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“I HAVE BEEN THINKING about what you said.” Donnie reached over and patted my hand absently. “About Davison.”
“Really? What about him?”
“I don’t like how he’s been acting lately. He’s been evasive. Almost as if he’s hiding something from me.”
“He probably is hiding something from you. You should ask him about it.”
“His therapist says he needs structure in his life.”
“You got him a therapist?”
“Same one he’s had for the last couple years.”
“Oh, right. The court-ordered anger-management guy.”
“Anyway, I told Davison he had to start going to church. Either that or volunteer at hospice.”
“And he chose church?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw him at Mass this morning. I think church is a good choice for him. Much better than hospice.”
Inflicting Davison Gonsalves upon people in their final hours seemed unnecessarily cruel.
“You saw Davison there? Did you talk to him?”
“He sat next to me. We even shared a hymnal.”
Donnie’s face lit up.
“He didn’t make any trouble, I hope.”
At one point, Davison’s attention had wandered, and he suddenly realized he was still standing when everyone else was kneeling. He had then dropped down so hard onto the kneeling bench a loud crack had echoed through the sanctuary. Davison barely felt it, but St. Damien’s was going to have an expensive carpentry bill.
“Not at all,” I said. “Everything was fine.”
“I told him he had to apologize to you for his rudeness. Did he?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
Donnie squeezed my hand again and smiled.
“So how does this sound, Molly? No wedding for now. Not until you’ve dealt with your health and with your, uh, legal issues. We’ll just see what happens. No plans. No pressure. Sound good?”
It sounded sad, actually. I wanted there to be plans. But I just nodded.
“How is Honey Akiona working out?”
“Oh, thank you for hiring her. I wouldn’t have had any idea where to get a lawyer. I really appreciate it. All of your help. Thank you.”
I would have to budget to pay Donnie back for Honey’s legal fees. Maybe I could work out some really creative financing for my purchase of the Brewster House, one of those loans where the buyer gets a big lump sum up front to do remodeling or termite treatment.
“I have to get back,” Donnie said. “It was nice of you to come by, Molly.”
I walked back to my car with a hollow feeling in my stomach. I had been expecting a joyous reunion. Instead, I got a polite brush-off. No plans, no pressure. Donnie hadn’t been carrying on with his ex-wife after all. And he was even trying to do something about Davison. But I had ruined everything by behaving like a crazy person. Thanks to me, our engagement was still off.
As I was getting into my car, my purse hummed rhythmically. I pulled my phone out. It was Atticus Marx from our IT department calling. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a crummy day after all.
Atticus was already waiting at the Pair-O-Dice when I arrived. It wasn’t hard to find him; the only other customers in the dim bar were a leather-clad biker couple, sharing a pitcher of beer. The Pair-O-Dice’s wooden storefront and amateurish promotional window paintings weren’t exactly an enticement to passers-by, and those who did make it inside were rewarded with watery drinks served on sticky tabletops. Most days it was so empty, it was like a private club. (Trivia Thursdays were a notable exception.)
The Pair-O-Dice’s one point of pride was its custom neon sign, with Pair-O-Dice spelled out in curvy blue script, an animated pink pair of dice rolling underneath, and green and yellow neon palm trees on either side. Donnie could never understand why I liked the Pair-O-Dice; he thought it was a dump. The Pair-O-Dice was a dump, but as far as Emma, Pat and I were concerned, it was our dump.
Atticus lit up as I approached his table. “This place is great,” he exclaimed. “I love it.” He stood and gave me a big bear hug just as Pat walked in, with Emma close behind him. Atticus’ stubbly beard prickled my cheek as he held me close. Pat stopped and stared. Emma stared too, but she kept walking, right into Pat.
I made introductions as we got seated around the uneven wooden table.
“I wonder why they don’t invest in three-legged tables,” I said. “That way, no matter how crooked the floor was, at least the tables wouldn’t wobble.”
“Hey, great idea, Molly. You should suggest it to them. So is this your guys’ regular hangout?”
“Only on Sundays,” Pat said. “On weekdays we hang out in Molly’s office.”
“Molly has better coffee,” Emma added. “But no booze.”
“I’ve driven by this place,” Atticus said, “but I’ve always been kind of afraid to come inside. Thanks for inviting me, Molly.”
Atticus seemed comfortable around Pat and Emma. Certainly much more comfortable than I would feel among three near-strangers at a sketchy downtown bar. Atticus was clearly more socially adept than I. Of course, most people are.
We ordered French fries, the safest bet on the limited food menu. Pat got a cup of the Pair-O-Dice’s abysmal glass-carafe-on-a-hotplate coffee. I often wondered whether Pat was born without taste buds. It would explain why he never gained weight. Emma ordered one of her favorite local beers, and I got a bourbon straight (after a mix-up over the meaning of “soda” in “whiskey and soda,” I didn’t trust the Pair-O-Dice to do mixed drinks). Atticus asked after a number of obscure craft beers the young server had never heard of, and finally settled for what Emma was drinking.
I would have told Pat and Emma about my running into Sherry in the church parking lot, but I really didn’t want to bring any of it up in front of Atticus. Fortunately, Emma kept the conversation going with a story about a sea turtle sighting at her paddling practice that morning. Then she turned to Atticus and said,
“Hey, Molly says you’re spying on our email. Is it true?”