept picturing her from that first summer when she was married to his father. The green bikini top and the denim shorts, so short that he could see the bottom curve of her buttocks. He realized that four years of college hadn’t managed to shake that image from his mind.

At four thirty, when it became clear that Grace wasn’t going to drop by the store again, he got out his phone and punched in her number, adding it as a contact. He was about to call her, but decided to text instead.

This is Harry from the bookstore. Want to get a drink tonight?

He pressed Send, wondering anxiously if he was misleading her about the job possibility. Lew leapt onto Harry’s lap, startling him. Lew was not generally a lap cat, unless you’d ignored him for some time, and then he’d find a way to pounce into your lap when you weren’t looking. With one hand, Harry stroked Lew’s matted fur, writing another text to Grace with his other.

No job here, at least not yet. Just wanted to get a drink.

He shook his head rapidly at the two dumb texts. “You okay, my friend?” John asked. Lew flattened himself onto Harry’s lap, purring.

“Oh, sorry. I’m looking at my phone.” Harry held it up, and as he did, it vibrated in his hand. It was Grace, texting back.

Sure. When?