Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Amabile

Page 8

“You’re late,” Ludwig said without looking up, which was part of the ritual. “You always say that,” Morey replied, dropping his backpack by the stairs; also part of the ritual.

He took his seat, the same one he always used, the one with the slightly wobbly leg that he compensated for by resting his foot on the rung. He surveyed the board like a returning general. His red hotels on the yellows were still standing. His railroad empire remained intact. Ludwig’s greens were threatening, though, and Hannah had quietly accumulated far more cash than anyone realized.

From the kitchen came the steady, domestic percussion of Elena’s routine; the rhythmic chop of a knife, the scrape of a wooden spoon against a pan, the soft thud of a cabinet closing. Every few minutes she called out a reminder, “Don’t lose the pieces,” or “Set the table when you’re done with that turn,” without turning around. She didn’t need to look. She knew exactly what they were doing.

The front door opened again at 5:30 PM, almost to the minute. Father Dirk’s arrival was as predictable as the sunset. He stepped inside with the tired exhale of a man who had been holding his breath since lunch, hung his coat on the same hook