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Theo stopped. “Really?…Thank you.”
Over tea they talked some more about the new book. Theo was surprised by how much she enjoyed talking about her work at this stage, when it was all just possibilities, and how much conversation helped the nebulous uncertain ideas coagulate into a storyline. Mac wasn’t a writer. He could not, unlike Dan, offer her advice on technique or voice, but he was interested, and right now that was enough.
“I better see if I can find that tennis racquet,” Theo said eventually.
“Oh, yes…that’s why I’m here.”
She rummaged through various cupboards before she found an old wooden racquet in a box under the stairs.
“I’m not really sure what you could do with this.” Theo said as she handed it to Mac.
His brow rose. “An antique fair, perhaps.”
“Gus said you had a game at the country club.”
“The country club?” He laughed, though he did not elaborate on why the idea was so absurd.
“I’m sorry Gus dragged you out here to check on me,” Theo sighed. “As you can see, I’m fine—there was no need to waste your time.”
Mac smiled. “It would only have been a waste of time if I actually needed a functional tennis racquet.” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have to be back in the office for a couple of hours. I don’t suppose you’d care to have lunch in town?”
Theo glanced at the dining table spread with her notes and then the window, which was lit with the cold muted light of winter sun. She suspected she would be feeling restless and claustrophobic by that evening if she didn’t step out for a little a while at least. And she was more than a little intrigued about what Mac Etheridge did for a living. “I’d love to.”
Johnny’s Tavern was in North Lawrence—it reminded Theo of an Australian pub. They removed outer layers of scarves and coats and ordered burgers and mozzarella sticks.
Theo asked Mac about his work…what exactly he meant by research.
“Mostly it’s sitting in front of a screen, going through records, searching databases, government files, social media, that sort of thing. Everybody leaves a trail of sorts. Nowadays it tends to be electronic.”
“But not always?”
Mac shrugged. “Gossip, rumor, and what people saw are still handy.”
“So the man who rammed me with his Prius…have you found out anything about him?”
“I’m afraid Spiderman’s body art is not all that original or unique. There are a couple of gangs who favor cobweb tattoos…or it could have been done in prison. It’s a shame the blond dreadlocks weren’t real. That at least would have been more distinctive.”
Theo helped herself to a mozzarella stick. “You know, to be honest, I’m inclined to believe Spiderman was just your garden variety pest. I probably panicked him when I took that photograph.” She pulled apart the battered morsel, stretching the elastic cheese till it finally broke apart. “I don’t think we’ll ever see him again.”
“Rear-ending your outfit was a rather extreme reaction,” Mac said frowning. “That worries me…but you could be right.”
Theo changed the subject. She didn’t really want to think about Spiderman, or murder. “Are you from Lawrence, Mac?”
“I was born in Great Falls, Montana. My family moved here after the accident. My mother thought everybody back home would always think of her as the woman who shot her son.”
“Was she right?”
“You betcha.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Mom was president of the church auxiliary. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in Great Falls for a while.”
“It must have been awful.”
“For her, certainly. I became a kind of schoolyard folk hero in Great Falls once I decided that the fame was worth more than what Mom was paying me to say I’d had a bike accident. By the time the story had been round town a couple of times, Mom had hunted me down, put a gun to my head, stabbed me with a hunting knife for good measure, and then gone after my brother.” Mac chuckled, clearly enjoying the memory. “We packed up and moved to Lawrence to escape the scandal.”
“And did you? Escape it, I mean.”
“Pretty much. New town, new school—Mom had by then persuaded me not be as forthcoming about the incident.”
Theo stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what parts of the story were fictions or exaggeration. She saw nothing that told her, and in the end she laughed, deciding that it didn’t matter.
