Page 49 of A Shore Thing

“My dislike is well calibrated.” Her brows pulled together.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Her scowl was accusatory. “You’re not even on my side anymore. You’re on the side of your drinking companion.”

“I thought you and Griffith were now on the same side.”

“When it comes to cycling and painting. Nothing else.”

The engine house looked taller by the second, thrusting up from the ground like a phallic monument. Trust Griffith to have set up shop in a building that seemed to advertise virility.

Did he maintain an art studio as well? In this very engine house?

“You must examine him.” She snapped her gaze back to James. “The symptoms he described are worrying.”

James returned her look, brows high. “You worry for him?”

“For my paintings.” She hefted the hamper so it rested again on her hip. “He told me he couldn’t paint, and then that he would. I don’t know what I’m to believe. If he does suffer from some malady, can he really overcome it overnight, by force of will?”

“I don’t know,” said James dryly. “On account of all the unknowns.”

They walked along the perimeter of a pasture in silence, and perhaps they were both brooding about the unknown.

James spoke first. “Forbidding, isn’t it?”

He was looking at the engine house. They’d arrived. The grass was haphazardly patterned with tire tracks. Several wheels leaned against the side of the building. The sign above the large window in front was perfunctory, bold black letters, no embellishments.

St. Ives Bicycle.

Sales. Rentals. Service.

Behind the glass, three Rovers stood on display, handlebars gleaming dully.

Muriel put down her hamper. “Mr. Griffith?”

She tried the door. It swung open, and she poked her head inside. The smell of metal, machine oil, and rubber assailed her. Nothing moved but the motes of dust suspended in the sunbeams.

“He’s not here.” She slammed the door and stormed back to James.

“We’ll wait, then.”

“No.” She drew a breath. Her expectations for Griffith’s behavior hadn’t been low enough. “It was all a joke.”

“Joke? What joke?”

“It didn’t make any sense. I should have known better.” She shook her head. “All his hand-wringing and chest-thumping about the plight of the female sex. It didn’t make sense because he was pranking me.”

Her insides shivered.

She whispered with her hand on her stomach. “He’s laughing himself sick at Titcombe Hall as we speak.”

“Titcombe Hall?” James blinked. “Why there?”

“It’s where he lives.”

“It can’t be where he lives.”

Her turn to blink. “What?”