“Here you are,” Deirdre said. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”

“I’m sure we will,” Scott said. “It’s good to be here. I’m sort of hoping we can start over, Ms. McComb. Do you think that would be possible?”

She looked at him calmly, but without warmth. “Gina will be right with you, and she’ll tell you the specials.”

With that she was gone.

Doctor Bob seated himself and shook out his napkin. “Warm packs, gently applied to the cheeks and brow.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Treatment for frostbite. I believe you just took a cold blast, directly to the face.”

Before Scott could reply, a waitress appeared—the only waitress, it seemed. Like Deirdre McComb, she was dressed in black pants and a white shirt. “Welcome to Holy Frijole. Could I bring you gentlemen anything to drink?”

Scott asked for a Coke. Ellis opted for a glass of the house wine, then put on his specs for a better look at the young woman. “You’re Gina Ruckleshouse, aren’t you? You must be. Your mother was my PA when I still had my office downtown, back in the Jurassic Era. You bear a strong resemblance to her.”

She smiled. “I’m Gina Beckett now, but that’s right.”

“Very good to see you, Gina. Give my regards to your mom.”

“I will. She’s at Dartmouth-Hitchcock now, over on the dark side.” Meaning New Hampshire. “I’ll be right back to tell you about the specials.”

When she returned, she brought appetizers with their drinks, setting the plates down almost reverently. The smell was to die for.

“What have we got here?” Scott asked.

“Freshly fried green plantain chips, and a salsa of garlic, cilantro, lime, and a little green chile. Compliments of the chef. She says it’s more Cuban than Mexican, but she hopes that won’t keep you from enjoying it.”

When Gina left, Doctor Bob leaned forward, smiling. “Seems you’ve had some success with the one in the kitchen, at least.”

“Maybe you’re the favored one. Gina could have whispered in Missy’s ear that her mother used to labor in your medical sweatshop.” Although Scott knew better . . . or thought he did.

Doctor Bob waggled his shaggy white eyebrows. “Missy, eh? On a first-name basis with her, are we?”

“Come on, Doc, quit it.”

“I will, if you promise not to call me Doc. I hate it. Makes me think of Milburn Stone.”

“Who’s that?”

“Google it when you get home, my child.”

They ate, and they ate well. The food was meatless but terrific: enchiladas with frijoles and tortillas that had obviously not come from a supermarket package. As they ate, Scott told Ellis about his little set-to in Patsy’s, and about the posters featuring Deirdre McComb, soon to be replaced by less controversial ones starring a flock of cartoon turkeys. He asked if Myra had been on that committee.

“No, that’s one she missed . . . but I’m sure she would have approved the change.”

With that he turned the conversation back to Scott’s mysterious weight-loss, and the more mysterious fact that he appeared not to have changed physically. And, of course, the most mysterious fact of all: whatever he wore or carried that was supposed to weigh him down . . . didn’t.

A few more people came in, and the reason McComb was dressed like a waitress became clear: she was one, at least tonight. Maybe every night. The fact that she was doing double duty made the restaurant’s economic position even clearer. The corner-cutting had begun.

Gina asked them if they wanted dessert. Both demurred. “I couldn’t eat another bite, but please tell Ms. Donaldson it was superb,” Scott said.

Doctor Bob put two thumbs up.

“She’ll be so pleased,” Gina said. “I’ll be back with your check.”

The restaurant was emptying rapidly, only a few couples left, sipping after-dinner drinks. Deirdre was asking those departing how their meals had been, and thanking them for coming. Big smiles. But no smiles for the two men at the table beneath the frog tapestry; not even a single look in their direction.

It’s as if we have the plague, Scott thought.

“And you’re sure you feel fine?” Doctor Bob asked, for perhaps the tenth time. “No heartbeat arrhythmia? No dizzy spells? Excessive thirst?”

“None of that. Pretty much the opposite. Want to hear an interesting thing?”

He told Ellis about jogging up and down the bandstand steps—almost bouncing up and down them—and how he had taken his pulse afterward. “Not resting pulse, but pretty damn low. Under eighty. Also, I’m not a doctor, but I know what my body looks like, and there’s been no wasting in the muscles.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Ellis said.

“I don’t think there’s going to be. I think mass stays the same, even though the weight that should go with mass is somehow disappearing.”

“The idea is insane, Scott.”

“Couldn’t agree more, but there it is. The power gravity has over me has definitely been lessened. And who couldn’t be cheerful about that?”

Before Doctor Bob could reply, Gina came back with the slip for Scott to sign. He did so, adding a generous tip, and told her again how good everything had been.