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and shared his puzzlement over the presence of the teenagers at the library on Friday evenings, Murphy relayed how pleased she was with the creativity and ambition illustrated by her newest reporter, Lottie Brontë.
    “Scott still has a huge crush on her, but he’s afraid to ask her on a date. They seem made for each other, too. I mean, how many people are named after authors?” James said as he cut into his barbecued chicken breast. Without waiting for Murphy to answer, he continued by asking, “Did she ever mention that Battlestar Galactica birdhouse he made for her?”
    Smiling for the first time since James had picked her up, Murphy laughed. “Are you kidding? That thing’s not doing the world’s sparrows or finches any good. Lottie says it’s a work of art and can’t be exposed to the elements. Instead, it holds a place of honor on her desk next to her computer. You know,” her hazel eyes twinkled, “I think she may even take it on the road with her when she covers stories outside the county.”
    Murphy took a bite of her own chicken and grimaced. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’ve never been a big fan of this place. This sauce is way too sweet and the meat isn’t exactly fall-off-the-bone tender. Maybe you can bring back some new recipes from Hudsonville and give them to Blue.”
    James glanced at the ancient proprietor of the restaurant, who had his head resting on his fist and was noisily snoozing behind the register. Murphy, James, and a young man waiting for a takeout order were the only other occupants of the small room. Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, James eyed the greasy pool oozing from beneath his chicken breast. The red-tinged grease had infiltrated his pile of cole slaw, so James shoveled the slaw into his mouth to avoid further contamination.
    “The slaw’s good,” he said, his mouth stuffed. “But I agree about the sauce.”
    “Should you even be eating this kind of food?” Murphy gestured at their meals. “I thought you were on a salt restriction.”
    James pulled more napkins loose from the napkin holder on the table. The contraption, whose stainless-steel surfaces were marred with scores of greasy fingerprints, sprung open like a trap and dozens of napkins fluttered across the table and onto the floor. Several fell right onto James’s chicken and were immediately saturated in barbecue sauce. Murphy sniggered, which annoyed the already embarrassed James.
    “I just saw Doc Spratt the day before yesterday,” he replied defensively. “My blood pressure’s back to normal levels again. Doc told me to be careful not to eat too much salt, and I’ll watch my intake, but I’m not going to pass up all foods containing sodium forever.” He closed the napkin holder and placed the pile of unused napkins on top. “Besides,” he shrugged, trying to get the last strands of slaw on his plastic fork, “something’s going to kill me one of these days. Might as well be food that tastes good. I’m not going to live my whole life eating lettuce, turkey breast, and multigrain cereal. I want to actually live life, instead of living just to avoid dying.”
    “Wow.” Murphy mocked him with her wide eyes. “ That was deep. Have you been checking out books from the self-help section again?”
    Despite the fact that James knew Murphy was only teasing, he felt a wave of annoyance wash over him. “We can’t all have naturally speedy metabolisms or blood pressure so low that it borders on being categorized as the walking dead.”
    Murphy sighed. “I admit, it’s tough to be perfect.” She then poked James playfully with her fork. The tines left four pinpricks of grease on the back of his hand. “Come on,” she said, grinning. “If your blood pressure can get back to normal, then so can we. I liked us the way we were, James. So we had a lousy weekend. It happens to the best of couples. Sometimes, for a lot of different reasons, people just get out of sync. Can we forget it and move