Free Shakespeare's Trollop by Charlaine Harris Page A

his shoulder. Behind his back, Toni looked at me as if she wished I’d vanish in a puff of smoke. But I was honor-bound to complete the next two reps. When they were done, Bobo said, “You can do another one. You’ve got it left in you.”
    â€œI’m through, thanks,” I said firmly. I rose and removed the clips that secured the weights. We began putting the discs back on the rack.
    Toni wandered over to the water fountain.
    â€œI need to talk to you this weekend,” Bobo said quietly.
    â€œOkay.” I hesitated. “Saturday afternoon?”
    He nodded. “Your place?”
    â€œAll right.” I was doubtful about the wisdom of this, but I owed it to him to listen, whatever he wanted to say.
    My forehead was beaded with sweat. Instead of searching out my towel, I lifted the hem of my T-shirt and dabbed at my forehead, ensuring Bobo saw the horrendous scars on my ribs.
    I saw him gulp. I went on to my next exercise feeling obscurely vindicated. Though Bobo was handsome and wholesome as a loaf of good bread, and I had once or twice been tempted to take a bite, Toni was from his world. I intended to see he kept my age and bitter experience in his mind.
    Janet was doing shoulders this morning, and I spotted for her while she worked on the Gravitron. Her knees on the small platform, the counterweight set at forty pounds so she wouldn’t be lifting her whole body weight, Janet gripped the bars above her head and pulled up. She was working pretty hard the first few reps, and by number eight, I wandered over to hold her feet and push up gently to lighten the strain on her arms. When she’d finished number ten, Janet dangled from the bars, panting, and after a minute she slid her knees off the platform and stood on the uprights. Stepping off backward, she took a few more seconds to catch her breath and let the muscles of her shoulders recoup.
    â€œAre you going to the funeral?” she asked. She moved the pin to the thirty-pound slot.
    â€œI don’t know.” I hated the thought of dressing up and going into the crowded Shakespeare Combined Church. “Have you heard if the time’s certain yet?”
    â€œLast night, my mother was over at Lacey and Jerrell’s when the funeral home called to say the coroner’s office in Little Rock was sending the body back. Lacey said Saturday morning at eleven.”
    I considered, scowling. I could probably finish work by eleven if I got up extra early and hurried. If I ever got around to getting my clients to sign a contract, I decided one of the clauses would be that I didn’t have to go to their funerals.
    â€œI guess I should,” I said reluctantly.
    â€œGreat!” Janet looked positively happy. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll park at your house and we can walk to the funeral together.”
    Making that little arrangement would never have occurred to me. “Okay,” I said, struggling not to sound astonished or doubtful. Then I realized I had a bit of news I should share.
    â€œClaude and Carrie got married,” I told her.
    â€œYou’re…you’re serious!” Janet faced me, astonished. “When?”
    â€œAt the courthouse, yesterday.”
    â€œHey, Marshall!” Janet called to our sensei , who’d just come out of the office in the hallway between the weight room and the aerobics room where we held karate classes. Marshall turned, holding a glass of some grainy brown stuff he drank for breakfast. Marshall was wearing his normal uniform of T-shirt and muscle pants. He raised his black eyebrows to ask, What?
    â€œClaude and Carrie got married, Lily says!”
    This caused a general burst of comment among the others in the room. Brian Gruber quit doing stomach crunches and sat up on the bench, patting his face with his towel. Jeri yanked her cellular phone from her workout bag and called a friend she knew would be up and drinking her coffee. A couple of