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“Beer?”
“No,” Abby said with a laugh. “Ice cream.”
Tate laughed, too, and hand in hand they strolled toward the downtown area, where Tate assured her he knew of an old-fashioned ice-cream place. The Swanson Parlor was decorated in pink—pink walls, pink chairs, pink linen tablecloths, and pink-dressed waitresses.
Abby decided quickly on a banana split and mentioned it to Tate.
“That does sound good. I’ll have one, too.”
Abby shut her menu and set it aside. This was the third time they’d gone for something to eat, and each time Tate had ordered the same thing she did. He didn’t seem insecure. But maybe she was being oversensitive. Besides, it didn’t make any difference.
Their rapport made conversation comfortable and lighthearted. They talked about the movie and other films they’d both seen. Abby discussed some of her favorite mystery novels and Tate described animal behavior he’d witnessed. But several times Abby noted that his laughter was forced. His gaze would become intent and his sudden seriousness would throw the conversation off stride.
“I love Minneapolis,” Abby said as they left the ice-cream parlor. “It’s such a livable city.”
“I agree,” Tate commented. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
“Yes, let’s.” Abby tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Tate looked at her and smiled, but again Abby noted the sober look in his eyes. “I was born in California,” he began.
“What’s it like there?” Abby had been to New York, but she’d never visited the West Coast.
“I don’t remember much. My family moved to New Mexico when I was six.”
“Hot, I’ll bet,” Abby said.
“It’s funny, the kinds of things you remember. I don’t recall what the weather was like. But I have a very clear memory of my first-grade teacher in Albuquerque, Ms. Grimes. She was pretty and really tall.” Tate chuckled. “But I suppose all teachers are tall to a six-year-old. We moved again in the middle of that year.”
“You seem to have moved around quite a bit,” Abby said, wondering why Tate had started talking about himself so freely. Although they had talked about a number of different subjects, she knew little about his personal life.
“We moved five times in as many years,” Tate continued. “We had no choice, really. My dad couldn’t hold down a job, and every time he lost one we’d pack up and move, seeking another start, another escape.” Tate’s face hardened. “We came to Minneapolis when I was in the eighth grade.”
“Did your father finally find his niche in life?” Abby sensed that Tate was revealing something he rarely shared with anyone. She felt honored, but surprised. Their relationship was promising in some ways and disappointing in others, but the fact that he trusted her with his pain, his difficult past, meant a lot. She wondered why he’d chosen her as a confidante.
“No, Dad died before he ever found what he was looking for.” There was no disguising the anguish in his voice. “My feelings for my father are as confused now as they were then.” He turned toward Abby, his expression solemn. “I hated him and I loved him.”
“Did your life change after he was gone?” Abby’s question was practically a whisper, respecting the deep emotion in Tate’s eyes.
“Yes and no. A couple of years later, I dropped out of school and got a job as a mechanic. My dad taught me a lot, enough to persuade Jack Bessler to hire me.”
“And you’ve been there ever since?”
His mouth quirked at one corner. “Ever since.”
“You didn’t graduate from high school, then, did you?”
“No.”
That sadness was back in his voice. “And you resent that?” Abby asked softly.
“I may have for a time, but I never fit in a regular classroom. I guess in some ways I’m a lot like my dad. Restless and insecure. But I’m much more content working at the garage than I ever was in a classroom.”
“You’ve worked there for years now,” Abby said, contradicting his assessment of himself. “How can you say you’re restless?”
He didn’t acknowledge her question. “There’s a chance I could buy the business. Jack’s ready to retire and wants out from under the worry.”
“That’s what you really want, isn’t it, Tate?”
