“Berry, tell that guy to quiet down or we’ll tack on disturbing the peace to the charges.”

Apparently, the man knew his law. And his daytime television. According to O’Malley, he’d be issued a summons and made to sign a PTA, a promise to appear in court. If he got “belligerent,” he might graduate to a $250 bond. But he’d still be let go, probably in just a few hours.

“Define belligerent,” I said.

“Broad definition.”

“That’s it?”

“What would you like me to do with him? We’ve done away with stocks and pillories in New England. No weapons; no damage, thank goodness; no physical harm to Babe. It’s like the man said, trespassing-a misdemeanor in the state of Connecticut. Forget Oprah, he may even be out before Martha goes on.”

O’Malley’s young partner was exasperated. He had no luck getting McGinley to shut up, and had gotten tired of trying. Finally he rolled up the window of the patrol car and came over to where Babe, Mike, and I had drifted near the side entrance to the diner.

“What’s he yapping about now?” O’Malley asked.

The younger cop looked uncomfortable.

“Go ahead,” Babe said, smiling. “We’ve heard four-letter words before.”

“That’s not it, ma’am. He said, ‘She’s the damn criminal. She’s the one you want.’ He thinks we should arrest Mrs. Chinnery.”

O’Malley simply closed his eyes for a second or two with a look that suggested this was as novel an excuse for trespassing as he’d ever heard.

“Didn’t he like the food?”

Seven

False or not, Babe’s lamiums had finally arrived. They wouldn’t look like much until the following spring, so I filled the bare spots with temporary fixes like annual grasses and mums that could stay in their black plastic pots until the winter came and we composted them. By that time, not too many people would be eating in Babe’s outdoor seating area anyway, and no one would notice if the garden was a little bare.

Right then, the diner’s business was booming. Indian summer had brought people out in droves and even inspired a few hardy souls to resurrect their long shorts and flip-flops, but not the Main Street Moms, who rarely strayed from their seasonal uniforms. I didn’t see Caroline Sturgis in either of the two packs of women at the picnic tables but expected to see her soon for our long-awaited business meeting. I was also mildly curious to learn if little Brandon’s DNA tests revealed he could keep up with his swimming lessons.

Outside the diner, not far from the planters, where I was adding topsoil, sat a sandy-haired man, fair skin, around fifty to fifty-five years old-I could never tell anymore. He was extremely fit and attractive despite a nose that had obviously been broken and never fixed properly. If he were a woman, he’d be what the French might call jolie laide. I was amused to see a ripple of interest pass through the Main Street Moms’ tables, and I made a point of not staring at the man-he was getting enough female attention without my adding to the adoration.

A stack of real estate brochures was fanned out on the table in front of him, and he pored over the booklets with more than the casual interest of diner patrons, who generally leafed through them only after they’d ordered and were waiting for their meals to be served. He even took notes. I could imagine Gretchen Kennedy and her colleagues who filled the Free-Take-One! racks coming to blows over a buyer as motivated as this one.

For some reason I assumed he was single and so did the rest of the women, who consciously or unconsciously sat up a little straighter and spoke with their heads tilted at flattering angles. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, although that didn’t prove anything. But straight or gay, how many guys went house shopping without wife or partner? I had to pass him three or four times carrying large bags of the mulch that I used to camouflage the nursery pots in the planters.

“May I help you?” he asked, getting up from his seat.

“No thanks,” I said, breathing heavily. “I’ve got it covered.” And I did mostly. I was out of breath but tried not to show it.

“You’re pretty strong.”

Was he checking out my muscles the way I’d been checking out his? I kept working and didn’t respond.

He dog-eared pages in the brochures and finally got up and approached one of the Moms’ tables. Despite the banged-up nose he had an elegant, catlike grace, almost like a dancer.

“Excuse me, ladies. I know this is presumptuous, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about Springfield?” He fanned out the real estate brochures as if to show them he was for real.

The sea of females parted for him, and before long the women from the second table had dragged their chairs over to assist the handsome, well-spoken man. I could almost hear the gears moving as the quickly confirmed single man was being mentally seated next to divorced friends at future dinner parties.

There went my chance-I should have let him help me with the bags of mulch. I could have had first dibs on one of the only eligible men in Springfield. A sudden peal of giggles erupted from the women, who had regressed in age and maturity due to the unexpected novelty of a man in their midst-and during the day. Flirting. It was like riding a bicycle.

I finished up, stored my tools in my Jeep, and went inside. Through the window, Babe had been keeping an eye on the action outside.

“Something tells me if that guy really does buy a place around here, those girls are going to reinstate the welcome wagon, but instead of cookies and kitchen tools there’ll be rubber and latex in the goody basket.” I cleaned up and joined Babe at the counter, where a cup of coffee was waiting for me.

“He got here an hour before you did,” she said. “Had breakfast inside and about five refills on the coffee. If he doesn’t come in to pee soon, he’s going to make medical history.”

When the man first arrived, he’d asked Babe if this was the only diner in the area so many times that she was close to throwing him out, but he apologized and explained that he’d gotten the directions from a friend and just wanted to make sure he was in the right place. That’s when he began studying the real estate booklets. When the Moms arrived, he took his research outside. One of them, Becka Reynolds, was being particularly helpful.

“Look at them,” I said. “They’re fixing him up already and he could be a potential mass murderer. And he hasn’t even seen a house yet, much less made an offer. Wait until those real estate harpies get their hooks in him. He’ll be toast.”

One of the regulars, a guy named Carl, was paying his check and overheard me. “You girls just can’t stand to see us single and happy,” he said.

“Shut up, Carl, before I tell that sweet young wife of yours what you think about marriage.” Babe handed him his change and returned to my end of the counter.

“You never told me about that wedding you and Lucy went to,” Babe said. “Did you find your soul mate?”

“That doesn’t happen in real life. In real life one bridesmaid looks fabulous because she lobbied for the dress that was most flattering to her, and the rest of them look ludicrous in it, and they’ll never wear it again no much how much it’s shortened. She may be the one who gets lucky. The other guests are not hooking up. They’re wondering which of their friends will marry next and whether they’ll be the last lonely member of their group, rolling her walker over to the center of the banquet room to try to catch the bride’s bouquet in her gnarled, liver-spotted hands.”

“Wow. That’s a depressing image,” Babe said. “Is that what you were thinking?”

“Only once or twice.”

Babe herself had been single for many years since her husband, Pete, had died in a motorcycle accident. They’d moved to Springfield with their twin boys and opened the diner years ago. Not long after, Pete went out for a ride with a buddy and had a smashup on Route 7. She didn’t talk much about the years right after that. It must have been hard being a single mom and the sole breadwinner with a young family and a fledgling business to get off the ground. When she did share memories, they were of her happier days with the Jimmy Collins band.