This wasn't the place to be having this sort of conversation. The two of them had already been crying, and the way this new question punched Larry in the gut told him he would probably be setting his masculinity aside again sooner rather than later. Nick looked all tied up, in that strained place between anger and sorrow, and Larry figured he probably should have just taken them upstairs in the first place.

"We should go someplace private," he answered, and slung back the remainder of his scotch before letting the empty glass drop solidly back onto the bar top. "I've got a room."

In the lobby, he had the presence of mind to pop into the shop and buy a little spiral-bound notebook, which he passed off to Nick on the way to the elevator. Better than half the hotel seeing one side of their conversation because they used the stationery provided in the rooms.

The door to Larry's guest room was innocuous enough, giving no indicator that the space beyond was a near-perfect replica of the living room from his and Lucy's home in Boulder. Even its scent evoked the original, a mixture of freshly mown grass, cool air, and the distant aroma of dish-washing liquid. Larry had been sleeping on the sofa, and he now wadded up the linens and pushed them aside.

He sat, drew a breath, slid his hands over his thighs.

"Mother Abigail came back."