Читать книгу Last Known Address - Elizabeth Wrenn - Страница 9

The small restaurant was dimly lit, but warm and cozy. Just what they all needed, C.C. decided. But she was worried when Meg and Shelly headed toward one of the three small booths along the wall. She didn’t think she’d fit. But, happily, the benches slid out. C.C. decided two things on the spot; one, that, like Meg was always telling her, she was not as fat as she thought she was; and two, that she liked this little place.

Two hours after the tow truck had rescued them, they were sitting in Purdy’s Restaurant and Bar in the tiny burg of Tupper, Illinois. Showers in their motel room (number three, like the three of them–a good omen!) had taken the worst of the chill out of them. Now, as dusk fell outside, they were warming their insides with what Shelly called Sleeping Irish–Irish coffees made with decaf. C.C. was so tired that she hadn’t realized till two sips into her very strong drink that they were staying at Purdy’s Motel, and just down the road was Purdy’s Grocery. Purdy himself had checked them in to their room. There were only four rooms; one of these Purdy had indicated he lived in (‘should you need anything, night or day’). Then he had insisted on carrying all their luggage from Mick’s Garage and Auto Sales, across and down the dirt Main Street to their room. By the time all of their luggage, mostly C.C.’s, had been delivered, the portly Purdy was red-faced and puffing, but strangely beaming. C.C. had tried to offer him a tip, but he had refused, just stood there, looking every which way but at her. Finally, he’d said that maybe they’d like to freshen up and then come over to his restaurant for dinner. Slightly embarrassed at the looks the other two gave her, C.C. had replied yes, they would probably do that. She refrained from pointing out that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Tupper that they could get dinner.

Purdy now appeared at their booth, bearing a small cast-iron pan of hot cornbread, and three small plates. ‘The bread’s on the house, ladies. Sorry your trip down south got detoured, but we’re very glad to have you here.’ That’s odd, thought C.C., as Purdy set everything on the table. They hadn’t mentioned anything about their destination when they’d checked in. Evidently Mick had told him. Mick and Purdy probably constituted the entire business district of Tupper.

‘S’cuse me, uh, ma’am…’ Purdy reached across the table and picked up a squeeze bottle of honey from between the napkin holder and a small glass pitcher of syrup. C.C. felt her cheeks redden, though she wasn’t sure why. He held the bottle up so they could all see the label:

Minding Our Bees’ Nests

Fresh Illinois Honey

‘I can personally recommend this honey for my cornbread,’ he said. ‘We–uh, I, tend the hives myself.’ He looks like a TV pitchman, thought C.C., quickly hiding her smile. Not quickly enough, she realized when Purdy darted a quick smile back at her, then looked away.

Not that kind of smile. Was it? No, of course not. She looked at her hands, wrapped around the ceramic mug. The warmth on her palms matched the warmth in her cheeks. Oh, she was just being silly, was all.

‘This’s real good on the cornbread,’ said Purdy. C.C. glanced up, relieved to see he was looking at Meg. His ruddy cheeks formed small balls under his blue eyes, a disarming dimple in his left cheek. He turned toward her again. Dimples in both cheeks, she saw. He held the honey before her like a maître d’ holding a bottle of wine for inspection. ‘See, it’s got a touch of cinnamon in it,’ he said, tapping his finger on the label. ‘But you got your syrup too,’ he added, pointing it out on the table, next to the napkin holder. ‘If you prefer that route. My wife, may she rest in peace, was partial to syrup. But I myself like the honey. Ma’am?’ He offered C.C. the honey, his eyebrows held aloft expectantly, wiry white caterpillars stopped mid-march.

C.C. looked down again, gingerly touched her hair. She then looked at the honey, keeping her eyes focused on the little bees on the label. ‘Well, being from the south originally, I do like syrup on cornbread. But I’ll give the honey a try. The cinnamon sounds good.’ She couldn’t help a quick glance across the table. Meg was doing that cheek-chewing thing she did when she was trying not to smile. Shelly was not so restrained; she had a smirk a mile wide and was staring right at her. C.C. was deathly afraid Shelly would make some wisecrack. But, bless her heart, she kept mum.

Oh, you’re acting crazier than a sprayed roach! It was all C.C. could do not to slap herself. Mum about what? Really. C.C. took the bottom of the honey bottle in her hand, looking at the cute illustrations of happy bees on the label. But Purdy still held the top of the bottle, his eyes locked on hers.

‘Thank you,’ said C.C., pulling slightly on the bottle. Purdy didn’t let go. ‘Um…’

He must have thought she didn’t remember his name, because he stuck out his free hand, still holding the bottle in the other. C.C. gave him her free hand, not releasing the bottle either, since he hadn’t. It was an awkward shake, her hand too warm from being wrapped around her coffee mug, his cool and a little clammy.

‘I’m Purdy. Everyone calls me Purdy,’ he said, still holding her hand.

‘C.C.,’ said C.C., wondering what in the hell was going on. They sat there, neither letting go of the honey, and Purdy not letting go of her hand. The bell on the front door rang and two men, laughing loudly, stepped in. Purdy startled visibly, and gasped. He let go of her hand, but appeared not to realize he still held the honey.

‘S’okay, Purdy. Just us,’ said a tall, thin man dressed in overalls, a younger man with him, who had to be his son, dressed alike, hair combed with grease alike. They quieted immediately and looked contrite. Purdy gave the men a slight wave. C.C. saw that Meg and Shelly were also looking back and forth between the men and Purdy. Those men acted as if they’d walked too noisily into a library, rather than a restaurant.

She looked at Purdy. He was pale. He slowly turned his attention back to the table, his face quickly pinking. But he still hadn’t let go of the bottle of honey. In fact, if anything, he had a tighter hold on it. And now C.C. too had been holding on for so long that she wasn’t sure how to let go. Plus, she wanted it. On her cornbread. She was feeling rather possessive of it.

Not knowing what else to do, too embarrassed to look at either of her friends or this odd, jumpy man standing there at the other end of her honey bottle, she studied each letter of ‘Minding Our Bees’ Nests’. She smiled, realizing for the first time the pun in the name. ‘That’s a cute name,’ she said, still mulling over her options–letting go of the honey bottle that had been, after all, offered to her. Or pull again, harder. But she immediately felt the blush rising in her cheeks as she realized with a cringe that the last thing spoken before she’d made her comment, was Purdy telling them his name. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’d just sounded like she’d said Purdy was a cute name! She saw Meg and Shelly stifling laughs.

‘I, I mean the honey. “Minding Our Bees’ Nests”‘,’ she added hastily, adding too many Ss at the end. She had a bit of a lisp, which seemed to be getting worse in the past couple of years (she’d even wondered if her tongue had gained weight). But it was a hard combination to say. Suddenly the bottle was in her hand.

‘I hope you enjoy it, uh…uh, ma’am,’ Purdy said kindly.

‘Yum,’ said C.C., setting the honey down close to her. Was he asking for her name again? It would be so embarrassing if she gave it to him, and it wasn’t what he was stuttering about. She felt like she was thirteen! But Purdy nodded and, if she wasn’t mistaken, gave a slight wink. Not in a flirty way, C.C. was sure. Just excited about his honey. She was glad she hadn’t blurted out her name.

He gestured toward the pan, still steaming on the table. ‘Lemme know what you think. That’s my own cornbread recipe. Secret ingredient.’

C.C. feigned adjusting the band of her watch.

‘Just wave if you need anything,’ said Purdy.

C.C. nodded without looking up, not until she heard the other two say thank you and Purdy’s footsteps heading off.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Shelly. ‘My, my. My, my, my, my, my!’ She lifted her mug toward C.C. ‘Ya still got it, babe!’ Meg giggled and lifted her mug too, clinking against Shelly’s. C.C. felt herself turning about four shades of red as the two intertwined arms and gave each other doe eyes, then sipped their drinks.

‘Oh, now, stop that. What!’ They were just being silly. What man would choose to flirt with her over the other two? Of course he wasn’t flirting. He was just…odd, frankly. And he just really believed in his honey. And cornbread. She shook her head dismissively and sipped her drink. ‘Wow! These puppies are strong,’ she said, desperate to change the subject. Shelly and Meg both set their mugs on the table, doe eyes gone, puzzlement in their place.

‘Mine sure isn’t. Is yours?’ Shelly asked Meg.

Meg shook her head. ‘No. In fact, I was just going to say that I’m not sure there’s any kick in there at all. It’s good coffee and all, but—’

C.C. shoved her mug across the table. ‘Here. Taste this.’

Meg took a sip, recoiled. ‘Holy cow!’ She handed it to Shelly.

Shelly sipped, then slapped the table. ‘Hee-heeee! Either he’s trying to get you drunk on your first date or he’s so distracted by your beauty that he poured all three shots of booze into your mug!’

‘Oh, please. You’re nuts, Shelly,’ said C.C., batting the air between them dismissively, and trying hard not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

‘No, I think she’s right,’ whispered Meg, leaning in, smiling. ‘The man is obviously smitten.’

‘And you’re the kitten with whom he’s smitten!’ said Shelly, too loudly.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed both Meg and C.C. Shelly slapped her hand over her mouth, but snickered underneath it. Removing her hand, she turned to Meg, whispering now, but with just as much animation. ‘Hey! I guess we each get our own bed tonight if Purdy makes his move on C.C.’

C.C. kicked her under the table, feeling Meg’s foot doing the same.

‘Ow! OWW!’ yelped Shelly.

‘I’m not you, Shelly,’ said C.C. ‘I don’t sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Now, give me your mugs.’ She poured the three drinks back and forth from mug to mug, till they were mixed, giving the lion’s share to Meg and Shelly. She figured she was several sips ahead of them. She pushed their mugs across the table. ‘Besides, I’m sure it was just an accident. The booze, I mean.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Shelly. ‘An accident caused by your bewitching beauty.’ Grinning, Shelly served them each a thick slice of the cornbread.

C.C. couldn’t help the small smile that slipped across her own lips. Could it be? Really? She hadn’t had a man flirt with her in a long time, maybe even since…When? High school? Lenny had certainly not been the flirty type. She wondered if he had ever flirted with her. Surely he must have when they’d met. But for three years he was just the guy at Byrd and Franholz, doing her taxes. Unless asking if she had a receipt for the high-school band wreath she’d bought was flirting. Come to think of it, his laborious explanation had grown longer and more cumbersome each year: that she ‘could only deduct the amount over the cost of an average Christmas wreath because the wreath itself was considered a benefit of having bought the wreath and only the remainder could be considered a charitable deduction to the band’. Was that flirting? She’d thought at the time, and still thought, that if a tax guy wanted to impress a girl he probably shouldn’t even tell her that he was a tax guy, much less go on and on about the tax code. But from the beginning, Lenny was always polite, albeit quiet, and somewhat narrowly focused. If he was reading an article in a magazine, she could walk into the room naked, with a bowl of fruit on her head, and he would not notice. And that wasn’t just a guess; she had tried it. But when he was focused on her, it was all about her. And Len didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, unlike her first husband, Billy, whose entire skeletal system was the lying bone connected to the deceitful bone connected to the cockamamie bone (Shelly would say ‘the bullshit’ bone). There had been something so fresh and clean and, all right, maybe boring, about Lenny. But thank God by the time he’d gathered his courage to ask her out, she’d gotten past the stage in her life when she found ‘bad boys’ attractive. (Kathryn was still in that phase, she thought morosely, picturing Jordan.) But C.C. had been much younger than Kathryn was now when she’d finally learned that hard-won lesson, that the other side of a dull, black piece of glass was the shiny, beautifully reflective mirror. The flip side of boring was sincerity. Right after Lenny’s third explanation about the band wreath, on his third year of doing her taxes, after he’d spent ten minutes telling her about 501Cs and benefit versus cost versus donation, he had nervously asked her out. Six months later, she’d become Mrs Leonard Byrd.

Now Billy, on the other hand, was a world-class flirt. He was a charmer, that boy. A constant flirt. And what good had come of that, in the end? None. None at all. Except Kathryn, of course. Who had Billy’s genes, but Lenny’s fathering.

C.C. finished her drink and took another slice of cornbread from Shelly, and the honey from Meg.

But this man–Purdy. Was it his first name, she wondered. He was just being kind to them. All of them. And even if he had sort of singled her out, and even if she did find him charming, jumpiness notwithstanding, what could possibly come of it? They’d be back on the road tomorrow, gone for good, heading south again.

She stared at her breasts. Heading south, indeed. Shelly and Meg must be wrong about Purdy. If he was looking for a woman to–well, date–he would certainly be more attracted to one of them, not her. Meg was almost eight years older than she was, but Meg was so trim and petite, an impeccable dresser, right out of J. Crew. And perky breasts, too. Even though she was too thin now, and her hair mostly gray. But it was an attractive silver on her. And Shelly, so funny and wild and seductive, with her sexy thick, red hair, though now with that troubling gray, unlike Meg’s attractive silvery hair. Back in the day, a man might have preferred C.C., when she was young, blonde and her body unaltered by either calories or gravity. But what man would be attracted to her now? Maybe a dairy farmer. She was a cow. She stared at her hands, her chubby fingers, especially her left ring finger. The indentation from her wedding ring still deep. She’d removed the ring not because she was a widow, or because it ‘was time’, but rather because she’d gained so much weight that she was worried they’d have to cut it off her.

She sighed, picked up the bottle, and squeezed a generous stream of cinnamon honey back and forth over her second slice of cornbread.

After they’d finished all the bread (they agreed, it was exceptional, deep and nutty-tasting, especially good with the honey), they’d decided to go ahead and order dinner, then get to bed early. C.C. stared at her menu: Meatloaf? Fried chicken? Maybe chicken fried steak.

‘Ahem.’

She looked up. Mick stood at their table. He’d pulled off his grease-stained cap, holding it to his chest, as if about to deliver a eulogy. ‘Evenin’, ladies.’ All three women put down their menus. ‘Well, I’ve got good news and bad news’. The good news is it’s just the alternator. Oh. And battery. I tested it and it’s pretty low on juice. If I was you, I’d replace it too. ‘Specially before a road trip. Now, it’s easy enough t’plop another of each in there. But the bad news is that I don’t have the right kind of alternator in stock. That’s a pretty old model car you got there. But the other good news is that I found one in Sash County, and it’ll be here tomorrow morning first thing. I can prolly get you ladies on the road again before noon. You’re headed down south, right? Kentucky?’

‘Uh, Tennessee,’ said Meg. ‘Can you tell us about how much this will cost?’

‘Well, I’m gonna give you the battery and alternator at cost, and a discount on the labor.’ He put his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Dad’s orders.’ They all glanced at Purdy, who, his complexion suddenly ruddier than ever, was wiping a spot on the wooden bar with such vigor one would think he held sandpaper, not a clean white towel. Then he disappeared below the counter, and they heard glassware being moved around.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely of him!’ said Shelly, clasping her hands together and grinning. Meg discreetly smiled at C.C. C.C. fidgeted with her watch again.

‘So, it’ll be around two fifty, maybe three,’ said Mick. ‘I’ll have to pay Kirby for bringing it over here.’

The levity was suddenly gone from the table. C.C. added it up in her head: that plus the motel bill would wipe out most of what they’d allotted for their entire travel budget to Tennessee. They’d each pooled all they felt they could afford to the Dogs’ Wood Investment Group, the name they’d given themselves, and had agreed to scrimp and save so that they could afford materials and the unexpected. They hadn’t planned on the un expected being the first day of their trip.

This was another sign. This trip was a mistake. They should probably just head back home, once the car was fixed. C.C. hung her head. The other two wouldn’t be in this mess if not for her.

‘Well, if you ladies will excuse me now,’ said Mick. ‘I gotta get Joe Spurn’s truck off the blocks.’ He nodded to one then the next, bobbing his head like a pigeon. ‘G’night, ma’am. Ma’am. Ma’am.’ He put his cap back on, pulling it snug with both hands before he turned and walked away. C.C. watched as he reached up and held the little bell quiet as he opened and closed the door.

Feeling adrift, C.C. looked at her friends. Shelly was pulling little bits off her paper napkin, already a small pile forming on her bread plate. Meg looked like she might burst into tears again. Poor Meg. She couldn’t control the breakdowns yet. But she would. Eventually. It was only recently that C.C. trusted herself not to break down in public. Right after Lenny died she couldn’t even speak, much less go out. It had taken weeks before she did anything besides go to the grocery store. And here Meg was, ‘the event’ still so recent, and she was on a road trip, of all things. In a way, Grant leaving was worse than Lenny dying. Grant had made a choice to leave Meg. Lenny had simply been called by God. Though she had doubted many times, C.C. still preferred to think there was some sort of intention somewhere in the universe. If not God, then…C.C. sighed. Something. Surely there had to be something.

She looked up, waved at Purdy till she got his attention, circling her finger around the table and lifting her mug. Purdy nodded, grinned, and bustled into action behind the bar.

‘This round’s on me,’ she said to her friends, her mug still in the air. ‘I’m sorry. I got us into this mess.’ As she said ‘mess’, she gestured broadly with the mug, which slipped from her grasp, and shattered on the hard floor.

‘DOWN!’

C.C. looked up, her heart pounding, first from the mug breaking, then from the shout. Purdy was cowering on the floor, at the end of the bar, his dishtowel wadded and held protectively near his head. Nobody moved for several seconds. Purdy suddenly stood, red-faced, and rapidly disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door.

C.C. had thought he was yelling at her. But clearly he was not. Still, she felt the heat of embarrassment. Then confusion.

‘Wow. What do you suppose that was about?’ asked Shelly.

Meg looked wan, said nothing. C.C. stared at the black, swinging kitchen door, then at the jagged pieces of mug littering the floor. ‘We should just turn around, go home. This is another very bad omen.’

‘C.C!’ Shelly and Meg said in unison.

‘Well, it is! Look, I did get us into this. When I inherited Aunt Georgie’s old house, I was just going to sell it, you know, just get rid of it, take that pittance the real-estate agent was offering and be done with it. But then Shelly told me about flip investments, and, then, well, Meg’s situation and all…’ C.C. hesitated, then went ahead and said it: ‘Well, it just seemed like a sign, like maybe we could all finally really do the Great Escape. I thought it’d be fun, all of us getting away, work on the house together, maybe all make a little money on it…’ Her voice trailed off. Quietly, she added, ‘But so far, it’s just costing us.’

The kitchen door flapped open again. Purdy was walking slowly toward them with a broom and dustpan. He didn’t look at them as he squatted and began to sweep up the pieces.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said C.C., scooting to the edge of the bench. ‘Here, let me do that. And, of course, please put it on our bill.’

‘No, no,’ he said gently, but keeping his head down. ‘It’s really okay. Doesn’t matter. These are…ancient.’ He rose, staring at the dustpan filled with mug pieces. He turned and walked back to the kitchen, his steps tight and uncertain.

C.C. watched him go, feeling at an utter loss in a way she didn’t quite understand. She was always interested in people’s stories, whether she knew them or not. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know this man’s story. She was pretty sure, whatever it was, it was a sad one.

‘Well, I’m the one who told you about the whole flip thing,’ said Shelly. ‘So really, it’s because of me that we’re even here.’

‘Look,’ said Meg, with a resolve that C.C. hadn’t heard in a while, ‘the only extra to all of us is going to be the motel. It’s my car, so it’s my repair bill. Plus, if I hadn’t wanted to do that little detour onto that country road, we would be farther along by now.’

C.C. opened her mouth to object, but Meg raised her palm, again surprising C.C.

‘The alternator and battery didn’t go out just because we’re on this trip. They went out because they were old, used up. If I’d been driving around Wisataukee, a block from my house, they still would have gone out.’

‘Well, then, I agree with Shelly,’ said C.C. ‘It’s all her fault.’ She playfully stuck her tongue out at Shelly.

Shelly laughed and put her finger on her chest. ‘Yeah. And I’ll take the credit when we all make a tidy little profit on the deal when we’re done. C’mon, show us the pictures again. That’ll lift our spirits, seeing the old cash cow.’

Even Meg smiled. But C.C. laughed. Where her own drug of choice was food, Shelly’s was money: her moods went up and down with her financial bottom line. She had done well as a real-estate agent, and then better, doing flips and small development projects. But she’d gone into a real depression–of every kind-when that big development deal went south.

C.C. gasped. There was that phrase again. It had to be an omen! But she didn’t know if it was a good one or a bad one. It didn’t seem great at the moment.

‘C’mon! You have that little picture book with you, don’t you?’ prodded Shelly, slapping the table lightly.

C.C. nodded. She opened her huge purse and pulled out a small, white vinyl album with a clear plastic pocket on the front. Before they’d left, she’d placed her wedding present from Lenny in the pocket: a necklace, a tiny, gold horseshoe with dots of green peridot stones set within, on a fine, gold chain. She trusted it: all the confusion and upheaval of her life had seemed to settle right down, everything falling into place, after she’d married Lenny. She touched it now, tenderly, with just her index finger. Then she thought about the car breaking down, the rift between herself and Kathryn, Grant leaving poor Meg like that, Shelly’s money woes. She pulled the necklace out and swung it around the table, as if it were a thurible, closing her eyes and silently saying as much of the prayer for travelers (which she’d found on the internet the day before) as she could remember, which was not much. Something about angels flying with them, protecting them.

‘For luck,’ she said, when she opened her eyes and found Meg and Shelly staring at her.

She poked the necklace back into the pocket, and placed the album sideways in the middle of the table so they could all see. She opened the cover slowly, her heart opening in its own way, right along with it. Meg and Shelly both turned, as did she, the better to see the pictures. The first page contained an old four-inch-by-four-inch black and white photo with scalloped white edges, pulled from her mother’s old photo album. C.C. thought that in black and white the house looked even more stately than in the later, color pictures. Or maybe it was just that the photo was old, taken in a time when the house had been maintained. She flipped the page to one that showed the expansive front lawn, in which three dogwoods, each heavily laden with blossoms, stood evenly spaced. She remembered planting those with Aunt Georgie, the weekend after the funerals. One each for her mother, her father and her sister. The dogwood had been her mother’s favorite flower. Aunt Georgie had referred to the house as Dogs’ Wood ever after, even having stationery made with that name in the address.

The picture was too small to see them clearly, but C.C. knew that between two of the trees stood a small dark metal statue of a dog with a ring in its mouth, and between the other two, a stone birdbath. An old Thunderbird four-seater was parked on the dirt street in front. C.C. touched the edge of the picture. The car had been her mother’s, and, like everything else, including C.C. herself, had been bequeathed to Georgie. Her mother had told some wild stories about her escapades with Georgie in that car. Both C.C. and her sister, Theresa, had loved her mother’s stories, especially while poring over the old photo albums with her, leaning against her on the big settee, like bookends, C.C.’s knees covered demurely by her skirt, her bobby-socked feet tucked neatly under her, Theresa’s knees worn through her dirty jeans, her bare feet on the coffee table, till Momma swatted them off. And they each had their favorite stories. ‘Tell us the story about your wedding dress!’ C.C. would beg. ‘No! Tell us about when you made Aunt Georgie climb a tree to get the bowl of butter and sugar!’ Their mother had often said about her two girls that they were like two acorns falling from an oak: if they had landed in the same place they’d grow up in each other’s shade, neither one becoming all she was meant to be. ‘Nature knows what she’s doing,’ she’d said, ‘and that’s why you’re so different!’ ‘Like you and Aunt Georgie,’ Theresa would point out, and Momma would smile and nod.

And different they were, and it made for a good balance. Occasionally the girls would argue, but mostly they adored each other, each accepting her sister’s different interests. Theresa would protect C.C. any time a bully threatened. C.C. did Theresa’s makeup for her when she finally relented and said she’d go to the formal dance with Jerry Happ. That had been Theresa’s last date. It was no wonder that C.C. had married Billy so young–too young and too quick–longing to recreate the family she’d lost. C.C. flipped the page.

As the pages turned, the decades flew by, the pictures changing to color. Some of the recent ones had been sent digitally by the estate attorney in Fleurville. Toward the end of the book a grainy and too-yellow color print she’d made when her color cartridge was low, showed the house from the front again. The graceful veranda, with its white slatted railing, had always made the young C.C. think of a toothy smile, the dormers on the roof, shining eyes. Now the smile was missing a few teeth, and the eyes were shut by blinds. Strips of the blue paint peeled in several places, and the white trim seemed dirty and worn. Weeds were marching in on every side of the porch, as if ready to climb on up and enter the house itself.

‘It’s got great bones, C.C.,’ Shelly said again, as she had said months ago on first seeing the pictures. ‘It’ll be an absolute gem. We’ll get a good price for it, once we spiff it up. You’ll see.’

‘I am so looking forward to seeing this place in person,’ said Meg. ‘After all the stories I’ve heard about it over the years. Especially about you and Theresa.’ C.C. reached across the table and took her hand. Dear Meg. Meg was like her sister, in many ways. In fact, C.C. had first met Meg on Theresa’s birthday, an omen to be sure. It was when she worked for Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee. C.C. smiled, remembering. She’d loved the job, greeting new arrivals to town, giving them maps, and samples and coupons from local businesses. And her boss had been very accommodating about giving her only homes on the bus route. But Meg’s driveway was so long, and carrying that big basket of goodies had her pretty much winded by the time she knocked on the door. Meg opened it just a crack at first, looking fearful. (Meg later told her it was because she was afraid that C.C. was a Jehovah’s Witness or something.) When C.C. introduced herself as the Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee woman, Meg looked amused and relieved. Her first words to C.C. were, ‘Nice alliteration. Come on in.’ They liked to say it was ‘friends at first sight’.

But Meg had actually met Shelly first. She’d been their real-estate agent–hers and Grant’s. Meg had invited both C.C. and Shelly to brunch not long after meeting C.C., and brunch had lasted all day, with a walk in the woods, and then drinks on the patio, then dinner. The Trio, as they’d christened themselves, was born.

C.C. flipped the last page of the album. To the only picture not of Dogs’ Wood. She’d stuck this one in mere hours ago, a sudden inspiration, just before they’d picked her up from her house. Meg and Shelly hadn’t seen it yet. At least not in a long time. She twisted it fully toward them.

‘Ohhh…’ said Meg, her eyes filling immediately.

Even Shelly’s face softened. ‘Damn. Look how young we were,’ she said. She covered her pile of shredded napkin protectively with her cupped palm.

‘Cept I look beat from that damn hike you two dragged me on!’ said C.C., forcing a smile. No one spoke.

‘Grant took this picture of us,’ Meg said finally, her voice barely audible.

In the photo, their beaming, sunburned faces nearly matched the Bloody Marys in their raised glasses. Their free arms rested over another’s shoulders, an ease and comfort and comraderie already evident. Each face was animated, lips forming words in unison. It had been the first of many times they’d raised their glasses and lustily toasted, ‘To friendship!’

Purdy arrived at their table and set the tray down with the new round, just as the bell on the restaurant door jingled again. He seemed to grit his teeth, but continued quickly handing out new napkins, followed by their drinks on top.

‘Again,’ said C.C., ‘I’m so sorry about the mug. Please let me reimburse—’

He lowered his eyes, shook his head, said softly, ‘Ma’am–C.C. It’s okay. Really.’

‘Well, thank you. And thank you for that delicious cornbread! That was about the best I’ve ever had. And that’s saying something, from a southerner!’ Without even thinking about it, she touched his forearm lightly with her fingertips as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you ever share that secret ingredient?’ When he finally looked at her, she smiled. And he did. His eyes stayed on hers, just a few seconds, but some considerable something passed between them. He hadn’t answered her about the ingredient, but his eyes spoke to her somehow.

As he walked away, C.C. was taken hold by a sudden, unbidden memory, but it came very clearly. It was a day bus tour she and Lenny had taken, just a few years ago. To see fall colors. It was late afternoon and they were headed home, when the bus passed a terrible accident, just as emergency personnel were arriving. Had they been moments earlier, the bus would have been involved. As they were directed slowly past the smoking wreckage, C.C. had quickly turned her head away from the window. When she did, she saw a man across the aisle looking past her, out the window. Then he too looked away, and their eyes met, very briefly. At the terminal, they’d all silently disembarked, and she and Lenny flowed into the mass migration into the station. Later, as they headed out of the terminal, the man from the bus walked past them, the opposite direction. Their eyes met again, locked, a mere second. They’d said nothing, but C.C. knew right away that in both their eyes were the words: ‘We’re alive. We’re alive.’

She watched Purdy talking to a very old woman, helping her to a small table in the middle of the restaurant. The old woman said something and they both laughed. He seemed like such a nice man. Yet, there was something about him that gave C.C. a certain unease.

‘Ceece? You okay?’ Shelly was snapping her fingers, mid-air. She and Meg were both looking at her.

C.C. nodded, picked up her mug, raised it toward the middle of the table. The other two lifted their mugs. ‘Here’s to the Great Escape, and–’ in unison, they added–‘to friendship,’ with a tender clink of their mugs.