Page 165 of The New Place

“Can you tell me why you apparently aren’t visiting us this summer?”

“I need more time,” Ned says. “Listen to me, please.”

“I am,” Abbot says, but he’s not, and Peggy’s squirming, and Liesl’s still staring at her phone.

And they do have to go, because Abbot checks his watch and then opens his car door.

“Later,” Ned calls to him, but if Abbot hears, he doesn’t answer, and it’s a sour feeling to watch them drive away.

33

ABBOT

What’s wrong? their father had asked when Abbot dropped Liesl off at the airport, and now two hours and a hundred miles later, Abbot’s no closer to having an answer.

Ned, he could have said, but warring with that was a lack of desire to actually respond to his father’s probing into his life.

It’s none of his business.

And apparently it’s none of Abbot’s as to when or even if Ned will come for a visit.

He puts his blinker on by habit, changing lanes for his exit, before he thinks better of it and presses the gas, accelerating past the turn that would take him to his house.

He can’t go there right now. The darkness of those rooms, that particular brand of silence, the fact that Liesl was just there, and Ned before her.

Ned.

Going to the office and walking through the halls they once shared is an equally unappealing way to spend his night. Of course, so is going to the cafe where he just spent such a happy evening, but at least there’s the pack of other people there, not his own steps ringing hollow.

And wine.

Though Abbot’s barstool is occupied, and tonight of all times that feels like a reason to turn around and leave before Pat can spot him.

Or maybe it’s better to sit somewhere else, because it’s Ned’s stool, really, that Abbot claimed for himself like he could be closer to him when Ned’s not here, leaning against the same part of the bar, taking in the same angle of the cafe.

The woman perched on it turns, and Abbot finds himself taking a step forward. It’s Claire. She sees him before Pat does, and greets him with a smile and a wave.

“Hi,” she says, slipping off the stool and holding her arms out for a hug.

He finds himself happy to return it. “Hello. I didn’t expect to see you up here.”

“Managed the entire drive without, well—I’ll spare you the gory details of my bouts of morning sickness, which are really all-day-long sickness, it turns out.”

“Congratulations,” Abbot says. “Are you any better?”

“I’m not worse, and that’s a win,” Claire says.

“And we have the finest ginger ale in the land, and plenty of it,” Pat says, setting a glass in front of her. Pat didn’t serve ginger ale here, Abbot thought, though apparently now he does. “Wine for you, or are you still on a strict diet of celebratory champagne?”

“Red, thank you,” Abbot says and unbuttons his coat.

“How’s married life?” Pat asks as he pours.

“Fine.”

“Ringing endorsement right there.”

“Congratulations to you too,” Claire says. “Quite a weekend.”