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The shirt he had given her hung to mid-thigh, and she rolled up the sleeves as she came into the kitchen where he was pulling a loaf of whole wheat bread and a package of sandwich meat from the refrigerator.
"How about roast beef?"
"I'm not much of a beef eater."
"I've got some salami here, or turkey breast."
"Plain cheese would be fine."
"Grilled cheese? I'm real good at that."
He was so eager to please, she couldn't help smiling. "All right."
"Do you want wine or a beer? I've also got some iced tea."
"Iced tea, please." She took a seat at an old butternut drop leaf table.
He poured both of them a glass and then began fixing the sandwiches. A copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time lay open on the table. She used it as an opportunity to restore some semblance of normality between them. "Pretty heavy reading for a jock."
"If I sound out all the words, it's not too bad."
She smiled.
He tossed the sandwiches into an iron skillet. "It's an interesting book. Gives you a lot to think about: quarks, gravity waves, black holes. I always liked science when I was in school."
"I think I'll wait for the movie." Taking a sip of iced tea, she pushed the book aside. "Tell me what happened with Molly."
He braced his hip against the edge of the stove. "That kid's a crackerjack. I met her inside when I was making my phone call. She told me some pretty hair-raising things about you."
"Like what?"
"Like the fact that you're keeping her a prisoner in the house. You tear up her mail, put her on bread and water when you're mad at her. And you're slapping her around."
"What!" Phoebe nearly knocked over her iced tea.
"She told me it doesn't hurt."
Phoebe was flabbergasted. "Why would she say something like that?"
"She doesn't seem to like you too much."
"I know. She's like a fussy maiden aunt. She disapproves of the way I dress; she doesn't think my jokes are funny. She doesn't even like Pooh."
"That might be good judgment on her part."
She glared at him.
He smiled. "As a matter of fact, your dog was cuddled around her ankles most of the time we talked. They seemed to be old friends."
"I don't think so."
"Well, I might be wrong."
"She honestly told you I slap her?"
"Yes, ma'am. She said you weren't evil, just twisted. I believe she compared you with somebody named Rebecca. The first Mrs. de Winter."
"Rebecca?" Understanding dawned, and she shook her head. "All that talk about Dostoyevski and the little stinker is reading Daphne du Maurier." For a moment she was thoughtful. "How do you know she wasn't telling you the truth? Adults slap children all the time."
