Part 12 (1/2)
”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.