Walter knew that he was late. It was less than half an hour past the time he promised to be there, but he was still late. Unlike most women, Abigail tended to be punctual. If she said that she would be ready by eight-thirty, she would be—possibly even a few minutes earlier. For once, Walter envied the other men who complained that their wives and girlfriends always took much longer than they said they would.
He slowed his pace as he approached the house. When he reached the front door, he paused. He took a moment to calm his breathing.
It'll be all right. It'll be all right.
This brief litany for control also served to ease his anxiety . . . somewhat. Not for the first time, he was grateful to Sen for politely, but firmly, insisting that he participate in his training sessions with the other heroes.
Walter rapped on the door. He did so firmly, fearing that doing it tentatively might both rekindle and betray his apprehension.
There was a kaleidoscope of pastel colors beyond the paned and patterned glass of the front door. Walter heard the sounds of the locks being turned and then the door opened.
Abigail stood there. Her eyes met Walter's and he could tell instantly that she was not happy. Nonetheless, she offered him a polite smile and motioned for him to enter. Walter swallowed hard and moved through the doorway. Abigail closed the door behind him and then strode back toward the kitchen. Walter followed, taking her silence as a very bad sign.
From the doorless entry that led from the kitchen, Walter watched as Abigail filled two plates from several pots and pans. He was relieved to see that steam still rose from most of the dishes. Apparently his tardiness had not entirely ruined the meal. She placed each of them on the table, which Walter noted was set with good dishes and candles.
"Sit down," Abigail told Walter. "It'll get cold."
Walter obeyed, looking at Abigail, but deliberately avoided meeting her eyes. He seated himself and waited politely until Abigail came back to the table.
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