Holy Frijole

Instead of going home, as he had intended, Scott walked to the town common to page through his new purchase and look at the photos. He strolled along the other side of Main and saw what he now thought of as the Deirdre Poster one more time, in the knit and yarn shop. Nowhere else.

Mike had kept saying they and those women, but he really doubted that. It was all about McComb. She was the in-your-face half of the partnership. He thought Missy Donaldson would have been happy to keep it on the DL. That half of the partnership would have serious problems saying boo to a goose.

But she came to see me, he thought, and she said a lot more than boo. That took guts.

Yes, and he had liked her for it.

He put New England Fixtures and Furnishings on the park bench, and began to jog up and down the steps of the bandstand. It wasn’t exercise he craved, just movement. I’ve got ants in my pants, he thought. Not to mention bees in my knees. And it wasn’t like climbing the steps, more like springing up them. He did it half a dozen times, then went back to his bench, interested to find he wasn’t out of breath, and his pulse was only slightly elevated.

He took out his phone and called Doctor Bob. The first thing Ellis asked about was his weight.

“204 as of this morning,” Scott said. “Listen, have you—”

“So it’s continuing. Have you thought any more about getting serious and really digging into this? Because a loss of forty pounds, give or take, is serious. I still have contacts at Mass General, and I don’t think a total soup-to-nuts exam would cost you a dime. In fact, they might pay you.”

“Bob, I feel fine. Better than fine, actually. The reason I called was to ask if you’ve eaten at Holy Frijole yet.”

There was a pause while Ellis digested this change of subject. Then he said, “The one your lesbian neighbors run? No, not yet.”

Scott frowned. “You know what, there might be a little more to them than their sexual orientation. Just sayin.”

“Mellow out.” Ellis sounded slightly taken aback. “I didn’t mean to step on your corns.”

“Okay. It’s just . . . there was an incident at lunch. At Patsy’s.”

“What kind of incident?”

“A little argument. Over them. Doesn’t matter. Listen, Bob, how about a night out? Holy Frijole. Dinner. I’ll buy.”

“When were you thinking?”

“How about tonight?”

“I can’t tonight, but I could on Friday. Myra’s going to spend the weekend at her sister’s down in Manchester, and I’m a lousy cook.”

“It’s a date,” Scott said.

“A man-date,” Ellis agreed. “Next you’ll be asking me to marry you.”

“That would be bigamy on your part,” Scott said, “and I will lead you not into temptation. Just do one thing for me—you make the reservation.”

“Still sideways with them?” Ellis sounded amused. “Wouldn’t it be better to just give it a pass? There’s a nice Italian place in Bridgton.”

“Nope. I’ve got my face fixed for Mexican.”

Doctor Bob sighed. “I guess I can make the reservation, although if what I’m hearing about that place is true, I hardly think one will be necessary.”

*

Scott picked Ellis up on Friday, because Doctor Bob no longer liked to drive at night. The ride down to the restaurant was short, but long enough for Bob to tell Scott the real reason he had wanted to put off their man-date until Friday: he didn’t want to get into a squabble with Myra, who was on church and town committees that had no love for the two women who ran the Rock’s newest fine dining experience.

“You’re kidding,” Scott said.

“Unfortunately not. Myra’s open-minded on most subjects, but when it comes to sexual politics . . . let’s just say she was raised a certain way. We might have argued, perhaps even bitterly, if I didn’t believe shouting matches between husband and wife in old age are undignified.”

“Will you tell her you visited the Rock’s Mexican-vegetarian den of iniquity?”

“If she asks where I ate on Friday night, yes. Otherwise I’ll keep my mouth shut. As will you.”

“As will I,” Scott said. He pulled into one of the slant parking spaces. “Here we are. Thanks for doing this with me, Bob. I’m hoping it will put things right.”

*

It did not.

Deirdre was at the hostess stand, not wearing a dress tonight but a white shirt and tapered black slacks that showcased those admirable legs. Doctor Bob entered ahead of Scott, and she smiled at him—not the slightly superior one, with the lips closed and the eyebrows raised, but a professionally welcoming one. Then she saw Scott, and the smile went away. She gave him a cool appraisal with those green-gray eyes, as if he were a bug on a microscope slide, then dropped them and grabbed a couple of menus.

“Let me show you to your table.”

As she led them to it, Scott admired the decor. It wasn’t enough to say McComb and Donaldson had taken pains; this looked like a labor of love. Mexican music—he thought the type they called Tejano or ranchera—played from the overhead speakers. The walls were soft yellow, and the plaster had been roughed up to look like adobe. The sconces were green glass cacti. Large wall hangings featured a sun, a moon, two dancing monkeys, and a frog with golden eyes. The room was twice the size of Patsy’s Diner, but he saw only five couples and a single party of four.