Free Hungry Ghosts by Susan Dunlap Page A

knew. Mike and I did a little pas de deux watching a track meet of yours, but it led to nothing. That was unusual for me. I have to admit, I was affronted. So I set out to show him the error of his lapse—in the nicest possible way, of course. That’s how come I called you to borrow homework I’d already finished, and came to your house for it. Do you remember?”
    I laughed. “I figured you had to be desperate.”
    â€œThe whole ploy was a failure. Mike was on his way out, and then I had to spend an hour copying your equations, which weren’t all correct, either!”
    â€œHey, you could have clued me into that. I wasn’t distinguishing myself in advanced math at that point.”
    â€œI owe you.” She motioned toward the dining room table. “So that’s what I did not pass on to John.”
    I was surprised at how essential she made me feel, as if I were the long-lost friend who made her whole. No wonder guys were so enchanted. No wonder Jeffrey Hagstrom kept coming back after her flings. Like Jeffrey, I knew she’d invited me here because she wanted something. But I was glad she had, glad to help, glad we were going to be friends. I stood and gave the lunch a closer look. A pass-through counter had been cut into the wall between the main room and kitchen. On it was a clear bowl piled with calamari salad. Garlic bread sat atop a wooden slicing board. Two cups on heaters held melted butter. And three bottles of white wine awaited inspection. “What about Gary? What didn’t you tell him?”
    Tia didn’t respond. I turned back and was startled to see her struggling out of her chair, good leg braced against the far foot of it, both hands on the near arm trying to get enough initial thrust to swing herself up. Her hip jutted out, bony, with the idiosyncratic musculature of the injured. Her jaw was clenched and her face drawn in lines of frustration and fear.
    I gasped. It was all I could do not to race over and pull her out of her chair. Stepping aside was my penance. I’d gritted through my own injuries, broken legs, ribs, vertebrae, combinations thereof, and I’d known plenty of other stunt doubles on crutches, in wheelchairs and casts. But the worst temporary injury is joy compared to the most minor permanent one, and Tia’s was not minor.
    I turned quickly back to the table and tried to find something to say. “Last night, at the house, all three of them were there, bickering like always, this time about a dead body of John’s. Apparently the guy had gotten poisoned and fallen three stories down in the middle of one of those nineteenth-century oval staircases and either lay in the lobby till rigor mortis set in or went stiff as a board on the way down, and John . . .”
    I turned again in time to see Tia walking to the table as if nothing had happened. It was an impressive accomplishment. She moved with the same measured gait as she had at the door. The lines of frustration in her face had vanished. The reversion was so remarkable that for an instant I questioned what I’d just seen.
    â€œAnd John,” I hurried on, “was all pushed out of shape because the neighbors were trying to tell him the guy went stiff before he hit the ground.”
    â€œYou know what, Darcy?” She came to a halt at the table. Only the slightest coloring on her cheeks, plus the shine on her forehead, betrayed the enormous battle she’d just won. Her hair had swung back in place, cupping her face. Was the reason she’d got that cut not understatement but practicality? “Give me a minute to look for those diaries. You can be moving the food to the table.”
    I didn’t dare offer to go down for her.
    â€œOh, and remember, I wanted Grace’s phone number? I need to talk to her. Not about this,” she added with a dismissive glance at her hips, as if to dispel any thought of possible angling for free medical