“I assume it’s a family name.”
He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”
“I…Yes, a little.”
“Brooks Robinson.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”
“She must be very serious about baseball.”
“Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”
“It’s just a name.”
“I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”
“I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”
“I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good-bye.”
When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?
Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.
Just in case.
The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.
Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.
Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.
It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.
He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.
And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.
Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.
“No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.
He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.
The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft yellow.
He could smell fresh bread, and the allure of whatever she stirred on the stove while she sang along with Fergie. She gave Fergie a run for her money, Brooks thought.
As far as he was concerned, his mother could do damn near anything, and everything.
She had her hair, a gold-streaked brown, braided down her back, with silver beads dangling from her ears. Her bare feet tapped to the beat.
A peace symbol tattoo on her right ankle announced her sixties sensibilities.
