LITMIR.BIZ

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Wadsworth, Senior.

      Closest to her was an older man, who wore a cable-knit cardigan and tweed jacket whatever the weather, and who took plain coffee and a cheese sandwich every morning. No variations. No substitutions. He arrived at the same time, had his breakfast and left at the same time. Sometimes he timidly invited her or one of the other regulars to sit at his table, but whenever she accepted he never said much, just had his coffee and threw her the occasional shy smile. He always left a fifty-cent tip on the table. Rita felt sorry for him. She thought of him as Uncle Harold.

      Then there was the strange Goth girl who, like her, always took the same seat if she could get it, near the window. She was about eighteen, although it was hard to tell under the mass of black, greasy hair that fell over her face. Her skin was the color of oatmeal, and the thick, smudged kohl rimming her eyes made her look as though she was losing out on a lot of sleep. She wore the same black hoodie, dark gray jeans, black socks and black high-top Converse sneakers every day. The only hint of color about her was the dozen or so plastic bracelets on one arm, and an oversized silver pendant, representing some arcane symbol, between her small breasts.

      She was hunched over her PDA, thumbs flying as she moved the controls to her game, head bobbing to the rhythm of the music being piped into her ears via noodle-thin wires. Rita had decided that her name was Drucilla.

      A few joggers were buying drinks at the counter, and a young couple she hadn’t seen before were wrapped up in each other, sharing a chair made for one. Otherwise, the coffee shop was quiet.

      The staff, then? Could someone behind the counter have discreetly shot off an e-mail, and were they now covertly watching her, enjoying her reaction? That would be hard to believe. She glanced in their direction, but they were engrossed in their duties, hurrying to and fro in their green aprons, getting ready for the morning rush. Unless the brace-faced youngster fiddling with the digital register was also logged on to the Net at the same time, the scary note hadn’t come from inside the coffee shop.

      That left someone outside. The prickling of her scalp morphed into a throb at her temple. She looked furtively out the window, wondering queasily which of the dozens of pedestrians hurrying down Independence Avenue could be the one. But nobody so much as glanced inside. Served her right for sitting at the window. Making a sitting duck of herself. Tomorrow she was sitting against the farthest wall, facing the door.

      The coffee tasted bitter and cold to her now, although it was neither. She set it down and packed up her computer.

      Outside, in the mild autumn air, she turned west on Independence and followed it a few scant blocks before turning north onto Jubilee, where her apartment sat midway along the short street. It was an aging building, a sedate brownstone that only rose to a height of five stories, so that the nearby buildings towered over it, cutting out much of the natural light. Carved busts of angels once adorned the facade, but, after the first one worked free of its moorings and fell, the landlords took the rest of them down. Pale, angel-shaped scars remained on the wall, ghostly outlines etched into the grime.

      Real estate agents euphemistically described the building as “reminiscent of its former glory,” but she liked its charm. Elaborate brickwork decorated the doorway and windows, the tilework throughout was spectacular, and the hot water worked most of the time. Besides, when you considered what they were charging for rent in Santa Amata, she was getting a bargain.

      As she ran up the five steps to the main door, she glanced at her watch. She was ten minutes late for her daily jogging date with her best friend, Cassie, thanks to her distraction back in the coffee shop. Hurriedly, she took the stairs to the third floor, not bothering to wait for the elevator, opened up her apartment, tossed her computer and newspaper onto the couch and left again. There was no need to change as she was already in her sweats.

      By the time she made it to their regular meeting place, the convenience store around the corner, Cassie was there, leaning against a parking meter and doing stretches, bringing her knee up to her chest and holding it for counts of twenty. Considering her more-than-generous bustline, which dwarfed Rita’s fairly substantial C cups by several sizes, this was not quite as easy as it seemed.

      “You’re late, Steadman.”

      Rita began her leg bends. “I know. Sorry. I was, uh….” She wondered if she should say anything about the nasty e-mails. Was it worth getting into? She did get them from time to time, so it wasn’t a big deal. Although there was the eerie possibility that A.F. had known where she’d be this morning, she decided to forget it. “I was answering mail,” she said instead, quite truthfully.

      “And pumping your body full of poison,” Cassie countered. As a penance for keeping her waiting, she loped off, not affording Rita the time to warm up.

      Rita caught up with her, even though the mild throbbing at her temples persisted. Maybe a jog was just the ticket to make the beginnings of a stress headache go away. Cassie was one of those health food evangelists who took pleasure in pointing out the dietary transgressions of others. She thought eating red meat was a crime and had to know exactly which spring her water came from. In spite of this, her curves were not those of a fervent dieter, but Cassie dismissed her bustline and bottom as hereditary, and left it at that.

      Rita defended her drug of choice. “The detrimental effects of coffee are greatly exaggerated. It’s good for you, actually.”

      “Says who?”

      “Says the May issue of Niobe. If there’s anybody who should remember that, it should be you.” Apart from being Rita’s best friend, Cassie was also a senior editor at the magazine.

      Cassie blew a raspberry. “The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of management.”

      Both women laughed.

      “Speaking of which,” Rita said as they found their stride, “how’s work?”

      Cassie rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask. I had the awfulest, awfulest day yesterday. The art department sent up the new cover layout, and it’s a joke. The model weighed about twenty pounds! Does anyone around there ever listen to what I say? Niobe is a magazine for real women, not scarecrows! I sent it back and told them to get me a model with some flesh on her bones. Someone who looks like she’s had a meal this month. You know?”

      “Just wait ’til the scarecrows’ union gets on your back.”

      “Oh, yeah? Ha! Your mom’d be proud of me. You know how she’s always raving on about a positive body image for women—never mind she’s still a perfect size six at her age.”

      At least that would make her proud of someone, Rita thought. “She called me this morning.”

      “Yeah? Speak of the devil. What are Ma and Pa Kinsey up to this time? Nude boogie-boarding in Ibiza?”

      “Close enough. They’re off to Vegas. Signings, lectures, interviews, the usual.”

      “I heard Bea on the radio the other night. She was a riot! Is it true she had male strippers at her book signing in Denver?”

      “That’s what she told me. And I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

      “Aw, Rita, don’t be like that. You have no idea how lucky you are to have them as your parents. When I was young, my folks threw a fit if I bought a skirt that showed off my knees. Yours have got to be two of the most modern, forward-thinking sixty-year-olds around. It must have been so cool growing up in their house.”

       So you’d imagine, unless you actually had to do it, Rita thought. But she trotted along, pretending she had to take her pulse. Cassie didn’t push it, and they both fell silent.

      They jogged in perfect synchronicity with the ease of two people who had done this for a very long time, dodging commuters and other joggers, keeping up the rhythm by running in place at traffic lights, all the way down to De Menzes Park, the pride of Santa Amata. The spread covered several acres of prime, gently undulating land. At the turn of the last century, it had been a horse farm, owned by one of the founding fathers of the small east-coast city. After the grandson of the patriarch died

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