“Done deal,” Scott said.

*

The day after Missy Donaldson’s visit, while he was sitting at the counter in Patsy’s Diner and finishing his lunch, Scott heard someone behind him at one of the tables say something about “that crack-snackin’ restaurant.” Laughter followed. Scott looked at his half-eaten wedge of apple pie and the scoop of vanilla ice cream now puddling around it. It had looked good when Patsy set it down, but he no longer wanted it.

Had he heard such remarks before, and just filtered them out, the way he did with most overheard but unimportant (to him, at least) chatter? He didn’t like to think so, but it was possible.

Probably going to lose the restaurant, she’d said. We’d have to count on the locals to pull us through.

She’d used the conditional tense, as if Holy Frijole already had a FOR SALE OR LEASE sign in the window.

He got up, left a tip under his dessert plate, and paid his check.

“Couldn’t finish the pie?” Patsy asked.

“My eyes were a little bigger than my stomach,” Scott said, which wasn’t true. His eyes and stomach were the same size they’d always been; they just weighed less. The amazing thing was that he didn’t care more, or even worry much. Unprecedented it might be, but sometimes his steady weight-loss slipped his mind completely. It had when he’d been waiting to snap photos of Dee and Dum squatting on his lawn. And it did now. What was on his mind at this moment was that crack about crack-snackers.

Four guys were sitting at the table the remark had come from, beefy fellows in work clothes. A row of hardhats sat in a line on the windowsill. The men were wearing orange vests with CRPW stenciled on them: Castle Rock Public Works.

Scott walked past them to the door, opened it, then changed his mind and went to the table where the road crew sat. He recognized two of the men, had played poker with one of them, Ronnie Briggs. Townies, like him. Neighbors.

“You know what, that was a shitty thing to say.”

Ronnie looked up, puzzled, then recognized Scott and grinned. “Hey, Scotty, how you doin?”

Scott ignored him. “Those women live just up the road from me. They’re okay.” Well, Missy was. About McComb he wasn’t so sure.

One of the other men crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared at Scott. “Were you in this conversation?”

“No, but—”

“Right. So butt out.”

“—but I had to listen to it.”

Patsy’s was small, but always crammed at lunchtime and filled with chatter. Now the talk and the busy gnash of forks on plates stopped. Heads turned. Patsy stood beside the cash register, alert for trouble.

“Once again, buddy, butt out. What we talk about is none of your business.”

Ronnie got up in a hurry. “Hey, Scotty, why don’t I walk out with you?”

“No need,” Scott said. “I don’t need an escort, but I have to say something first. If you eat there, the food is your business. You can criticize it all you want. What those women do in the rest of their lives is not your business. Got it?”

The one who had asked Scott if he had been invited into their conversation uncrossed his arms and stood up. He wasn’t as tall as Scott, but he was younger and muscular. Red had crept up his broad neck and into his cheeks. “You need to take your loud mouth out of here before I punch it for you.”

“None of that, none of that, now,” Patsy said sharply. “Scotty, you need to leave.”

He stepped out of the diner without argument, and took a deep breath of the cool October air. There was a knock on the glass from behind him. Scott turned and saw Bull Neck looking out. He raised a finger as if to say hang on a second. There were all sorts of posters in Patsy’s window. Bull Neck pulled one of them free, walked to the door, and opened it.

Scott balled his fists. He hadn’t been in a fist-fight since grammar school (an epic battle that had lasted fifteen seconds, six punches thrown, four of them clean misses), but he was suddenly looking forward to this one. He felt light on his feet, more than ready. Not angry; happy. Optimistic.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, he thought. Come on, big boy.

But Bull Neck didn’t want to fight. He crumpled up the poster and threw it on the sidewalk at Scott’s feet. “Here’s your girlfriend,” he said. “Take it home and jerk off over it, why don’t you? Short of rape, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to fucking her.”

He went back in and sat down with his mates, looking satisfied: case closed. Aware that everyone in the diner was looking at him through the window, Scott bent down, picked up the crumpled poster, and walked away toward noplace in particular, just wanting not to be stared at. He didn’t feel ashamed of himself, or stupid for starting something in the diner where half of the Rock ate lunch, but all those interested eyes were annoying. It made him wonder why anyone would want to get up on a stage to sing or act or tell jokes.

He smoothed out the ball of paper, and the first thing he thought of was something Missy Donaldson had said: That’s the only reason she let them put her on that poster. “Them,” it seemed, was the Castle Rock Turkey Trot Committee.

In the center of the sheet was a photo of Deirdre McComb. There were other runners, most of them behind her. A big number 19 was pinned to the waistband of her tiny blue shorts. Above them was a tee-shirt with NEW YORK CITY MARATHON 2011 on the front. On her face was an expression Scott would not have associated with her: blissful happiness.