“It’s all yours.”
“I’ll consider it a loan. Even though the cot isn’t really yours to lend. You are renting this place. You forget?”
She had. “Then loan it is.”
“Might need a hand to get the frame onto my truck.”
They made their second trip to the study and began to disassemble the bed. The legs folded in, making it easy to maneuver through the stairwell. Nat went first, Abigail trailing. Since he had his back to her, she could finally blot the sweat from her forehead.
“At least this isn’t heavy,” she remarked, pretending she wasn’t short of breath. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Sleep on it.”
“What about your bed?”
“You’re carrying it.”
Abigail was astounded. The man literally had no place to sleep. Had he been bunking on somebody’s couch or, worse, the floor? They slid the frame into the rear of his truck and he shut the tailgate.
“Need any other furniture? Seriously. What else am I supposed to do with it?”
“Dunno about that.” Her generosity made him antsy.
Nat was retreating into the house when Abigail said: “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He turned and hunted for intention in her eyes. This time, Abigail held her ground.
“You’re on.”
Piece by piece, they emptied the basement. For every chair that came up, another went onto Nat’s truck. Soon the living room was full of antiques and his flatbed was piled high. By noon, Abigail was spent. She plopped onto the front steps of the house.
Nat wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You hungry yet?”
“Yet?”
“You don’t seem to eat much.”
“I eat. I eat plenty.”
“Uh-huh.”
Nat headed into the house. Abigail found him in the kitchen inspecting the contents of her refrigerator.
“This is a sorry sight.”
“It’s not very polite to—”
“Go through people’s medicine cabinets. This is your fridge.”
“Laugh it up. I don’t have any food. Ha-ha-ha.”
“This a start,” he said of the frozen dinners in the freezer. “At least you can throw these in the oven and….” He mimed the gesture, inadvertently exposing the half-baked turkey tetrazzini from two nights ago. “Saving this for later?”
Face burning, Abigail stormed out of the kitchen. She sulked on the stoop. Nat appeared minutes later with a sandwich on a plate.
“This must be your favorite, because it’s all you got.”
Abigail took the plate. The sandwich was so artfully presented that her mouth began to water.
“You should’ve made one for yourself. Or I could make you one,” she offered lamely.
“Don’t worry. I brought my own.” Nat unpacked a delectable-looking overstuffed sandwich from his cooler. He saw Abigail eyeing it. “You want some?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
Nat put half of his sandwich on her plate, then took the other half of hers. Abigail had a bite. His sandwich was perfection.
“That’s what a couple months as a short-order cook will teach you.”
“Is there a job you haven’t done?”
“Other than president?”
“Yes, besides being the leader of the free world, what occupation haven’t you taken a stab at?”
“Can’t think of any,” he said. “Except lexicography, of course.”
The topic had become too intimate for Nat, too personal. He began to fidget with the cap of the soda he’d brought. Abigail changed the subject. It was the least she could do after he’d made her the sandwich.
“What’s your take on these robberies? Weird, huh?”
The second the words tumbled from her lips, she recalled that Nat had been arrested for breaking into a car as
