A Long Way Back to Troy

In 1971, Jeannie Travis’s world was turned upside down by her high school classmate “Truck” Hardy. Jeannie was from the posh side of town; Truck was not. Jeannie had dreams of graduating, attending Mount Holyoke College, and one day teaching children. Truck wasn’t sure he would even make it another week of school without flunking out.  Jeannie was into learning; Truck was into hot cars and racing. 

Now, forty-eight years later, Jeannie Landon is a divorced grandmother who has finally accepted her best friend’s invitation to return to their hometown for a high school reunion. With that acceptance, memories of senior year and the way Truck changed everything about the way she saw life come flooding back. Now, she half worries she will run into him, and half fears she won’t. But chances that she will ever see Truck again are slim and none. No one seems to know what happened to him after senior year, least of all Jeannie.

But when she returns, she learns that someone has heard from Truck. Will a chance meeting at a high school reunion change Jeannie’s life once again? If so, can her heart stand to be broken one more time in her life? Or will returning home be what heals her shattered life?

A Long Way Back to Troy
Fan Fiction based on A Long Way Home From Troy by Donia W. Mills
©1971
by Eva Marie Everson
Cover Design by Ken Raney

Chapter One

2019

Had it not been for my best friend begging me to attend our high school reunion, I can promise the notion would never have crossed my mind. Not much anyway.

            Allow me to clarify that—Trisha is no longer my best friend. She was my best friend, back in high school. Actually, all the way back to the days of wearing crinoline-skirted dresses, lace-trimmed white socks with black paten Mary Janes to elementary school. To those carefree days of walking from our posh houses on Bentley Road to the looming brick building with more windows than anyone could possibly count, our schoolbooks clutched to our chests, our laughter swinging treetop to treetop. And, from there, to the days of whispers about boys, giggling as our bodies changed shape and we noticed—truly noticed—the male half of our class. For me, the attention had gone straight to Earl Corbett, the great All-American. For Trisha … well, who knows who it was for Trisha back then. Her eyes roamed. A lot. She’d be slap crazy about some guy. Then, just as soon as he gave her a moment’s notice, she’d move on to the next one.

            But she was cool and funny, and I loved her … from elementary to junior high and then to from junior high to high school where everything changed. Literally everything.

I believe it could be said and should be said that until our senior year, I’d had my whole life laid out. I knew who I was and where I was going after graduation—namely Mount Holyoke where I’d study early childhood education. After graduation, I’d marry Earl, we’d have a couple of great kids, and we’d live happily ever after in a two-story brick house graced by lush lawns. We’d throw great barbecues in summer and sit-down dinners when the weather turned brisk. Earl and I would go on wonderfully exciting vacations until we were too old to travel and then we’d rock ourselves on the front porch until one of us up and died and the other followed.

            Well, if Truck Hardy hadn’t come into my life, that may be exactly what would have happened. Only, he did. He drove his souped-up black and white ’57 Chevy with a pack of Lucky Strikes on the dashboard and an angel dangling from its rearview mirror into my life and turned it completely upside down.

            “Greasers.” That’s what Albemarle’s Ivy League—of which Trisha and Earl and I were a part—called boys like Truck Hardy, whose real name was L. P. Hardy, the L. P. short for Lamar Puckett. That’s a lot for a guy like Truck; mostly I called him Bubba, the name I heard his little nephew Davy give him on the day Truck “bought” me.

 “Slave Day” we dubbed the auction that raised money to send underprivileged kids to camp. A day where we high schoolers had a good time all the while making ourselves feel good about life in general. Our parents could afford camps—the best camps—and now we were doing our part to help those who lived on the other side of town. People we’d never really know. People I’d never really know . . . had it not been for . . .

. . . Truck Hardy and Slave Day ’71.

It’s been forty-eight years since Truck Hardy bid fifty dollars for one day with Jeannie Travis. That’s me. To be fully transparent—Jeannie Travis Landon. But back then I was just plain ole Jeannie Travis, high school senior getting through one day meant for guys getting girls to do stupid things like pick up trash on the football field or serve lunch to their “master” and his friends in the cafeteria.

But, of course, Truck would never stoop to anything so juvenile. Oh, no … what Truck had me do was wash and wax his car. “Tortoise” he called her. We had to leave the school’s grounds, which wasn’t part of the general rules. I pretended to balk at the idea. To act like I was too goody-goody to do something as scandalous as leaving campus. And that’s when Truck threatened to “sign me over” to his friend Wally. Quite frankly, I would rather risk getting caught leaving school and being expelled for three days than to be Wally Kowalski’s slave for five minutes, much the rest of that day.

Wally Kowalski … the last I heard, you could unfurl his rap sheet and blanket a country mile with it. Not that I kept up with that kind of thing. Not much, at least.

So, Truck bid an enormous amount of money for 1971 and I ended up at the complex where he shared a cookie-cutter apartment with his mother, older sister, and Davy, washing and waxing his car and, in no short order, falling headfirst for a guy so far below my league that everyone—Trisha, Earl, my parents, my brother Ben—everyone stood up and took notice. And they worried.

They worried a lot.

They had good reason. I would have happily given up Mount Holyoke—a college I’d nearly sold my soul to get in to—and the degree and teaching young children and the two-story brick house with the lawns and the parties to be Mrs. L. P. Hardy. Because no one—no one—had ever loved me like Truck. Or made me feel so perfectly in tune with myself and so outside of myself all at the same time.

Not even Jason, who I married and gave two sons to before losing him to Tiffany, some woman half his age with mounds of blond hair, over-priced boobs, and great legs.

Well, I used to have great legs, too, Tiff … and they are what attracted Truck Hardy to me in the first place.

Chapter Two

I hadn’t been to any of our high school reunions, which, so far, had been seven. Initially the Class of ’71 president thought to have the get-together every ten years, but eventually the schedule went bonkers with no rhyme or reason to it. But no matter when, Trisha begged with every invitation and always I told her the same thing. No. Not this time. And when she asked, “why not,” I reminded her that I had barely left high school with my reputation intact. In fact, my entire senior year had been spent watching everyone else in my class walk around with a giant question mark over their heads.

            Why in the world is a girl like Jeannie Travis dating a hood like Truck Hardy?

            Then, shortly after graduation—that night when I gave the commencement speech shortly before walking across the stage to get my diploma, but Truck, now a dropout, did not—we went out for a final date. The one where he broke up with me. He. Broke up. With me.

On the flip slide, he let me down gently, but I spent the rest of the summer wondering if he would call or come by. Wondering if he was still racing Tortoise down at Broom Creek, the local drag spot. Wondering, too, if he had joined the Marines like he said he’d do on our last night together. Wondering to the point that I begged my brother Ben to drive me to the Texaco station where Truck worked. We were taking a chance, I knew. Running into my former boyfriend would awaken every broken emotion I’d managed to keep below the surface those past two months, but I had to do it. I had to know.

            Sure enough, he wasn’t there, but some pimple-faced kid I’d never met informed Ben and me that “no, he didn’t join the Marines. He’s working at some garage up in Frederick County somewhere.”

            That answered that. From that day forward, I never heard a word about Truck Hardy. Not a single word. He could be dead for all I knew—although a search on the internet had not turned up an obit.

Still, one thing I knew for sure, I no longer wanted to return to the scene of the crime. I barely came home for the holidays much less class reunions. The first because coming back to my hometown brought back the memories tied to the emotions, and the second because I feared a new question: Hey, Jeannie … do you know whatever happened to Truck Hardy?

            Or worse: Hey, Jeannie. Did you hear about what happened to Truck Hardy?

            If he was dead, which wouldn’t surprise me with or without the obit, or in prison, which also wouldn’t surprise me, I simply couldn’t handle it. I needed to remember Truck the way he had been that last night—young and full of promises. Sweet and tender. And, in a final act of love, he had given me the guardian angel that hung from Tortoise’s rearview mirror saying that it had stopped working for him but had started working for me. “And you can take that any way you want.”

            I knew what he meant. He meant the baby we thought we were going to have, the one that turned out not to be at all. I guess my nerves and living the stressed-out life of a high school senior who couldn’t get into Mount Holyoke had finally gotten to me and my periods thought they’d skip a few months. You know, just to throw me off. To add to my angst. Or maybe it was God saying, “Keep your knees together, Travis, and your head back on straight. It’s the only surefire way to keep from getting pregnant.”

            So, when it was all over, I didn’t have Truck’s baby, but I did have his guardian angel. I hung it from the rearview mirror of the car my father bought me after graduation, and it stayed with me throughout the summer, and during my four years at Darcey U, and then my two at Ashland U where I completed my master’s studies. AU is also where I met Jason who would eventually question why I hung “that old angel” from the rearview mirror of every car I ever owned.

            I never answered him with the truth. I simply said, “It was a gift from a high school friend.”

            I guess, for Jason, it was enough. For me, it was everything.

Chapter Three

“So, you’ll come?” Trisha asked from across the miles.

            I blew into the mid-May air, which had already grown warm and muggy. I stood outside in what had once been a romantic English garden, which Jason—Mr. Genius in the landscaping department—had created for me shortly after we’d moved into this sprawling house with its elegant lawns in one of the most desired areas of Central Florida. Jason had made his fortune here during the housing rush when everybody and their brother descended to live near the “happiest place on earth,” and this house was living, breathing proof.

            But we’d been happy then, the four of us—Jason, Patrick, Seth, and I. We had everything to live for and nothing to fear. I flourished in my work as a teacher, Jason in his work as a landscape designer, and Patrick and Seth were the typical sons of typical children of the 70s. No wonder I hadn’t seen the weeds sprouting among the flowers or the thorns along the roses’ dark, thick stems until it was too late to do anything about it.

            “Yes,” I said, now walking along a brick walkway that snaked between the mostly overgrown garden.

            Trisha laughed with relief. “I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe it. Jeannie Travis is actually going to come back home and attend one of her class reunions. Wait till I tell—”

            “Don’t get too excited. I could always back out.”

            “You wouldn’t dare.”

            I kicked at a pebble with the toe of my sandal before kneeling in front of a cluster of sunflowers with upturned faces to yank at a few weeds growing along the bricks. “I wouldn’t dare,” I admitted because, once I set my mind to something, that was that. “So, what are the plans? What do I need to wear?”

            “We’re having a barbecue on Friday night at Barry Paxton’s.” Her voice clearly conveyed how ecstatic she’d become at my decision. “The weather is still pretty cool up here at night, even in early June, so plan for slacks and maybe a sweater or a light jacket.”

            “All right.” I’d have to go shopping shortly before the trip. If there had been a single rainbow in my divorce, it had been the weight loss. Not that I’d grown plump in the years since Jason and I had said “I do,” but I had gained a few pounds. So had he, more than a few for that matter … not that Tiffany seemed to mind. Who cares if a man has a little paunch in his gut if his bank account is sufficiently cushioned? “And Saturday?”

            “A picnic at the river—you can probably get away with shorts or capris for that—and then Saturday night is the fancy-schmancy dinner at Au Petit Salut,” she concluded, the accent on the restaurant’s name … parfait. “So, dress accordingly.”

            I sighed again as I stood, my knees protesting at the strain. “Sounds lovely.”

            “And don’t you dare get a hotel room. You can stay here … with Earl and me. We’ve got scads of space and more than enough guest bedrooms.”

            Yes. That’s right … Trisha and Earl had married somewhere between their junior and senior years of college. Then Trisha, a nurse, put Earl through medical school and all it entails. Earl, God bless his heart, worked his way to becoming one of the most sought-after cardiac surgeons on the planet. And, from all I could gather, a loyal husband and devoted father. And now, a grandfather.

            “I don’t think—” I started, but Trisha cut me off.

            “Look … I know you and Earl dated through high school and I know the two of you got your freak on in the back seat of his daddy’s car, but that’s all water under the bridge, Jeannie. Ancient history. I mean, it practically rates right up there with Caesar getting his toga torn on the night he was assassinated. It’s just old … stuff.”

            My mouth hung open long enough that I was forced to swat a mosquito away. “Excuse me. Your husband and I never got our freak on in the back seat of his daddy’s car.”

            “Well, I know that, Jeannie.”

            I started for the shade of the patio where a chaise lounge stretched an invite for me to unwind. Take a load off. Have a glass of lemonade … or a beer, whichever I happened upon first in the fridge. “Then why did you say it?”

            “I meant the two of you when you dated … not after he became my husband.”

            “I’ll have you know that Earl and I never … ever … did … that.”

            “Oh.” The single word came as a staccato note.

            “Did he tell you that? Earl? Did he indicate that he’d gotten to home plate with me?”

            “No, no, no. I just … well, I assumed … I mean, Jeannie, you have to admit that you and Earl were pretty hot and heavy until—”

            I stepped into the air-conditioned cool of my home and headed straight for the kitchen where I opened the refrigerator and reached immediately for a beer off the top shelf, the bottle cold and sweating. I twisted off the top, tossed the cap onto the granite countertop, and stepped back into the heat of the patio before plopping down onto the chaise. “Until Truck Hardy came along,” I finished for her before downing half of the bottle in one fluid movement. “I wondered how long before the topic of him would come up.”

            “Jeannie …”

            I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “I’m not upset.”

            “Yes, you are, Travis. I know you better than that.”

            “And I never slept with Earl.”

            “I just assumed. I’m sorry.”

            “I mean, we got pretty frisky …” I laughed then, the memory of our fumbling about rushing over me.

            Trisha laughed, too. “Didn’t we all?”

            The beer took effect, and I settled down. “It was all so different back then, wasn’t it, Trisha?”

            “It was.”

            I took another long swallow of beer. “Even our sins were innocent.”

            “Yep.”

            The musical chime of my doorbell brought me upright, my feet to the polished brick of the patio floor. “Trisha, I gotta go. The gardener is here.”

            “Gardener?”

            “Yeah … I’m hiring someone to get this yard back in shape before I put the house on the market.” I stood as the doorbell rang again.

            “I didn’t know—”

            “I gotta go. But I’ll call you later and fill you in.”

            “Promise?”

            “Promise.”

Chapter Four

Hatfield Prescott—known affectionally as “Hat”—stood on the other side of the beveled glass front door, his hands resting casually on his hips, feet planted a good six inches apart. A smile broke across his face when he saw my image walk toward him and I grinned in response. Hat Prescott, owner of Top Hat Lawn Design, was nothing if not adorable in an impish, little boy sort of way. His dirty-blond hair curled around the edge of a baseball cap advertising his business, his skin had a sun-kissed glow, and his dark blue eyes danced without a song to twirl to. Everyone loved Hat and Hat loved everyone, which explained why he’d been best friends with Jason since we’d moved to Central Florida. Business rivals, yes. But, like two attorneys who argued on opposite sides of the same case in court, Hat and Jason could also be found teeing off together during non-working hours. It also wasn’t unusual for Hat and his wife Melody, Jason and I to spontaneously go out to dinner together. Or find ourselves at a backyard barbecue.

            Before, that is.

            “Hat,” I said as I opened the door. “How are you, sir?”

            “Jeannie, how goes it?”

            “It goes.” I stepped back to allow him entrance. “What can I offer you to drink? I’ve got sweet tea, lemonade, and beer.” He turned to eye me, his arms crossing across the buff of his chest. “And water.”

            “What are you having?”

            “A well-deserved beer.”

            “Then I’ll have one, too. It’s blue-blazes hot out there.”

            I closed the door, then turned to move past him. “Follow me.”

            When we entered the kitchen, I swept over to the fridge while Hat rested a hip against a countertop and peered out the picture window beyond the breakfast nook. “Looks like you’ve been neglecting the garden.”

            “It was never my playpen.” I removed the bottle top and handed the beer to him.

            He took a long swig, his eyes never leaving me. “Can’t believe Jason let it get like this.”

            I pretended indignance. “Oh, come on, Hat. It’s not that bad.”

            He laughed. “I’m trying to up my charge.”

            “And don’t think I don’t know it. Jason’s been known to do the same thing.”

            Hat tipped the beer bottle back over his lips and took another swallow. “Jason’s an idiot.” He sent a wink in my direction.

            “You’ll get no argument from me.”

            He studied me for a moment. “I thought you were joining me.” He raised the beer bottle.

            I pointed to the patio. “Mine is outside. Come on, let’s go look so you can tell me what the damage is going to be.”

            Hat laughed again as he followed me to the patio where I picked up my now-warm beer. I took a sip. “Is there anything better than a warm beer?”

            “Yeah. A cold one.”

            It was my turn to laugh. “Okay, Hat. While I sit right here in my favorite chair, you go take a look so you can tell me what I need to do to get this garden shipshape. I’m hoping to put the house on the market soon.”

            His face fell. “Seriously, Jeannie? You’re really going to sell your home?”

            I glanced around to all the trappings whose spell I’d allowed myself to fall under. “What do I need with all this, Hat?”

            “Well, I mean … what about when the boys come over with their wives and kids? What about Grandma’s house and all that?”

            I finished off my beer and placed it on the side table. “I need to leave this house behind, Hat. I need a new start. Doesn’t mean I have to live in a rundown studio apartment or anything. I can still afford to find a place with enough room for Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas ’round the tree.”

            He nodded before giving me a swift pat on the shoulder. “I know you can, Jeannie. I’m sorry … it’s just that … Melody and I … we feel protective of you, you know.”

            Warmth swam through me, and I gave him my truest smile. “Thank you for that,” I said softly. “If you weren’t married to one of my best friends, I’d give you a big ole sloppy kiss for such devotion.”

            Hat spread his arms wide. “Well, don’t let that stop you.”

            I giggled as I moved to kiss his cheek. “You really are the best friends I could have ever asked for during all this.” I pecked his cheek again. “Truly.”

            Warm beer-laced breath blew over me. “Just so you know—not like we haven’t said it before—we’d like nothing better than to tar and feather Jason.” He pointed a finger at me. “And no jury in America would find me guilty, either.”

            I gently turned him toward the back yard. “We’ll save tarring and feathering for another time. Meanwhile, walk around and tell me what this is going to take.” He took several steps toward the brick walkway, all the way moaning about slave labor before I plopped back on the lounge. “And I expect the family discount.”

            “I knew you would.” He threw the words over his shoulder, then walked on toward the roses.

Chapter Five

The one constant in my life had been and, God willing, always would be my brother. Ben, older by only a few years, and I had a special relationship. As a young child, I had worshipped him and had hoped to one day marry him. When I grew old enough to realize that this couldn’t possibly happen, that it would, in fact, be illegal, I’d been devastated. But he remained my hero, while I was his “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.”

During my last, most complex days of high school, Ben had been away at Yale, toking his way from As and Bs to Ds and Incompletes. But, as always, Ben managed to do the worst possible things in life and still come out on top. Unlike me. While he’d been experimenting with acid and defending his non-addiction addiction to pot, I’d been running around with the likes of Truck Hardy, sinking ever slowly into a glorious abyss. Turning my back on high school sports and pom poms and, instead, embracing drag racing and beer swigging down at Broom Creek. Yet, despite Ben’s addictions to illegal substances and my addition to Truck, we’d both managed to turn things around. Ben managed to graduate with honors, secure a position as a corporate attorney within one of the largest, most prestigious firms along the eastern seaboard, marry a nice enough girl who managed to put up with his antics, and produce three kids. Lucky Ben, all girls. If he’d been cursed or blessed with a son like him, it may have officially been his undoing.

            Also, despite Ben’s lack of true attention to his studies, he always walked in natural wisdom, which is why I’d never wavered in my dependence on him. He also had an uncanny desire to know things. This meant he read voraciously and often ran around quoting writers and thinkers such as T. S. Eliot.

And so it was that when my relationship with Truck had gone as far as it could go, Ben came home from the university, ready to watch his little sister walk across the stage to receive her diploma. What he wasn’t quite prepared for was me telling him that I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life and if I was or was not in love with a young man who may or may not have impregnated me. Or one way or the other, that I didn’t know what I should do about it. Still, he gave me the wisest counsel he could at his own tender age and, when it turned out that there was no reason for alarm, he remained steadfast my biggest fan. Never judging. Never loving me less. Always supportive.

            None of that had changed. We saw each other only a few times a year but he called regularly—at least twice a week. The calls usually happened early evening, during his drive home from work where, as he put it, he could talk without interruption. I’d never been sure how much interruption Sherrie provided, but I didn’t question it either.

            That evening after Hat had traipsed around my back yard and after handing me an empty beer bottle, told me he would get back to me soon with a price quote, I slipped into a hot bath filled with thick rose-scented bubbles. For dinner, I’d poured myself a glass of red wine and prepared a plate of sliced apples and cubed cheese, which I carried to the bath with me. A moving tune by George Winston played from the Pandora app on my phone which lay on the nearby vanity. As my skin grew pink and puckered and my head a little fuzzy from the drink, it dawned on me that I had not heard from my big brother in several days. In fact, it had been nearly a week. If there was anyone I needed to share the news about returning home for a high school reunion, it was Ben. Because Ben would voice all the right questions. He’d sense my trepidation across the miles and ask me right out if I had any notion of seeing Truck.

            I closed my eyes, took another sip of wine, and carefully returned the stemless glass to the side of a tub large enough to simultaneously bathe an entire family. Truck. Yes, I’d tell Ben, in all honesty I’d imagined a reunion countless times, the first one beginning only a few hours after we’d said our final good-byes shortly after graduation. Those early fantasies included a lot of passion and tears, but as the years passed, they became less Harlequin and more Netflix.

            There he was . . . and he hadn’t aged at all like I’d thought he would. His hair was shorter, but still curly and thick. His eyes—okay, there were a few lines at the corners—still held a mesmerizing glimmer. His lips, now thinner but still just as luscious, started to smile when he saw me, then dropped into a tight line. Maybe I didn’t recognize him, he thought. Or perhaps I was angry with him because, when he’d pulled out of my driveway that last time, it had truly been for the last time. Or maybe—could it be—he didn’t recognize me? For a moment he’d thought he had, but he couldn’t be sure. I looked a lot like the girl he left completely undone during our senior year of high school. But surely not. About the same size, yes. But what had happened to the long blond tresses? And the killer legs she’d shown off in short skirts? This girl wasn’t much bigger than she’d been in high school, but there was a difference, yes. Hair that once reached down her back now rested on her shoulders in curls and waves thanks to menopause. Laugh lines formed parentheses around the mouth. And the eyes—blue eyes that had once held all the promises life had to offer—were now tainted by ache.

            But Truck would venture a nod in my direction anyway. His eyes would narrow and his brow furrow as he lifted his drink—the one he got at the open bar—and he’d say, “Hey there . . . don’t I know you?”

            And I’d answer in a low voice, “Hey, Bubba.” And I’d swallow hard as a rush of a thousand memories fell over me, each one including the times I’d called him by his family nickname.

            “Jeannie?” His eyes would grow wide with remembering. “Jeannie Travis?”

            “Jeannie Landon.” I’d blush at the revelation.

            Of course, he’d look around for my husband, but I’d studder the new truth of my life, letting him know that another man had left me cold and broken. “He’s not here. My husband, I mean. Ex-husband.”

            Then some emotion I couldn’t possibly read after so many years would cross his face. What was it? Relief? Surprise? “How have you been, Truck?” I’d ask then, not wanting to belabor the moment and turn it into a pity party. Not for either of us.

            And then his eyes would find mine. He’d take a deep breath. Blow it out slowly. His finger would trace an imaginary line along my shoulder as though he had the right to do so. As though it had never left. It would continue down my arm and he’d say, “I’ve been missing you, Teach. All these years. Missing you. Wanting you . . .”

            The phone rang then, interrupting what was now a tune by Paul Cardall, and I jumped, nearly knocking the glass of half-consumed wine over the edge. As I stumbled upright, water traveled down my body. I grabbed a thick towel and wrapped it around me, then stepped out of the tub to race across the room, grab my phone and slide the “answer” bar to the right. “Ben,” I said, now nearly breathless. A quick glance in the mirror revealed a face in full blush, and not from the heat of the bath, which had grown tepid.

            “Sheena!” he exclaimed. “What took you so long?”

Chapter Six

            I clutched the towel closer as I did a quick step on the thick padding of an overpriced bathroom rug. “I was in the tub.”

            “With whom?” The way he asked the question made me wonder if he’d been privy to my daydream.

            I took a cleansing breath and retorted with a “ha-ha.” I gathered my bearings before continuing. “Where have you been? It’s not like you to wait so long between calls.”

            “Ah—just busy, sweet Sheena.”

            “You’re always busy.” I stepped over to the large walk-in closet left half empty since Jason’s departure, reached for my thirstiest bathrobe, and donned it over the towel, all the while continuing the conversation. “I had begun to worry. You’re always the one who likes to call, but if you hadn’t called me by tomorrow morning, I was gonna to send a posse out for you.”

            He laughed then, that same ole Ben laugh I’d loved since our childhood. “They’ll never find me.”

            The towel dropped to a puddle at my feet, and I stepped out of its circle. “Are you driving somewhere this late? I can tell you’re in the car.”

            “Ah—yeah. Home.”

            “They’ve kept you late at the office, huh?” I walked out of the closet and into the bedroom where I climbed onto the thick comforter of the bed and, finding its middle, crossed my legs.

            He chuckled. “Something like that.”

            “Hey. I’m really glad you called me tonight. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

            “Sounds ominous.”

            I pretended to play with one of the oversized white viburnum blossoms of the comforter’s design. “Not ominous exactly.”

            “I know that tone . . . Please tell me you and Jason aren’t making up. Is that who’s in your bath?”

            “Heaven forbid and no. No one was in the tub with me. I just … I had to get out without breaking my neck. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

            “I wouldn’t want you back with that loser, that’s what I wouldn’t want.”

            I pretended to be incensed by straightening my spine, as if he could see my body language. “But me falling and breaking my neck would be all right.” Although the thought crossed my mind, I decided not to remind him that the “loser” was also father to his beloved nephews and grandfather to my grandchildren.

            He chuckled again. “Get to the point, Sheena. I’m only minutes from home and I’m sure my wife will want my full attention once I walk in the door.”

            I slumped again. “Well, I’ve made a decision.”

“Back to being ominous.”

“I’ve decided to go to my class reunion this year.”

            A long pause met my declaration. Then: “Trisha finally wore you down, did she?”

            “You could say that.”

            “So . . . what? Do you want my approval? I mean, to my way of thinking, it’s about time.”

            “You think?”

            “Sure. You’re all about that kinda stuff, Jeannie. School spirit and all. Always were. The only reason you never went back was—”

            I stretched my legs and lay straight, tugging at my robe to keep it together.

            “Truck Hardy.” He spoke the name as though he had something distastefully sour on his tongue.

            “I mean, what if he’s there, Ben?”

            “Jeannie. I want you to listen to me. Truck Hardy is no more going to be at a high school reunion than he was at his actual graduation because he dropped out not two weeks before. If you want to know the truth of the matter, you have nothing to be concerned about because he’s probably serving some twenty-five to life sentence at a state prison.”

            I squeezed my eyes against a torrent of tears that wanted to make an appearance, even after all these years. “Don’t say that.”

            “Sheena.”

            I sat upright, crossed my legs again. “What?”

            “Please do not tell me you actually still feel something for the boy.”

            I sighed. “No, Ben. I’m not feeling something. I mean—”

            “What you mean is, that after all these years—what is it now, forty-two? Forty-three?”

            “Forty-eight.”

            “Forty-eight? Have mercy.” He took a breath before continuing. “After forty-eight years you’re still thinking about him. Like some fantasy meetup again or something.”

            “Of course not.” Okay, so that was a lie. In all honesty, my face and body felt slapped, just as it had earlier. “It’s been forty-eight years, for crying out loud.” My words tumbled out in a mumble; I could hardly understand myself and I wondered if Ben had heard a word I’d said. Especially since he waited so long to reply.

            “Yeah, all right. Are you staying with Trisha and Earl while you’re there?”

            “Yes.”

            “Won’t that be a little awkward?”

            “No. Why should it?”

            “Why shouldn’t it?”

            “I never—Earl and I—we never . . . oh, forget it.”

            My brother chuckled again. “I still know how to rile you up, don’t I?”

            I stuck my tongue out as though he could see me. Knowing Ben, he could. “I saw that.”

            “You did not.” I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure I had not accidentally started a video chat.

            Once again Ben laughed. “You checked your phone, didn’t you?”

            “No.”

            “You lie like a throw rug on a living room floor, Sheena, but I love you. I also have to go. I just pulled into the garage and the missus will open the inside door in five-four-three-two—yep. There she is in all her pajamaed glory.”

            “Give her a hug for me.”

            “Will do. Love you, kid.”

            Kid. A woman of sixty-four—fit for a woman my age, yes, but with all the aches and pains that go along with having lived this long—being called “kid.” Only Ben could get away with such a thing and only I would allow it.

            “I love you, too.” I ended the call.

***

I spent the better part of the next morning walking through the house with a pad of multicolored sticky notes and a black sharpie, tagging pieces I planned to sell versus those I planned to keep. Nearly everything Jason and I had ever purchased fell into the antique category. Early on he had indulged my love for walking through warehouses and open-air marts filled with treasured heirlooms from bygone generations. Family members—either not knowing or not caring about the piece’s worth—hauled their goods to flea markets and antique malls and I floated along “behind them,” my purse bulging with cash for the easy deal. Some pieces I brought home and painstakingly refinished, others had been purchased in pristine condition. We had spent a small fortune, but—with what I planned to sell—I’d make it back in spades.

            In the living room my eye caught an antique baby carriage that displayed a small collection of china dolls. Sunlight spilled into the room, catching a single thread from a spider’s web, running from handle to canopy. I placed the sticky notes and sharpie on a nearby dresser, then headed into the adjoining bath. A moment later, I returned with a damp washcloth. I knelt before the carriage to gingerly wipe it down when an old memory niggled at me. I stopped. Breathed out as I fell back on my haunches.

            Truck and me at J.R. Monk’s Antiques, which was actually a large white house with a wide porch in the front and an old barn in back. Every time we headed out to Broom Creek, we’d pass it. And every time we passed it, I’d wistfully imagine what might lay inside. Finally, one Sunday morning, I talked Truck into stopping. Allowing me to browse. Initially he grumbled. But as soon as we stepped out of Tortoise and the owner, Mr. Monk, moseyed out to the front porch to greet us, Truck grabbed my hand and introduced us as newlyweds. Told the old gentleman that we were hoping to find something antique but in fairly good shape for our new home. Then he looked at me with all the love and adoration of a young groom, which planted in me for the first time the notion of the two of us getting married. Or had it been the first time? After all these years, I couldn’t quite recall. But what I remembered was all the emotions of walking inside the barn-turned-antique-mart with him while visions of Mr. & Mrs. Truck Hardy danced in my head. I imagined every conceivable scenario, and all of them perfect.

Chapter Seven

Of course, I’m older now. Old enough to know that not even one of those scenarios would have worked out. Not then. Not even now. Truck and I had been drawn together by chemistry so strong it defied all manner of explanation. Or maybe a Romeo and Juliet complex. Whatever it had been, it had disaster written all over it from the moment he hollered at me from the driver’s seat of his car and, most definitely, days later when I really, truly noticed him.

I stood. Rested my hands on my hips and sighed at the doll carriage, then took the washcloth into the laundry room to toss it onto the washing machine. Having abandoned the sticky notes and pen, I headed back upstairs to rummage through my bedroom closet in search of the bin that held vestiges of my junior high and high school years. After locating it, I pulled it from its hiding place, then brought it to the thick, wool throw rug in my bedroom.

Sitting crossed legged on the floor, I pulled the top away as if I were removing the cover to some sacred treasure, as if the Holy Grail had been given to me for safekeeping and it lay, secured in bubble wrap, tucked beneath my Girl Scout handbook and sash, various certificates and awards, and a neatly folded white tee shirt that my classmates had signed in permanent marker on the last day of high school. I removed and opened a manila envelope filled with treasures—two popsicle sticks from the frozen banana treat Earl had bought for me on our first date, movie tickets torn in two, my yearly passes to the rec center, and two VOTE FOR NIXON buttons from the 1972 presidential election. I held them lightly in my cupped fingers, then jiggled them, noting the rust along the metal pins. I found myself chuckling and frowning at the same time.

After removing most of the bin’s contents, I found what I was searching for—my senior year annual. Placing it between my legs, I opened the stiff front cover. It crackled with age and emitted a musky scent from glossy pages. I smiled then, noting the frontpage photo—a black and white sketch of our alma mater—good ole Albemarle High with its red brick façade, wide, arched windows, and a set of three opened double doors. How many times had I crossed those thresholds to be met by the blending scents of schoolbooks and chalk dust? Walked along the polished terrazzo flooring to the symphony of rising voices—girls squealing, boys bellowing—and the slamming of lockers? How was I to know that the last time I did, would be the last time I did?

With a sigh, I fanned the pages until I found what I had come in search of—the section covering senior prom. I glanced only fleetingly at the grainy black and whites, the occasional color snapshots. There was one photo in particular—a loose one, one I’d placed within the hallowed pages so long ago and came in search of now. The one of Truck and me, standing on a platform made by some of the boys in shop, the arch of crepe flowers overhead, provided by some of the girls in home economics. There we stood, as rigid and uncomfortable as two people could possibly be on the brink of tragedy, him in a crisply pressed tux (so unlike him) and me in yellow dotted swiss, my long blond hair caught up by a clasp of flowers. Although we smiled, we were not happy. Before the hour was over, I’d be slap miserable. And why? Because of his little announcement that he’d dropped out of school. Just dropped out. With only a couple of weeks of go and twelve years behind him, he’d dropped out. Whatever future I’d thought to have with him circled the drain, the water gurgling down the pipe.

I ran a fingertip near the image of his face, then drew it closer for inspection, to note the way my hand had looped into the crook of his arm, the gentle touch of his hand laying possessively upon mine.

His hand upon mine. I could still feel the callouses and I shivered, not in disgust but in the pleasures they brought later that night when we’d given ourselves over to abandon. When there was nothing left to lose. When it was just all of him and all of me and little else in the world mattered.

“Jeannie.” I now spoke aloud, shoving the photo back into the crease of the book, then slamming it shut. “You’ve got to get a grip, girl.” I drew myself up on my knees to return the contents back to the bin, my hands gripping the sides.

And that’s when it happened. First a cough, or something like it. Then a sob. And the next thing I knew, I was leaning over the contents of my youth, bawling as though I had died.

Chapter Eight

I enjoy shopping, so the notion of spending a day at one of the local malls looking for the perfect reunion outfits came as more prize than punishment. Trisha had indicated during our fateful phone call that the weekend would take place in three installments: a barbecue at Barry Paxton’s on Friday, a picnic at the river on Saturday late morning to midafternoon, and the fancy-schmancy dinner at Au Petit Salut. She had already chosen her ensembles and had texted selfies for my approval. I marveled at them; Trisha had always been cute, but she had become downright stunning in our older age. Like me, she had stayed fit, although I suspected she had also had some work done. A little botox here . . . a nip and tuck there. Not that I cared, but I’d never been into that sort of thing. Nature will do what nature will do, I decided a long time ago, and I’d do my best to keep up with her. But I would not, under any circumstances, go under a knife or allow someone to shoot poison into my face in some crazy effort to keep up.

            When I’d called Trisha to tell her that Jason had left me for the little bimbo, and once the hysterics became mere sniffles, she had nearly demanded that I put myself on a plane and head up so she could take me to “her man.”

            “He will fix you up, Jeannie. What do you need? A lift? A tuck? Heavens, girl, he’s got ways of tightening things that haven’t been tight since Moses was a boy.”

            I hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. “Trisha, if I have to spend thousands of dollars—not to mention all that pain—to get Jason back, he’s not worth it.”

            As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I hadn’t meant that I thought Trisha had done these things to keep Earl’s slippers under their bed or his loafers under the dining room table. But she grew quiet, so I was nearly positive she thought I had. Then, after a moment so uncomfortable I almost started to laugh, she said, “Well, that’s your decision, Jeannie.”

            Yes, it was. And I continued to stand by it.

            Truck’s guardian angel swung from the rearview mirror, its wings illuminated by the sun’s light, as I drove to the mall in mid-May to see how much trouble I could get into with my credit card, which Jason still maintained. I’d never abused this court order, and I wasn’t about to start now, but it tickled me that he would see my purchases come across his monthly statement and he’d wonder what I was up to. I intended with everything in me to return to my classmates after all these years looking the part of a woman who had survived that last year in high school, became educated, married, had two wonderful sons, and now lived the happy life of a divorcee. I would, at the very least, appear to have risen above every whispered word of gossip over the years—whether I had or not.

            I purchase most of my clothes from Dillard’s. In fact, nearly all the second-floor sales ladies knew me by face if not by name. So, as soon as I stepped off the escalator, my sandals clip-clopped to the Vince Camuto area of the floor to find Gloria, a young woman who had waited on me before. She’s from France, she told me when we first met and I had commented on her accent. She came to the United States as a college student with plans to complete her education in fashion design while working for Disney, but …

            And isn’t there always a “but.”

            “But I met someone.” Her words came with the romantic lilt of the French and a blush to a complexion that could only be described as flawless. “He talked me into not completing my studies but marrying him instead.”

            “Why couldn’t you do both?”

            She’d shaken her head. “It’s complicated. He and I—we were from different planets, you know? He wanted a wife at home with the kids, not traveling the world as a fashion designer.”

            I handed her my credit card for that day’s purchase. “But you are working . . . Outside the home, I mean.”

            “Oui … yes. My husband and I came on harder times and I needed to get a job, so I thought . . . why not in fashion?” She beamed as she scanned my card. “I like it here. I like the clothes that are, you know, more upscale.”

            “Good for you.” I said it and I meant it.

            “You probably don’t understand. Sometimes we just fall in love, and we cannot help with who. Even if he’s not what we thought we wanted.”

            I understood better than she imagined, although there was no need to fill her in on that part of my story. Instead, whenever I saw her, I asked her about her family. Better to keep it about her than to drag up old memories that, especially lately, had plagued me like a pandemic.

            That day when she spotted me she called out a happy “Bonjour.”

            I gave her a little wave. “Bonjour, Gloria.”

            “Are you looking for something special today?”

            I nodded. “I am. I’m going to a barbecue, a picnic, and then to a fancy-schmancy restaurant, Au Petit Salut, for a dinner.”

            “Ah.” Her eyes lit from my pronunciation of the restaurant. “To the little salvation …”

            “The salvation of the tummy, I suppose. But after the barbecue and the picnic, I’m not so sure.”

            “Or maybe,” she said with a light touch to my arm, “the salvation of the soul . . . and the heart. Maybe you will meet someone spécial at this dinner.”

            “I doubt it. This is a high school reunion. I already know everyone there and, believe me, not a one of them will be spécial.”

            She grinned at me. “Maybe an old flame will be there? Maybe he will be single, too, no? Maybe he is looking for that special someone to complete him like you are looking.”

            I laughed. “Gloria, I am not looking for anyone to complete me. I’m as complete as I ever want to be …” I peered toward the racks. “What I want to be, however, is a knockout at my reunion, no matter who is there.”

            “You will be. First, the barbecue. Follow me.”

For the barbecue, we chose a V-necked, capri-length jumpsuit with ruffled cap sleeves and hidden side pockets. It came in both poppy red and cobalt blue, but Gloria insisted that if I wanted to be a knockout, I had to go with the poppy. I agreed with her. I also agreed to the Vince Camuto snake-print leather black and white platform sandals, even though I declared it would take me a month to get used to walking in them and I only had two weeks.

            For the Saturday picnic, we chose a pair of white jeans that fit like skin (I got an oh-la-la when I walked out of the dressing room) paired with a paisley print, off-the-shoulder ruffle top. “Ruffles are apparently in.” I gave them a fluffing.

            “Very big this season.” Gloria also declared that a pair of white flat sandals would do fine for the picnic.

            But the dinner. Oh, she had big plans for me when it came to the dinner. She had brought a sleeveless, halter jumpsuit in shimmering gold metallic polyester and spandex. The legs were wide enough to appear to be a dress and the mock neckline was topped off by, of course, ruffles.

            “Oh,” I said as she held it up, proud as she could be. “I don’t know, Gloria …”

            “You can get away with it. You are still well preserved, you know?”

            “Well preserved?”

            Then she held up a Spanx shaper and said, “But just in case.”

            We both laughed. “All right. I’ll try it on, but … what about shoes for this? They’ll have to be perfect.”

            She reached toward the counter and brought up a box I hadn’t noticed. “These. They are strappy and metallic leather and … they are very, very sexy.” She grinned. “You will be too. Mr. Complete-You will not be able to take his hands off you.” She shooed me into the dressing room. “When you put it on, we will go downstairs and find all the right accessories.” I started into the dressing room. “And the right purse. A clutch. With a little jewel on top.”

            Hours later, I arrived home feeling both anxious and excited. Anxious to wear my new clothes and see how my old classmates would react. And excited for the day Jason got the bill. There was little doubt that when he saw the total, he’d call.

Chapter Nine

I got the call. But not the one I expected and not by phone.

            Hat showed up the afternoon before my flight was scheduled to depart from Orlando’s International Airport bright and early the next morning. Initially, he told me he was there to check on the job his men were doing in the back yard, which—if anyone cares to know—was pretty darned good.

            “They’re doing great.” I closed the door as he stepped into the foyer and removed his baseball cap, the one with the company logo on it. “Jason’s men have nothing on yours,” I added for good measure.

            Hat grinned at me.

            “Something to drink?” 

            “That would be nice. Join me in a beer?”

            I nudged him with my elbow. We were, by now, in the back of the house. We stood between the kitchen and family room, our reflections on the sliding glass doors leading to the covered patio bearing witness to our longstanding friendship. “I dunno.” I gave him my best Groucho Marx impression, cigar and all. “Do you think we can both fit?”

            He laughed as I headed into the kitchen. “Gosh, Jeannie. You’re something, you know that?”

            I pulled two beers from the fridge, twisted their tops to a familiar “whoosh,” then handed Hat his before pulling the sliding glass door open. “So I’ve been told.” I gave my old friend a sideward glance, knowing by instinct—that thing a woman carries around in her back pocket in case she needs it—that something was up. Hat wasn’t here to look over the work and he certainly wasn’t here to tell me that I was “something.”

            Hat allowed me out the door first, then followed, pulling it to. I turned to him and lifted my beer. “Cheers.”

He slid his cap back on his head with one hand and raised his bottle with the other. “Backatcha.” He took a long swallow, then sighed. “Nothing better than a cold one at the end of a long day.”

            I flipped on the switch for the ceiling fans, then looked out at the back yard. “So.” I motioned toward the garden. “What do you think? Looking good?”

            “It is. That ginger plant over there …” He pointed to a far corner in the yard. “Did we talk about that?”

            “No.” I ambled over to my favorite chaise, indicating that he should “pull up a chair.” Because, again, I knew this wasn’t about landscaping. “I decided on it a few days ago. There’s enough shade over there, don’t you think?”

            Hat sat in a chair next to mine, a table between us, stretched his legs, clad in denim—dusty and grimy from work—then crossed them at the ankles.

            I did the same.

            “Yeah. Plenty of shade.” He took another long swallow, which made two guzzles to my one sip. “Especially from your neighbor’s oaks.”

            “Hat?”

            “Yeah.” He rested the nearly empty bottle on his thigh where it made an immediate ring on the dark blue denim.

            “Why are you really here?”

            He sighed. “Have you talked to Jason lately?”

            I chuckled. “Actually, no … and I expected to get a call as soon as he got the bill for all the clothes I’m taking to my high school reunion.”

            Hat looked at me fully, the laugh lines forming beige crinkles in the tan of his skin as his grin grew. “Did you really?”

            “I did.”

            He reached over with his bottle, and I raised mine to clink against his again. “Good for you, Jeannie.” He barked out a laugh then. “Good for you! Ha! Wait till I tell Mel …”

            “She’ll like that?”

            “Oh, yeah.” He took a short sip. “So, you probably don’t know that Jason and Tiffany are expecting.”

            “Expecting what?”

            He tilted his head. “Jeannie …”

            I blinked several times before it hit me. “A baby? They’re expecting a baby?”

            “Yeah.”

            “But he’s a grandfather for pity’s sake.”

            “Well, he’s gonna be a father-father. Again, I mean.” Hat finished the beer, and I scrambled up to take the empty bottle.

            “Here. Let me get you another one.”

            I walked back inside, grabbed two more bottles from the fridge, then returned to the patio, my heart hammering against my chest. “I grabbed two in case I need another one.” I extended his drink toward him. I eased back onto the chaise, retrieved the beer I’d left on the table between us, and asked the only obvious question I could come up with. “Are they getting married or—or is Jason now one of those cool people who thinks marriage is cliché?”

            Again, Hat tipped the bottle toward his lips, although this time without the guzzle. “They’re getting married. Not sure when. He doesn’t seem to be in all that big of a rush.”

            “Do—do the boys know?” I asked. I crossed my ankles again, feeling the sweat forming along the length of my legs. My recently manicured toes—painted the same poppy as one of my outfits—peeked up as if wanting the answer as badly as I.

            “He and Tiff—Tiffany—are telling them tonight.”

            “But they’ve already told you and Melody?”

            “Last night. Melody insisted I get over here today and tell you.”

            “Why didn’t she tell me?”

            “She thought it was best if I—being Jason’s best friend and all.”

            “Is Mel mad at me?”

            The question brought a rise out of Hat. “Are you kidding? She’s so furious with Jason right now, I think she’s more afraid of what she might say that she can never take back.” He drank from his beer again. “You know how she feels about gossip, anyway.” Then he laughed.

            “But she doesn’t mind asking you to do it?” I gave a smile I didn’t feel.

            “Is it gossip if it’s true?”

            I uncrossed, then re-crossed my ankles, my legs now slick, the rose-scented lotion I’d used earlier wafting around me. “I dunno.” I sighed again. “Maybe I shouldn’t go tomorrow. To the reunion. The boys, I mean—”

            “The boys are grown men, Jeannie. With families of their own. Don’t you dare let Jason mess up your plans.”

            I drank from my beer—this time it was my turn to guzzle—then laid my head against the back of the chaise and closed my eyes. A baby. Jason was having a baby. With Tiffany … Tiffany the Tart, Melody called her, which always made me smile, even now. Tiffany would bring a child into the world who would be the halfsibling to our sons. Mine and Jason’s. A baby … with all the diaper changes and 2:00 a.m. feedings and endless nights without sleep and … My smile grew wider.

            “What are you grinning about?” Jason’s voice rumbled low and easy.

            I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “I was just thinking about Jason getting up at 2:00 in the morning … diaper rash …”

            “And poopy diapers.”

            We both laughed then.

            “Should I call and congratulate him?”

            “Nooooo. You should not.”

            “Send him a sympathy card?”

            We laughed again. I finished my beer and set the bottle next to the second one standing ready for me on the table.

            “Maybe,” Hat conceded.

            I took a sip of the second beer, knowing I wouldn’t finish it, but not wanting to waste it. “Oh, gosh, Hat … I cannot wrap my mind around this, can you?”

            “I can tell you one thing, Jeannie. Having another kid this late in life is the last thing I’d want. And, if I’m honest, I’m not so sure Jason is thrilled about it.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “Just the way he’s acting. All … you know … like, isn’t this the best news, but … but I know him, Jeannie. He’s not thrilled about this. Not a hundred percent. He told me straight up this wasn’t planned.”

            “I should hope not.”

            Hat didn’t respond at first, so I said nothing more. We just sat there like the two old friends we were, sweating under the whir of a ceiling fan on a muggy May night as the world turned that strange sort of pink and gray and blue that occurs around sunset. Finally, my good friend took one more sip and sighed. “Get on with your life, Jeannie.”

            I turned to look at him, his face turned fully toward the work his men had been doing over the past few weeks. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean…: He looked at me fully. “You’re a fine-looking woman, Jeannie Landon. You’re still young.” He gave a cat-like grin. “Or, young enough.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I said, half kidding. “First the sales lady at Dillard’s tells me I’m well preserved and now you tell me I’m young enough.”

He chuckled. “Well, you are. And you’re bright and funny and there’s still a lot of life to live. You don’t have to do it alone.”

            Initially, I didn’t know what to say. Then: “Please don’t tell me you have some nice guy you want to set me up with when I return.”

            He uncrossed his legs, sat up as if he—having said all that needed to be said—was ready to go home. Home to Mel. “I know a couple. But … you’re going back home for a reunion. Maybe …” He sang the last word. “Maybe there’s someone there?”

            “No. No one.”

Because, truth be told, there could be only one … and he had disappeared into time.

Chapter Ten

The plane touched down, seemingly without effort. I had chosen a window seat and for the past half hour scanned the landscape below to locate familiar places but without success. I wondered as I pulled my luggage from the overhead storage, why I’d assumed that the world I’d grown up in would somehow, by magic, remain as it had been rather than how it had grown to be.

            After deplaning, I walked through the airport slowly, my eyes traveling from one small store or restaurant to the other, my attention focusing more on the people sitting at their gates or standing nearby, stretching their legs, ready to board. After a while, I focused on the broad shoulders of a man walking ahead of me by no more than a yard. He carried a small towheaded child in his arms, her bouncing curls held back by a headband topped with Minnie Mouse ears. A woman I assumed to be her mother walked alongside. She pulled a Mickey Mouse suitcase behind her with one hand, her other locked onto the hand of a boy who closely resembled his sister. The boy, clearly upset, glared up and declared, “I want to go back! I want to go back!”

            “We’ll go back but we aren’t turning around now. Now we’re going home.”

            “Thank God,” the man said, and I grinned all over myself.

            Trisha met me at the base of the escalators leading to baggage claim, pure joy washing over her, which brought a ready smile from me. She hopped in place a few times, clapped her hands together, and then rushed toward me and wrapped me in a tight hug, the scent of her cologne connecting us further. “You made it. You actually made it!”

            “Yes.” Her squeeze nearly choked me, so I made it out to be more than it was. “I made it. Now try not to kill me before the reunion.”

            She stepped back, laughing, then sobered. “Look at you. Lord have mercy, Jeannie, don’t you ever age?”

            I looped my arm through hers to turn us toward Carousel 5 where I’d been told my luggage would soon be. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

            “Oh, please. Botox and trips to the spa aside, I’ve still put on that middle age spread our mothers used to complain about.” She poked my arm with a finger. “And you know it.”

            She had, true, but not by that much. At least not as much as her mother had. “All five pounds worth?”

“More like seven.”

“What does Earl think?” I asked around my laughter.

            “About what?”

            I eyed her as we eased around other travelers. “Don’t give me that. About your so-called middle age spread.”

            “Oh, him! He says it’s just more to hold on to.”

            I laughed again at the notion.

            “Lordy, girl.” Trisha squeezed my arm with hers as we neared the carousels. “How long has it been?”

            “Since?”

            “You were here.”

            I had to think. “My mother’s funeral? So . . . ten years now. Eleven?”

            “Gosh, Jeannie. I miss mine so much.”

            I stopped as the baggage carousel jerked to life and the first of the bags shot through a hole in the wall. “Me, too.” And that much was true. I did miss her and, most times when she came to mind, I wondered why I’d not been a better daughter. Why had I let the events of my senior year in high school run me off from home for longer periods than necessary? Why hadn’t I simply put it behind me rather than allowing it to keep me from the most important things in life—my core family unit? My childhood home. My sons had hardly known their grandparents . . . on both sides. Their paternal grandmother was still alive. Jason had moved her to the Orlando area only a few years back and helped set her up in a retirement center. From what the boys told me, she was happy there. And well cared for. I’d never bonded with her, or her with me, but I wasn’t unhappy that she was getting along so well.

            My luggage rounded a curve in the carousel, and I pointed to it. “There’s mine.”

            “It’s a big one. Planning to stay a while?”

            I merely laughed.

***

“How was your flight?” Earl wrapped me in a hug that left me somewhat dazed. As long as I lived, I would never get accustomed to Earl Corbett hugging me, what with our dating for so long in high school. Perhaps, I wondered as I stepped out of his embrace, had things not ended as they had . . . had the breakup been amicable . . . had he not started dating Trisha right after . . .

            “Good.” I nodded like one of those bobble-head dolls. “Well, as good as a flight from Orlando can be.”

            “Oh?” We stood in the center of his and Trisha’s spacious kitchen while Trisha hauled my luggage down a hallway toward the area she declared to be the “guest suite.” Earl pointed to the Keurig. “I was about to have a cup. Want one? Or tea?”

            “No. No, thank you. Maybe later.”

            “So, what did you mean by that?” He opened a cabinet door, and pulling out a coffee mug. A white one with “the doctor is in” wrapped around it in bold black lettering.

            “I guess it means I don’t really want a cup of coffee right now but—” I stopped at his puzzled expression, then realized we were not on the same page. Perhaps, I mused, we’d never been. Or, perhaps, we had been . . . until Slave Day when Truck Hardy came into my life.

            “No.” He smiled away my confusion. “I meant about the flight being from Orlando.”

            “Oh.” I laughed as I retreated to a corner and leaned against a countertop while crossing my legs at the ankles. “You see, flying into Orlando you get the kids who are hyped up because they’re going to Disney. Flying out of Orlando you get the kids who are exhausted and miserable from days and days of going to…”

            “Disney.” He smiled. Slowly. Kindly . . . while I stood there and noted the laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes and lips. He looked nice, dressed in a pair of casual slacks and a cotton button-up shirt he’d left untucked. He’d aged well and, unlike Trisha, without a single pudge. Not that Trisha had much to complain about, but if it made her feel better . . .

            Earl turned away from me, clearly as uncomfortable as I, and fixed the coffee to his liking. Not three seconds later, Trisha bounded back in the room. “Honey.” She spoke with a little too much enthusiasm. “Doesn’t Jeannie look great? I mean, has she aged? At all?”

            Earl looked from his wife, then to me, and back to Trisha again. “No. I don’t believe she has.”

Chapter Eleven

Something was up. I hadn’t been around Earl and Trisha in, well, forever, but I knew them well enough to know that something was not sitting kosher here. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Trisha and I had been best friends in high school while Earl and I had been an item and that she had started dating him almost as soon as I started dating Truck Hardy.

            I uncrossed my legs and crossed my arms. “Okay, you two. What’s going on?”

            Trisha went to stand next to Earl. Her husband. “What makes you think anything’s going on?” She wrapped her arm around Earl’s waist and squeezed. Notably. Then she looked up at him and then back to me.

            “Well . . . for one, you’ve been unusually bouncy—even for you—since I landed, and Earl seems a bit ill at ease—even for Earl.”

            Earl frowned over his coffee mug. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means that with all these years between us I can still read you like a book, Corbett.” I widened my eyes and tilted my head in a “and-you-know-it” look.

            Earl looked down at Trisha. “You gotta tell her, Trisha.”    

            Trisha sighed as she released her vice-like grip on Earl and stepped to one side. “Okay. But don’t be mad, okay?”

            “I reserve the right to decide that later. Continue.”

            Trisha took a long breath through her nose and then, after a moment of holding it, released it from between slightly parted lips. “We—and by we, I mean Donia St. George—”

            “Who?”

            “Married Rick St. George,” Earl supplied. “She was Donia Mills in high school.”

            “Donia . . . Donia . . . I don’t remember—”

            “She was a bookworm.” Again, Trisha’s words came a little too quickly. Too perky. “Was always the librarian’s assistant. Book club, drama club, won a scholarship for her composition on growing up post 60s.”

            Not a thread of recognition came my way, and I shrugged. “I remember Rick. I think we got paired up for a geography project once. We had to do a report on Brazil, complete with those three-sided posterboards. Got an A. But I’d have to look at a yearbook to remember Donia, I guess.”

            Trisha’s eyes brightened. “I’ve got mine right—”

            I held up a hand. “Stop right there, young lady,” I said in my best “mother’s” voice. “What is going on? And what does Donia have to do with it?”

            “She’s in charge of sending out the Evites—you must not have noticed that your email came from her—and, anyway, she heard from Ray Scoggins, who said he’s definitely coming. First time in . . . well, a few years, so . . .”

            “Who is Ray Scoggins?” Man, I really had been gone a while. I’d tried to erase most of my high school years from my memory, especially those memories that involved senior year, but suddenly it seemed that Trisha and Earl and I had attended different schools altogether. From kindergarten through high school, like we’d been on completely different planets.

            Trisha stood with her mouth open, saying nothing while Earl turned to place his coffee mug on the countertop behind him, then straightened and said, “He was buddies with . . .”

            I raised my chin. I understood. No wonder they’d both been so uncomfortable. Were still uncomfortable. “Raaaaaay. Ray Scoggins. And old friend of Truck’s.” My voice had dropped to barely audible. “Well, well.” I nodded a few times, swallowed, and said, “Is Truck coming? To the reunion events?”

            “Well, no.” Trisha’s words seemed more calculated. “I mean, not that I know of.”

            “Not that you know of?” My voice pitched higher. I wanted to throttle her. Or run. Fly back to Orlando. All of the above. Throttle, run, then fly. “Trisha! When did you find all this out?”

            Again, she looked at Earl, back to me, her hand now held out as though she were pleading her case. “Just yesterday. I swear, Jeannie.”

            “Earl?” I needed confirmation. Not because I didn’t trust Trisha—although I didn’t, not really—but because I needed some sort of affirmation.

            “She didn’t. She has been a basket case since Donia called her to tell her that, well, you know, that a friend of Truck’s . . . was attending.”

            “Old friend,” Trisha corrected. “We don’t know if he even knows what happened to Truck. I mean, Truck could be—you know—dead or something.”

            The thought kicked me squarely in the gut. Truck. Dead. Or something. I wasn’t sure what would be worse, seeing him again after all these many years or finding out that he had died somewhere along the way.

            “Trisha.” Earl kept his tone low. Commanding. I knew that voice and it prickled me.

            “It’s okay,” I said.

            Earl’s eyes narrowed. “Jeannie.” He reached for his coffee mug again. “You don’t still think about Truck Hardy, do you? I mean . . . he was just a fling, right? A seasonal flirtation?” A way to get under my skin, his expression added, although I knew he’d never say such a thing in front of his wife. “You’re too smart and too many years have gone by to let the memory of someone like Truck Hardy mess with you.” His gaze slid to Trisha. “Isn’t that what I told you?”

            “You did.”

            I had to force air past the knot that had grown in my throat, enough to swallow it down so I could speak. “No, of course not.” I laughed lightly then. “For heaven’s sake, I moved on, didn’t I? Went to college? Earned a degree? Got married. Had children. I’m a grandmother, aren’t I? I have much better things to think about than—” I froze for a moment, wondering what to say. How to go on. “—think about my senior year fling.”

            “See, Trisha.” Earl swallowed a sip of coffee. “I told you Jeannie was too levelheaded to let a few months of her life from back in the day dictate good sense decisions today. You’re still going to the reunion, right, Jeannie?”

            Heat rose inside me as I said, “Of course.” And then, for good measure, “Of course. Um, Trisha . . . can you show me to my room? I’d like to unpack. Maybe take a nap before lunch.”

            “Of course, Jeannie.” She started out of the door she’d entered only a few minutes earlier.

            I smiled at Earl but said nothing. There was nothing to say. If he was still the same arrogant jock from high school who believed that Truck Hardy had been nothing more than a fling . . . then he deserved nothing but a smile without words.

            “See you at lunch, Jeannie,” he said from behind me.

            I nodded, but still said nothing. Instead, I followed Trisha through the foyer, then into a short hall that led to a longer one. “These are just closets.” She pointed to a number of doors on both sides of the hall. “Your room is at the end here.” She twisted the ornate brass knob of a six-paneled door that opened to a deep sweep of rooms with walls papered in a spring floral print. They boasted wall-to-ceiling windows draped by pristine white ripple fold draperies that hung from just under the crown molding and puddled at the floor. Two stood on the right wall overlooking a lush back yard and two stood close to each other on the far side of the room. In between were twin beds, both covered with pink chenille spreads tucked perfectly under fat pillows and adorned simply with white chenille heart-shaped pillows, one on each bed. The furniture pieces were painted cottage white and clearly expensive. My luggage had been parked in front of a hotel luggage rack opened at the foot of one of the beds.

            “I hope this will be all right.”

            “It’s lovely.” I kicked off my sandals. The carpet—also white—was plush and spot free. I dug my toes into it. “Is this new?”

            She smiled and nodded. “It is. As soon as you said you were coming, I used your visit as an excuse to give this room a new look.” She glanced around the room as though surveying it for the first time. “I always loved pink.”

            “Yes, you did.”

            She pointed to an opening at the far end of the left wall. “Bathroom is there. Jacuzzi tub, if you’d like a soak. But there’s also a shower with one of those rain showerheads. We have one in our bathroom, and I love it so much I insisted we have one in every bathroom.”

            “Wow.” I peered into a bathroom the size of a locker room. If this was the guest suite, I could only imagine what the master looked like. “I may never come out.”

            Trisha looked down for a moment before looking up again and resting her hands on her hips. “Listen, Jeannie. I’m sorry about—you know—about the whole Ray thing and that he was friends with Truck. I really, really don’t think Truck will come. I mean, as far as I know he’s been MIA since before graduation.”

            Not quite before. Not to me, anyway.

Chapter Twelve

MIA.

            Missing in action. Yes, Truck Hardy had been MIA since shortly after graduation. Not that I wanted to think about that. To relive it. Not right then, anyway because it seemed that Truck had occupied entirely too much of my thoughts lately. And that memory of him, or any memories of him, had proven to be nothing but torturous. And not just since I’d decided to return home for the class reunion. In some ways—in many ways—the days, weeks, and months I’d had with Truck had left an indelible mark on my life. Nothing and no one would be—could be—the man Lamar Puckett Hardy had been in my life. Always would be.

            And that’s the thing about first love, isn’t it? It does that to us. It comes and goes, then leaves something behind that cannot be erased. And, perhaps, shouldn’t be. Even with the ultimate heartache that follows on the heels of its end. If we are honest with ourselves, we look in the mirror and say, “It was worth it.” Because if there is heartache, then it only stands to reason that the pain came because the joy and the affection was so intense as to be complete. Perhaps even pure.

            In spite of it all.

***

Barry Paxton lived in a sprawling ranch-style home resting in the middle of rolling, green hills and a lake that sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. I peered out the back passenger window as Earl pulled his SUV into the nearest parking spot of an area designated for the barbecue slated to kick off our reunion.

            “This is some spread.” I craned my neck for full inspection. “Barry obviously did all right for himself.”

            “Got into cellphones early in the game,” Earl commented over his shoulder, then slid the gearshift to PARK and killed the engine.

            “Brilliant move on his part.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “His father worked for the telephone company back in the day, didn’t he?”

            Earl opened his door and jumped out to open mine for me, gallant fellow that he’d always been.

            “Thank you.” I swung my legs out and planted the Vince Camuto platform sandals onto the gravel. I prayed a silent plea that when I stood up fully and took my first steps I wouldn’t fall flat on my face. Seriously, what had I been thinking? Platform sandals?

            “Yep.” Earl trotted around the car to open Trisha’s door. “He did.” He grinned at me as I came around to wait for his wife to exit. “Good memory.”

            Good memory, indeed.

            I drew in a breath, pressed an imaginary wrinkle from the legs of the poppy-colored, capri-length jumpsuit I’d chosen for the event, and smiled at Trisha who looked amazing in a flowing, ankle-length summer dress. With a quick look toward the house, I exhaled. “I guess this is it.”

            Trisha slid her arm through mine and tugged me forward. “The picnic is around back near the lake. Barry built a freestanding deck with lots of chairs and a grill you absolutely would not believe.”

            “A 42-inch stainless steel beauty,” Earl commented from the other side of Trisha. “Four burners. Four. I’ve never seen so many bells and whistles. Color me jealous.”

            “Is Barry grilling?” I asked.

            “Nooooo . . .” Trisha shook her head dramatically. “He’s having it catered.”

            We came around the corner of the house just as a somewhat-older-than-I-expected Barry and a willowy, well-endowed blonde did the same but from the opposite direction. He immediately jutted his hand toward Earl and laughed. “I told Monique that was you and—” His gaze found me. “Good land of the living. Jeannie Travis?”

            Before I could answer he wrapped me in a tight embrace. The scent of expensive aftershave and sunshine permeated the air between us. “Yes.” The word strained under the intensity of his hug.

            He stepped back. “Honey,” he said to the willowy blonde, “this is Jeannie Travis.”

            I smiled at the woman who only glared back as Barry kissed Trisha’s cheek and welcomed her as well.

            “When Trisha told me you were coming . . . ” Barry’s attention returned to me, “I said I’d believe it when I saw it and . . . here you are.” He grinned a perfect grin with pearly, capped teeth made whiter by the tan I would be willing to bet had been sprayed on. “After all these years.”

            “Yes.” I smiled again. “It’s good to see you, Barry.” Then to his wife, “Your home—or at least the outside of it—is lovely. My husb—my ex-husband has a landscape design company in Florida and . . .” I looked around at the greenery and beds, the nearby fountain flanked by a yellow-blossomed flower I didn’t quite recognize but surmised was from the lily family. “Well, he would be quite impressed.”

            “We have a talented gardener.” Monique’s voice floated toward me, low and sultry. Could that tone be for real?

            Barry’s arm slid around his wife’s waist, turning her toward the lake where I noted a few dozen of our old classmates had gathered. “Well, come on. Come on. The party can officially get started now that you’re here, Dr. Corbett.”

            Earl stepped away from Trisha and me to walk shoulder to shoulder with the party’s host. I turned my head and mumbled, “Where did he meet her?” We deliberately slowed in our walking so as not to be overheard. And for me to keep me from falling.

            “Wife number three?” Merriment skipped in her eyes. “Or is it four? I can’t keep up.”

            “Really?” I mouthed.

            “I’ll have to fill you in later. It’s as juicy as a sordid romance novel.”

            “Can’t wait. She certainly isn’t much of a hostess, that much’s for sure.”

            “Well, now that you’ve said ex-husband, she’s got something to worry about. You strutting to this party looking like something off a magazine cover.”

            “What magazine cover? AARP?”

            “Jeannie.” She squeezed my arm. “You look amazing, and you know it.”

            “Nonsense. I simply am who I am.”

            “And Mrs. Paxton up there is concerned that who you are is the next Mrs. Paxton.”

            “Me? Married to Mr. Spray Tan?”

            Trisha spewed out a giggle. “Stop it . . .”

            I winked at her. “Still has a nice body though; I’ll give him that. Finest tushy in Albemarle High.”

            “Works out five days a week. Personal trainer.”

            “Of course he does.” My eyes narrowed toward Monique who, by now, had slipped her hand into her husband’s. “How old is she, by the way?”

            “Twenty-eight . . . that’s what Donia tells me.”

            I stopped and Trisha with me. “What is it about men in our age group wanting women so much younger.” I swatted my hand in the air. “Never mind. I know the answer to that. A whole two days have gone by and I haven’t even told you my news.”

            “What news?”

            “Tiffany is pregnant.”

            “Tiffany? Jason’s Tiffany?”

            “Yep.”

            By now, Earl, Barry, and Monique ahead had reached the rest of the crowd who stood along the lakeside or near the deck, some nursing beers or colas and others with clear, plastic cups filled with what appeared to be various shades of wine.

Earl had turned toward us. “Honey? You coming or just standing there?”

            Trisha held up a finger, then turned back to me. “You waited until now to spill this?”

            “I just found out myself. Well, a few days ago. They’re supposedly getting married soon. Probably already are.” I shrugged. “Don’t know and don’t care.”

            “Oh yes you do.”

            I blinked slowly. “Okay. Yes I do.”

            “Have you talked to the boys about it?”

            I shook my head. “No. And I don’t plan to. Unless they bring it up . . . it’s none of my business what Jason does with his life.” I laughed easily. “Although . . . would you want to deal with diapers and colic at this phase of your life?”

            “Lordy, no.”

            I pointed toward the lake. “Come on. You fill me in later about the current Mrs. Paxton and I’ll fill you in on Jason and Tiffany.” What little I knew, anyway.

            Soft footsteps from behind caused me to glance over my shoulder and my breath caught.

            The man stood tall and broad shouldered. Nicely dressed. Styled, once-dark hair now streaked with silver glinted in the sunlight. One hand tucked into the pocket of khaki shorts. The other pulled aviator shades from eyes that twinkled as they met mine. “Jeannie Travis.”

            “Ray. Ray Scoggins.”

            “Girl, look at you.” His eyes roamed from my face to my feet and back again. “Last time I saw you was at Broom Creek. Me, racing against ole . . . Tortoise.”

            “Probably so. Hello.” Ray had remained trim, adding only a few extra pounds to his once lanky frame. He’d been devilishly good-looking in high school, although somewhat of a greaser, and he remained that way still. I’d often wondered if his family had been from a better caliber of people—or, I should say, from people who earned more money than court appointments—if he would have been a better catch for the girls like me.

            But, then again, I’d dropped Earl Corbett for Truck, hadn’t I?

Chapter Thirteen

            Trisha cleared her throat, a discreet reminder that she stood beside me.

            I pointed to her with my thumb. “Do you remember Trisha Corbett? She was—um—”

            “Of course I do.” He smiled. “Trisha Sewall. You married Earl, didn’t you?”

            “I did.” She ducked her chin, clearly uncomfortable, and mumbled, “Jeannie, I—”

            “Go on,” I said to her before I lost my nerve. Before I could come up with anything else to say. “Earl’s waiting for you and this will give me a chance to catch up with Ray.”

            “Are you—”

            “Yes.” I looked at her fully. “I’m sure.” I added a lilt to my voice that I both felt and didn’t feel.

            “All right, then.” She looked at Ray. “Good to see you again.”

            Ray gave her a half smile. “Likewise.”

            She walked away, her footsteps growing softer behind me. When I knew she was safely out of earshot, I brought my eyes fully to Ray’s. “Looks like life has been good to you. What are you up to these days?”

            Ray crooked his arm. He took a step toward me, and I readily slipped my hand into it, resting it against his warm, tanned flesh. “Drink?” he asked.

            “A glass of white wine would be nice.” I laughed a little. “But a beer would be better.”

            Ray chuckled. “Now that’s the Jeannie I remember.”

            I stopped. “Ray, before we get too close, and people start asking all sorts of questions . . .”

            “Do I know what happened to Truck.” The question came out as a statement.

            “Well . . . actually, I was going to reiterate my question and ask what you were up to these days.” But now that he mentioned it . . .

            He laughed again. “Oh. Okay. Don’t go into shock when I answer, though.”

            I peered up at him. “Okay.”

            “I’m in law enforcement.”

            I blinked several times, my lips forming what I suspected to be a perfectly shaped “O.” I allowed myself a moment to get my bearings. “I was not expecting that.”

            “But as for Truck.” He paused, watching me. Waiting for an expression or a sign. Or something. “He owns a string of service stations—convenience stores—and other businesses. But mainly he’s the big guy at a very successful antique mall. Like, one of those hundreds-of-booths kind that will take you all day to get through and you still won’t see everything.”

            A memory washed over me. Our first date. Truck wearing a bright red shirt, his cleanest pair of jeans, and cowboy boots. I’d been upstairs combing my hair for the umpteenth time and happened to glance out the window as he ambled up our flagstone walk. I darted downstairs quickly so he would have the least amount of time possible with my parents. Or them with him. But instead of finding three people stammering around one another, Truck stood front and center, impressing them with his knowledge of an antique cabinet that had been in our family and, subsequently, our foyer for as long as I could remember. Later, when I’d questioned him about his obvious knowledge, he informed me that he’d once worked for a dealer in West Virginia. And that was the thing about Truck; he never failed to surprise me.

But this bit of news from Ray . . . “So he’s—”

            “Successful, yeah.”

            I shook my head quickly. “No. I was going to say—well, I was going to say that he’s alive. I—I’ll be honest. I searched for him a few times on the internet, but I never—I couldn’t—”

            “You wouldn’t. He’s a sharp one, our Truck. He managed to keep everything—do you remember his sister?”

            “Sure. Mary Lynn.” A handful of people walked past us. I looked down, hoping not to be recognized. Hoping that nothing would interrupt this providential conversation I found myself.

            “She had a son.” The small crowd stepped past us, saying nothing, as though we were invisible to everyone but each other.

            “Davey.”

            Ray nodded. “David. He’s grown up now.”

            “Gracious. I guess he would be, wouldn’t he? Funny how we think everyone freezes as we remember them. Like, they grow not a day older.”

            “Well, he did. Married with kids. His is also the name you’ll find on all of Truck’s business dealings.”

            A light breeze swept around us and tangled itself in my hair, lifting it off my neck that had grown warm in the late afternoon sunshine. With it, the question I knew I had to ask, spun inside me, escaping before I had time to stop it. “And—Truck?”

            Ray didn’t answer right away; he stared for a moment, then gave me a funny sort of half-smile. “Married. Divorced. Married her again. Divorced her again. Or this time her, him. I can’t remember exactly how it goes.”

            I chewed on my bottom lip. “So, he’s—”

            “Single. For now. Always a string of women lined up, though, hoping for a chance with him.”

            The heat now reached my face as I studied Ray’s eyes. His expression. Was he baiting me?

            “What about you, Jeannie?” He looked toward the crowd at the lake as if Jason would suddenly appear. Or, if not Jason, some man, stepping forward, announcing, “She’s with me.”

            I blinked. “Divorced. Two sons.” I smiled broadly. “I’m a grandmother.”

            Ray stuck a thumb to his chest. “Grandpa, three times now.” He leaned forward, bending at the waist and rocking on the balls of his feet before settling back. “Do you want to see him, Jeannie?”

            My breath caught in my throat. “Truck?” I looked toward the house as if he would amble around its corner, looking as he had so many years ago. All swag and toughness. Dark and brooding.

            “Because, I know,” Ray said, bringing my attention back to him, “that he’d flip to see you.”

***

I barely comprehended the remainder of the evening. I smiled. Enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine. The food was tasty. I hugged a lot of old friends who complimented me on my outfit, the curl of my hair, the way I’d aged. Or . . . hadn’t. Which was all a bunch of hooey. We’d all changed. We’d all grown older, faint lines etched in our skin. We all had our stories to tell. The good. The bad. Mainly, the stuff we didn’t tell. The parts we left out. To hear the conversations that evening, one would think that, since leaving high school, not a one of us ever had a bad day. That even the difficult times had been blessings somehow. And, while I kept a smile plastered on my face, and tried to feign interest in what everyone was saying, the truth was, I couldn’t get Ray’s comment out of my mind.

            Truck would flip to see me.

            “What did you tell him?” Trisha asked the following morning as we sipped coffee and picked at sweet rolls at the breakfast table, the one that filled the kitchen nook.  

            I shrugged one shoulder just enough to act nonchalant. “I told him I’d think about it.”

            “Jeannie,” she breathed out, then looked over her shoulder to see if Earl were anywhere nearby. Then, returning her gaze to me, she said. “Really?”

            I pressed my lips together as I ran my fingertip around the rim of the coffee mug. “I can’t help but wonder.”

            “About what?”

            I shrugged again. “What he’s like now.” I caught her expression then. The confusion. “Ray says he’s very successful. That he owns these convenience stores and—”

            “Convenience stores?”

            I started to bring the mug to my mouth but returned it to the table. “Don’t say it like it’s a house of ill repute, Trisha.” I grinned at her, and she burst out laughing, then sobered.

            “Come on, Jeannie. Seriously.”

            I took a swallow of coffee; it had grown tepid. Bitter. “Have you ever heard of Olde World Antiques?”

            Her eyes narrowed. “Over in Florence?”

            I nodded. “Yes.”

            “I’ve been there a few times. Really, really nice place.” She pointed to a pie safe nestled in the corner that displayed cookbooks, stacks of plates, cups and saucers, and other whatnots. “I bought that there.”

            “Truck owns it.”

            “What?”

            “Mmm.” I inhaled deeply. Exhaled, my decision now set. “I’m going to forego the picnic today, Trisha. I’m going to drive to Florence and I’m going to walk into that antique mall and I’m going to see him.”

            Trisha shook her head as though to free it of a cobweb. “How do you know he’ll even be there?”

            “Ray told me he would. Saturdays. Every Saturday. In the office.”

            My lifelong friend blinked a few times. “And how do you plan to get there?”

            I smiled at her. “Your car. You’ll loan it to me. Won’t you?”

Chapter Fourteen

The drive to Florence went as quickly as it dragged by and was as nerve-wracking as it was calming. As exciting as it was devastating. As the Sirius XM station in Trisha’s SUV played a selection of old favorites—”Dust in the Wind,” “Nights in White Satin,” “Out in the Country”—I played and replayed over and over in my mind scenarios of the way it would be when I walked into the antique mall, surrounded by the past, stepping into the future. I imagined him standing near an exhibit, minding his own business, sensing my presence, turning toward me. “Jeannie?”

            I also imagined him flanked by several customers—all female, as Ray had indicated—and not recognizing me at all. “May I help you?” he’d ask, to which I’d reply, “Hi, Bubba,” hoping against all hope that no one else of the female persuasion had called him by the nickname in the years that separated us.

            I inhaled deeply, gasping nearly, as the “Welcome to Florence” sign greeted me from the right side of the road. I glanced into the side mirror to spy a sign facing outgoing traffic. “Come Back to Florence,” it read. “We Hope You Had a Real Good Time.”

            “Me, too.” My words floated softly in the car.

            The SUV’s GPS continued to route me through town, a charming bedroom community with tall beech trees arching across sidewalks and streets, their limbs tangling, their fingers entwining, beams of sunlight winking in between. Stately homes, their lawns intricately manicured and curved, seemed to turn to follow the stranger passing along the streets. Pedestrians lifted their chins, their faces turning as well. Inquisitive expressions told me—reminded me—that in small towns, everyone knows everyone. They know their parents. Their grandparents. What they do and how well or how poorly they do it. And they know the automobiles they drive.

            The haunting melody of Neil Diamond’s “Shilo” pulsed around me. I lowered the volume, using my thumb on the steering wheel’s controls, which brought the computerized voice of the GPS too low to understand. I bumped the volume back up two places.

            “In four hundred feet, turn left onto West Jefferson Street . . .”

            I glanced at the screen. I was three minutes from my destination.

            Three minutes. In five I would have found a parking space. In seven I’d be out of the car. Six, maybe. In ten I’d walk through the doors.

            “Forty-eight years and ten minutes later,” I quipped, “Jeannie Travis saw him again. Saw him for the first time.” I breathed out slowly. “Saw him again, for the first time.” I giggled without meaning to. I had become a romantic.

            A sign for Olde World Antiques with an oversized arrow on top and pointing right loomed from the left side of the road, boasting 400,000 square feet of antique showroom. Without thinking, I swung my head toward the indicated location to see an old clock surrounded by dark-red brick peeking over a disproportionate line of trees. I turned the steering wheel to the right, my focus now on the building, on watching it appear from the clock tower down to an expansive L-shaped building formed from the same old bricks. Faded paint etched along one side announced that I was driving toward the North American Mattress Factory while, to the left of the parking lot, a newer sign said that what had been, was no more. The factory that had employed thousands over the decades of its existence now held relics of the past, tucked into hundreds of booths.

            The parking lot was full of vehicles, including what appeared to be a tour bus of some sort. I drove up and down the aisles until I came to an empty space, then swung the SUV in. Before killing the engine, I lowered the visor, flipped up the mirror’s cover, then blinked at my reflection. To what Truck would see when he first saw me.

            I pulled my purse from the passenger’s seat to my lap with a decision to add a touch of pale pink gloss to lips that had gone completely dry. I wished for a swig of water, but I’d not brought a bottle with me, so I dug into my purse until I found a box of cinnamon-flavored Tic Tacs. I dropped four into my palm, scooped them up with my fingertips and dropped them onto my tongue. After the initial rush, I chewed and swallowed.

            “Come on, Jeannie.” Nothing like a pep talk before either the best or the worst thing to happen since the invention of chocolate. “Let’s go.”

            I opened the driver’s door and stepped out, then took deliberate steps toward the mall’s entrance. I became aware now of the number of shoppers along what had served as a loading dock in days gone by but now served as a display porch. I searched their faces to see if any of them could possibly be Truck, but none held his likeness.

            Six narrow cement steps led to the porch where two, wide double doors led to the mall’s interior. I caught a glimpse of myself in their glass and decided that I’d chosen well what to wear. Of course, I’d planned the white skin-tight jeans paired with a paisley print, off-the-shoulder ruffle top for the class picnic, but it suited a 400-booth antique mall, too. At least to my way of thinking.

            I tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, a habit I’d had since junior high. A tell that I was nervous. Or unsure. And I was, but at that moment I was nervous and unsure. But I was here and, God willing, so was Truck. Before the next half hour came and went, I’d know if I’d made a mistake by coming. I’d know—

            The exit door pushed open to allow two women to exit, their arms laden with shopping bags. “I cannot believe I found that platter,” one said to the other. “My grandmother’s set of Old Britain Castles is complete again.”

            I opened one of the entrance doors and stepped into the cool of the expansive warehouse filled with remnants and treasures. The scent of old books and beeswax and leather swirled around me with as much intensity as the customers who milled about, chattering in private conversations. “Look at this …” and “Remember? I had one of these as a child . . .” and “My mother would have a fit if she saw this.”

            To my left, a counter shone with patina and ran against the rattling-old windows that looked out to the porch and parking lot, their paint peeling, their glass beveled to give the world beyond an other-worldly appearance. Behind the counter, several young men and women rang up purchases at their stations while one woman—older with gray-streaked dark hair—stood to the side closest to me, writing on what appeared to be a purchase order.

            She looked up as if she sensed my stare and I knew immediately that she was Truck’s sister, Mary Lynn. I waited for a breath to see if she might recognize me, but when that moment passed, she smiled. “Can I help you find something? You look a little lost.”

            I smiled back while taking a step toward her. “I’m looking for Mr. Hardy.”

            “What can I help you with?” A tone of professionalism took over. “If you want to rent a booth, we have only a few left. Let me get you one of our brochures.” She started to turn away.

            “No, I—”

            Mary Lynn turned back.

            “Uh,” I began again, trying to decide whether to reveal my identity. Decided against it. “I—uh—I’d like to see Mr. Hardy, if you don’t mind. It’s personal.”

            She smiled at me again as though this was a line she’d heard time and again. “Honey, Mr. Hardy doesn’t have time to see women these days. Trust me.”

            “Yes.” Exasperation within me climbed. “I’m sure your brother is very busy but—”

            Her head cocked. “How’d you know—oh, my gosh.” She pointed at me. “You’re Jeannie. Jeannie Travis.”

            I raised my hand then took another step until I stood flush against the counter. “In the flesh. But, Mary Lynn, please—I don’t—I just want—I want to see him.” No. I needed to see him.

            She reached over and clasped my wrist. Her fingers were slim. Cool. Her nails long and painted. “Oh, honey,” she breathed out. “He won’t believe . . .”

            “Please.”

            She released my wrist and pointed up. “One second.” She turned and picked up her phone. Using her thumb, she dialed a number, then brought the phone to her ear. “Hey,” she said after a moment. “There’s someone here to see you . . . I’m not sure, but I can send her up . . . yes, a her.” She smiled at me, then pointed toward a set of stairs to the right of the front door that led to what had at one time, I imagined, been a set of offices. “Go,” she mouthed.

Chapter Fifteen

I grinned at Mary Lynn, my stomach flipping and flopping like a beached fish. “Thank you,” I mouthed back, then turned and scooted up the stairs before I could talk myself out of what I’d come to do.

            At the landing, I took another breath then opened the door slowly, not wanting to make a commotion. As I stepped into what looked to be an employee break area, a voice came from the recesses of a set of overlook offices to my left. A voice I’d know anywhere. Deep and gritty, but smooth as warm honey on hot, buttered toast. Distinctly Southern. Or was it Western? “Well, did she say what she wanted?”

            I snickered as I tip-toed toward the authority of it. Truck, owning the world, running the world. As it had been in high school, he commanded a host of disciples who were too much in awe of him to question him. He spoke and those around him jumped to do his bidding.

            “Honestly, Mary Lynn, why don’t you just ask her? . . . Seriously?”

            I saw him then. He stood with his back to the door of the last office, one hand on a narrow hip, one holding a phone to his ear. His shoulders had remained broad, his toned muscles evident under a cotton shirt. But his hair, now worn cropped close, had grown salt-and-pepper gray. Mostly salt. He appeared to have gained ten pounds, maybe twenty, since high school.

His head tilted back as he looked out to the warehouse full of booths filled with antiques and patrons.

            A thought skipped through my mind unbidden: The past before us, the past behind us.

            “Well, if she isn’t standing there anymore, when she comes back, tell her I left for the day . . . yeah, yeah.” He chuckled then. “I love you, too, you nut.”

            Truck turned to drop the phone on his desk—a desk cluttered with stacks of papers and thick paperback books, their covers curled on the edges from overuse—and stopped short. “Excuse me. This is a private office.”

            I pointed to the books. “Since when do you read?” I raised my hand toward the windows overlooking the antiques. “And what’s this? I thought you said you’d never work in antiques.”

            Crimson stained the cheeks of a face that had grown more handsome with age, the complexion still tanned, the eyes still fiery and sea green. Unlike in high school, he sported a trimmed beard which made him appear debonair and even more mysterious than he had way back when. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but—” He paled then, and I smiled, knowing in that moment that he recognized me. Forty-eight years and ten minutes hadn’t changed me so much that he couldn’t see the past standing in the office of his present. “Teach?” His voice climbed by an octave, calling me by my nickname, him being the only one to ever, ever use it.

            I took a step into the office. “Hey, Bubba.” I spoke the words just as I’d rehearsed them. All breathy and nervous.

            He came around the desk toward me but stopped short. “Jeannie? Well, I’ll be a son-of-a—” His blush ran deep again. “I’ll be dog. Where in the world did you come from?”

            “Florida.” I adjusted my purse so that the straps rested on my shoulder.

            “Florida?” His question sounded more like I’d just told him I’d flown in from Mars. “How long have you been down there?”

            I pointed to an antique Duncan Phyfe sofa that rested along one of the two un-glassed walls, one that had been restored and reupholstered in emerald-green velvet. “Can we sit?” I asked. “Do you have time?”

            He placed the phone, the one still gripped in his hand, on the desk. “Forgive me. Yes. Of course I have time. Wow.” His eyes scanned my face. “How long has it been, Jeannie?”

            We sat at opposite ends of the sofa, me on the edge, my purse between us, him all the way back. Relaxed and in his element. One arm slung over the carved wood of the sofa’s back.

            “Our forty-eighth reunion is happening this weekend, so—”

            His coloring deepened again, and I wondered if this was going to be a thing between us now. I’d talk and he’d blush. “And I’ll just bet you’ve been to every one of them.” He drawled the words, sounding like the old Truck. “Miss Albemarle High.”

            “I was not Miss Albemarle High.” Honestly, I didn’t remember who had been crowned with the title, but I knew it hadn’t been me.

            He laughed easily. “You would have been if you hadn’t gotten involved with that hoodlum toward the end of senior year.”

            “Well, you see . . .” I gave him a half smile. “I couldn’t help myself. He drove this really cool black and white ’57 Chevy who I fell in love with.”

“Tortoise.”

“That’s her. And, if I remember correctly, she loved me, too.” I counted my breaths. One in. One out. “To be honest, this is the first reunion I’ve come to.”

            Truck ran a palm over the top of his head, his eyes studying me as if for the first time. “Great day in the morning. Jeannie Travis. It’s really you.” He paused before adding. “You look great, by the way.”

            There was something in the way he said the words, making it my turn to blush. I now knew the truth; the old chemistry hadn’t left us. Nearly formidable, it rose, danced in rhythm, then twirled recklessly around us, binding us together, the old and the new. The past and the forever, if I could be so confident. All that was behind us and all that lay before us and, for a moment, hope flickered. Life could go on—did go on—after a husband’s adultery. After promises had been broken and, from those fragmented pieces, old wives had been replaced, leaving them to feel less-than. Less than worthy. Less than attractive. Less than loveable. Less than a list that goes on and on.  “Thank you. I believe I would have known you anywhere.”

            “Nah.” He shook his head like an old dog. “Age and time have a way of—so, tell me . . . single? Married? Widowed?”

            “Divorced,” I said before he could throw the condition of my love life into the mix. “Two grown sons, both married.” I squared my shoulders and grinned. “I’m a grandmother now.”

            “Don’t look it.” He chuckled for good measure. “At least I don’t remember my grandma looking like you do.”

            I reached for bravado I wasn’t sure I could or should find. “Keep the compliments coming, Mr. L. P. Hardy and you’ll have me falling for . . . Tortoise . . . all over again.”

            The smile I’d hoped for crept up, curling the sides of his mouth, reaching toward eyes that had gone soft and smoky. “You—uh—you have some sort of event tonight, I imagine? Ray said there was something going on just about the whole weekend.”

            “I’m skipping out on tonight’s festivities.”

            “Really?” His shoulders went back. “Well, then, how about I take you to dinner. It’ll give us a real chance to catch up. Unless you already have something else, I mean.”

            Relief flooded me. Two steps forward. “No. I don’t have anything else. And I’d like that. I’m happy to meet you here if you’d—”

            “Why don’t I pick you up at your hotel. Or are you staying with friends?”

            Heat warmed my face before spreading through the rest of me. “I’m staying with Trisha and Earl.”

            His brow furrowed. “Good land of the living, I’d forgotten about that. They really got married? To each other?”

            I nodded with a laugh. “They really did.”

            Truck slid to the edge of the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees, and laced weathered fingers. “I’m betting the last man ole Superjock wants to see in his home is me, so—”

            “I can just meet you back here.” In all honesty, I wasn’t so worried about what Earl wanted as I was about what I wanted. Or the effect it might have on Truck, walking into the eloquence of Earl and Trisha’s home. Then again, he’d done just fine walking into my mother and father’s a million years ago. “What time?”

            “We close at seven, so be back a little before.” He grinned at me again. “You know your way up to my office now, so just come on up.”

            I laughed as I stood. I started to reach for my purse, but he got to it first, then handed it to me, our fingertips brushing against each other. “Where are you taking me?”

            “Do you still like pizza?”

            The memory of the first time we’d made pizza rushed over me. “I do.” That night, after our hormones had started getting the better of us, when he’d called to say he couldn’t take me out because he had promised Mary Lynn he’d babysit Davey. A horrible, stormy night when my parents were out at some fancy dinner party, and I was alone, and his mother was working, and he was the only one with his little nephew.

            “If it’s another girl just say so,” I’d told him when he called to break our date, which made him mad enough that I could feel his anger coming through the phone.

Anger and frustration. That had been the way of it.

Chapter Sixteen

“Look, it’s nothing like that,” he had said. “I told Mary Lynn I’d babysit so she can go out with this man she’s crazy about. If he marries her that’s one more load off Ma’s shoulders so I told her I’d babysit for free.” Then, after a pause where neither of us said anything, he added, “What? You wanna come over here and see for yourself?”

            I told him I did. Not because I wanted him to prove anything but because I wanted to be with him.

            He sighed. “Be there shortly, then.”

            Between the end of the call and him pulling up in the driveway I fixed my hair the way he liked it and then slipped into a dress entirely too short and cut much too low. Dangerous, I knew, but I didn’t care. Maybe because of the storm outside the house. Maybe because of the storm inside of me. I cannot even, after all these years, give an answer.

            “Nice dress,” he’d said after he put Davey to bed, and I was pulling the little pizzas out of the oven. “What there is of it.”

            My choice in clothing had the desired effect and, at the same time, placed me in a position I wasn’t sure I was ready for. He reached for me, and, within five minutes, I found myself begging him to stop while he begged me for more than I was ready to give. And, about five minutes after that—five minutes after a heated debate and some name-calling, he picked up the phone and called a cab to take me home.

            Thankfully, my parents weren’t home when I arrived, so I paid the driver, then went straight to bed, thinking my relationship with Truck Hardy had come to an end. An abrupt, horrible end. And, if all of that had not been bad enough, he called me later, slap in the middle of the night. Drunk, of course. He had a girl in the car with him, he said. But Tortoise didn’t like her. Tortoise kept stalling and idling. Tortoise only liked me, he said as I pulled the cover over my head and wished, somehow, that I could back up time. But back it up to where and when, I wasn’t sure.

            So, he had a girl in the car, but that wasn’t the worst part of it. The worst part of it had been him telling me about a kind and giving teacher he’d had in fifth grade. “Mrs. Leslie,” he’d called her. And then he told me all about her, telling me things that allowed me to see the little boy inside of him. The child who’d rarely felt special until Mrs. Leslie came along. “You gotta be a teacher like that one day, Jeannie,” he’d said, his words slurred but sure. “Promise you will.”

            And I promised him I would. And I did, teaching fifth grade until two years ago when I’d retired with the notion that Jason and I would finally have a chance to do some of those things we’d always said we’d do one fine day after the boys were grown and on their own. After I no longer had papers to grade and lessons to plan. Only, right after the retirement party, Jason told me about a young woman named Tiffany whose lawn he’d recently landscaped. That she brought him lemonade while he worked and that they talked and that, “. . . one thing led to another, Jeannie, and I—well, I—I think I’m in love with her now and—no, honestly, I know I am—and the best thing for both of us—you and me—is to just yank this band-aid off and see an attorney.”

            “Jeannie?” Truck stood in front of the Duncan Phyfe, green-velvet sofa where we’d been sitting.

            I blinked. “What?” I felt suddenly like one of those dumb book characters whose mind has trailed off until someone waves a hand in front of them and brings them back to the present. All the while the reader is now caught up on a piece of backstory.

            “You okay there?”

            I laughed nervously. “I’m fine.” I adjusted my purse strap again. “So, seven?”

            He gave me a sort of half smile, like he’d read my mind. Or like he knew he still had some crazy kind of hold over me. “Or a little before.”

            I started for the door, Truck walking beside me. “How about if I show up about six-thirty? Maybe you can show me around some?” I peered toward the windows overlooking the booths.

            A chuckle came from deep within his throat. “If you want me to show you around, you’d best be back by five-thirty.”

            I nodded. “I can do that.”

            “Good.” He opened the door leading to the stairs for me. “See you then, Teach.”

            I looked up. Smiled. “See you then, Bubba.”

***

I practically raced back to Trisha’s, half anticipating what she’d say about my change of plans and half dreading Earl’s reaction. But I wasn’t about to be swayed to do anything other than go out for pizza with Truck Hardy that evening. The greater problem, I decided, was what to wear. The only thing I’d brought for Saturday night was far too fancy for pizza. Then, again . . . why not? At least it wasn’t a jersey dress hemmed too high and cut too low.

            As expected, Trisha thought I’d gone completely loco, expressed her disappointment that I wasn’t going to Au Petit Salut with her and Earl, a man who only shook his head at me. “Same ole Jeannie.” He shuffled up the stairs—to get a shower, he said.

            Trisha watched him go, then looked at me and said, “Okay, tell me. What does he look like?” And I knew the “same ole Trisha” was now in my corner.

            I smiled as I pulled her to the breakfast nook table where we sat and held hands like schoolgirls. “Handsome. You know how he was ruggedly handsome in school?”

            “Well . . . he wasn’t my type, but if you say so.”

            I breathed in. Of course Trisha wouldn’t have seen him as handsome. He’d been a hoodlum—or, the closest thing Albemarle High had to one—and she was more interested in jocks like Earl. “Well, he’s the same. Only, not so rugged. I mean, it’s obvious he’s doing well. Money has a way of cleaning people up, no doubt about it. But when he spoke . . .” I shook my head a little. “When he spoke, it was the boy I knew in high school and this new man all rolled into one.”

            Trisha squeezed my hand. “Jeannie. Don’t do anything, you know, stupid.”

            The smile drained out of me. “Like what?” As if I didn’t know.

            “You know. I mean . . . you and he were, you know, and you’ve been married now, and he’s been married now and . . . gosh, Jeannie. Now I feel like I’m having ‘the talk’ with one of my kids again.” She air-quoted for emphasis. “Only this time I can’t even say what I mean, and you know what I mean.” She took a breath. Released it. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t really know this Truck Hardy.” She squeezed my hand again. “Just give yourself some time, okay? Promise me that?”

            I nodded. “I’m not seventeen, Trisha. Believe me. I’ve got a much better grip on myself now than I ever had then.”

            “Good.” She pulled her hands into her lap. “Good.”

***

I slipped into the gold metallic halter jumpsuit that shimmered under the light with every move I made in front of the guest bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirror. I fluffed the ruffles around the neckline and wondered if I needed a necklace or just some dangling earrings to finish off the ensemble, then decided on the latter. I slathered glittering lotion on my shoulders and chest, the scent wafting around me. Making me a little headier than I already felt.

            I sat on the bed and slipped my feet into the strappy, heeled sandals then stood and walked around the room several times to gain my balance. I hadn’t worn shoes like these in years. They made me feel not only taller but slenderer, which I didn’t mind in the least. I returned to the bathroom, turned to the side, pressed on my almost-flat stomach then released. If I promised not to eat too much, I could get away without wearing the Spanx.

            The threat of a paunch aside, I didn’t think I could possibly eat too much anyway. Nerves had always kept me from food, and this was about as nervous as I’d ever felt. An entire nation of butterflies had taken up residency in my abdomen. I rested my palms against the bathroom counter, leaned over and breathed in and out several times for good measure.

The time had come.

Chapter Seventeen

After transferring my license and a few other incidentals from my purse to the clutch I’d purchased to go with my new attire, I opened the bedroom door and strolled toward the main part of the house. I found Earl and Trisha in the family room—Earl watching a game on TV and Trisha sitting in an occasional chair reading a book.

She looked up. “Wow. Look at you.”

            I held out my arms then dropped them, aware that Earl’s attention had most definitely left the game. “I was going to wear this tonight to the restaurant. I didn’t have anything else to choose from.”

            Earl cleared his throat. “Where did you say you were going?” He spoke an octave higher than usual, so he cleared his throat again. “I mean, where is Hardy taking you.”

            “Earl,” Trisha said in a voice I knew she reserved just for him. A warning voice. A “don’t-go-there” voice.

            “Pizza.” I chuckled. “I know. This doesn’t look like something one wears to Pizza Hut, does it?”

            Earl returned his attention to the game. “What do I know?”

            Trisha stood then. “Ignore him.” She inched me out of the room.

            “When are you getting ready?” My heels clicked on the kitchen floor. “Should you already be?”

            “Shortly.” She reached for her keys on the counter where I’d left them earlier. “Now listen . . . have fun but be careful.”

            I smiled at her. “You said that earlier.”

            “I didn’t say to have fun. I only said to be careful. But, Jeannie, I really do want you to have fun.”

            I gave her a quick hug. “I know. And I will be careful.”

            She sighed as if she were sending me to the gallows. Teary eyes roved up and down me. “You look fantastic. You really do.”

            I placed the clutch on the counter and took her hands, still holding the keys, in mine. “So, why are you getting all misty?”

            Trisha looked down, then back up, her gaze meeting mine. “I just—I guess I’m just . . .”

            “Scared for me?”

            “Out of my mind.”

            “That makes two of us.” I reached for the keys, and she dropped them into my palm. “I’ll call if I’m going to be too late.”  

            She laughed then. “That’s right, young lady.” She shook a finger at me. “Curfew around here is midnight.”

            I feigned shock. “That late? I’ll see what I can do.” I started for the garage door, then turned. “Wish me the best?”

            “It’s been wished.”

***

It’s silly to say that a woman my age still gets a kick out of a man’s pleased or surprised expression when he sees her dressed up and ready to go out. That moment when he realizes he just may be the luckiest man on the planet. It’s silly for sure, but true. And something I’d not felt in a while.

            So, yes, I got a kick out of Earl’s expression, and I giggled a little at Mary Lynn’s “wow” when I entered the antique mall dressed to the nines and with a certain air of confidence. But my heart fluttered all the way to my stomach as I climbed the stairs—carefully in those heels—opened the door and waltzed toward Truck’s office. Again, I heard him before I saw him, and again I found him on the phone, standing with his back to the door and looking out over his kingdom.

“Seven o’clock.” He spoke as a man with authority. “I appreciate it.” He ended the call, then turned. Perhaps he heard my footsteps, which were hard to keep silent in those shoes, or perhaps he sensed my presence. I couldn’t say now or then, even if my life depended on the knowing. I only knew that when he turned and looked at me, his eyes widened, and his mouth formed a slow grin and then a blush ran from his neck to his hairline. “Gracious.”

            I noticed that he’d changed into a suit. Nothing overly dressy, but nice just the same. I gave him a mock curtsey. “I was going to wear this to the event tonight. It’s really all I had.”

            Truck placed the phone on his desk then came around to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, which I found gallant. And cute. “I consider their loss my gain.”

            I decided to play coy, a ploy I hadn’t used in years, this acting bashful and shy. “It may be a bit much.”

            Truck took one step back and shook his head. “Not too much for me. I’d say it rates right up there with perfect.”

            “Well, at least it’s not a jersey dress cut too short and too low.” I blurted the words before I had a chance to consider the implication, then bit down on my lower lip.

            His expression froze for a moment, then his brow furrowed. “You lost me there.”

            I smiled. “Good.” If Truck didn’t remember the whole pizza fiasco of 1971, then I could relax and enjoy our time together with the knowledge that his suggestion of pizza had nothing to do with that awful night so long ago. I pointed toward the windows overlooking the show floor. “So, are you going to show me around or are we just going to stand in this office all night?”

         “If it means I can just stand here and stare at you until you have to leave, then yes. We’ll stay right here.”

         I gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Ah, there’s the old Truck Hardy I used to know and . . .”

         His brow shot up. “And love?” His words floated between us, all soft and inviting.

         I brought my index finger and thumb together. “Maybe a little.” I winked. “Now, come on. Show me Truck’s world.”

         Truck slipped my hand into the crook of his arm and turned me toward a door leading to a staircase closer to his office. One I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s my way of slipping in out. You know. Unobserved.”

         “Very smart of you. You never know who might walk in through the front door.”

         He looked down at me and smiled. “Gets downright scary sometimes . . . what Mary Lynn lets up the stairs.”

         I gave him my best smirk. “Very funny.”

         The tour took an easy forty-five minutes, even with me constantly wanting to stop to look at something but Truck tugging me onward. “Another time. Not tonight.” Words that brought hope. Tonight was just one night. The first in a string of many.

         There would most definitely be a tomorrow.

***

As it turned out, the person on the other end of the call I’d walked in on was the maître’d of a swanky little Italian restaurant that reminded me of something right out of the movies. Operatic music floated over intimate tables draped in red- and white-checkered linen tablecloths. Stocky wine bottles dripped with wax held candles that flickered to create more of the room’s ambiance. Overhead, ornate chandeliers cast faint light.

         The properly dressed man greeted us from behind his station as we walked in. “Mr. Hardy. So nice to see you again.”

         “Nice to be back.”

         “Your table is waiting.” The maître’d’s tone was subdued as he led us to a small table in a far corner, away from the other patrons.

         After we’d settled, I leaned over to keep my voice low. “Why do I get the feeling this is your table?”

         Truck unwrapped the silverware tucked into a black linen napkin, then placed the utensils on the table before placing the napkin in his lap. “Well, I don’t own it, if that’s what you mean.”

         “You know what I mean.”

         “Ah. If you’re asking if this is where I sit when I come here, then the answer is yes.”

         “Each and every time.”

         “Yes, ma’am.”

         “And what if someone else is already sitting here?”

         Truck laughed, the sound of it bringing a flood of memories. “That’s never happened, I don’t think.”

         “And if it did?”

         “I suppose they’d be asked to move.”

         Before I had an opportunity to respond, a larger-than-life caricature of a man dressed in a tux ambled over to speak to Truck in his best Italian accent. “Ah, my favorite customer has returned!”

         Truck stood and the two hugged, clapping each other on the back like long-lost comrades. When they released each other, both grinning like apes, Truck turned to me. “May I present Jeannie—” It dawned on him then. He didn’t know my married name, a name I no longer used.

         “Travis.” I extended my hand. “I’m an old high school friend of Mr. Hardy’s.”

         The man took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed the back of it. “Ah, bella donna. But what is this Mr. Hardy stuff, eh? If you are an old school friend, then you know his nickname for sure.”

         “Truck.” I smiled warmly at the man I already liked moltissimo. “But once upon a time, I called him Bubba.”

Chapter Eighteen

“So,” Truck said slowly after our wine had been served and the pizza ordered—pizza Truck declared the best this side of the Atlantic. “Your last name is still Travis?”

         “It is again Travis.”

         He studied me for several long seconds before he reached for his wine and extended it toward me. “To you, Jeannie Travis.”

         I touched the rim of my wine glass to his. “To you, Truck Hardy.”

         Truck took a small sip of his wine then returned the glass to the table. “So tell me.”

         “What would you like to know?” I pulled my silverware from the linen napkin then placed the napkin in my lap.

         “Everything.”

         “But what if I want to know everything about you?” Which I did. Desperately.

         He nodded. “In due time.”

         I liked the sound of that. “Hmm.” I took my own sip of wine, which was fruity and smooth. “Very good choice.”

         Truck’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you. Now, stop hedging and answer the question.”

         I set the stemware oh-so-carefully back in its place. “Was there a question? I don’t seem to remember a question.”

         “Teach . . .” He crossed his arms.

         I tilted my head—that coy thing again—and watched as his lips quivered. As he tried not to laugh or at least be mildly amused. “All right. All right.” I settled back in my seat. “Where should I begin?”

         “How about after graduation?”

         I sighed deeply; all playfulness gone. “That miserable summer, you mean?”

         “Why was it miserable? You’d made it through high school. You were going to college in the fall.” An eyebrow shot up. “You did go to college, right?” Then he sat up and leaned over the table resting his forearms on the edge. “Don’t sit there and disappoint me, Teach.”

         “I went to college.”

         “Darcey, wasn’t it?”

         I blinked at his remembrance. “Yes. Then Ashland for my masters.”

         He grinned. “What?” He took another sip of his wine, his elbows now on the table. “No doctorate?”

         I leaned over, my elbows now on the table as well. “Well, I would have, but I met a certain man named Jason Landon.”

         “And what was it about Jason Landon that took your mind away from your studies?”

         Oh sure. As though that couldn’t happen twice in a lifetime.

         I took another sip of wine, felt it go to my head—I really needed to eat before drinking, always, especially since I would be driving later—and then returned the glass to the table. “His rugged outdoor good looks, I suppose.”

         Truck chuckled. “Remind you of someone, did he?”

         He had that right. Jason looked nothing like Truck, but there had always been a devil-may-care element about him that brought Truck to mind a time or two. At least until I’d told Ben that I saw a resemblance and was quickly reprimanded. “Don’t go there, Sheena. Don’t do that to yourself again.” Because no one knew better than Ben the effect loving Truck had had on me.

         Before I could answer Truck, a server came to the table with a margherita pizza that looked and smelled like heaven on a platter. “Wow,” I commented to the perfectly arranged blend of fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic, and melted clumps of mozzarella. I could smell the delectable flavor of olive oil and my mouth watered.

         Truck rubbed his hands together as his eyes all but sparkled. “Everything—and I do mean everything—here is fresh, Miss Jeannie.”

         He had that right, too.

         We hardly said a word as we ate. We just mmm’d and said “oh-my-gosh-this-is-so-good” a lot. I tried not to eat too much, not wanting my stomach to suddenly bulge like the fourth month of pregnancy. After all, at some point I would have to stand up and I wanted to look as I had when we first sat. But Truck kept the wine poured, which meant I had to eat enough to balance it all.

         Finally, over a shared tiramisu and two cups of coffee, Truck returned to my life story. “So, you married this Jason person.”

         I placed the fork tongs-side down on the plate of half-eaten dessert—most of it by Truck—then folded my hands into my lap. “I did. We have two sons, Patrick and Seth. Patrick is married to Clare, and they have two of the most amazing girls who ever walked on the planet.”

         “Names?”

         “Grace—she’s twelve—and Stacia who is eleven.”

         “Pretty.”

         “Careful, or in about two seconds, I’ll whip out my phone and show you pictures from birth until just last month.”

         “Tell you what.” Truck wrapped his lips around another forkful of tiramisu, then swallowed and set his fork down. “Next time you show me pictures of your grandkids, and I’ll show you pictures of mine.”

         Next time. My mind whirled with confusion and plans. I would have to extend my time here. I would need to beg Trisha for a place to stay longer than the weekend. She would be thrilled, but I wasn’t so sure about Earl. Then again, she could have plans she hadn’t shared with me. I’d also have to see about my house in Florida since the plan was to return, get it ready for the market, and then list it. “There are more.”

         “More?”

         “Well, I have four grandchildren. Two sons, remember? Seth is married to Megan, and they have Freddie, who is fifteen if I can even wrap my brain around that, and Michael who is thirteen, so . . .”

         Truck drained his coffee cup. “My four for your four.”

         My eyes danced; I swear I could feel them twinkling in the stupidly romantic candlelight. “Truck Hardy, grandfather to four . . . I cannot imagine.”

         “Three boys. One girl.”

         “Who you dote on.”

         “You’ve got that right. The boys—I’m raising them up tough like they need to be. But the girl . . .”

         I laughed. “So you’re active in their lives.”

         “Not much of a choice. They practically live in my house.”

         “What does that mean?”

         Truck’s face grew dark. “Good-for-nothing father left Joey—that’s my daughter—right after Missy was born for some girl he swore he couldn’t live without.”

         “That’s awful.” I said it and I meant it, knowing full well what it felt like to be dumped for “some girl.”

         “I have a kind of summer cottage on my property, so I rent it out—cheap—to Joey and the kids.” He gave a light shrug. “I wouldn’t charge them at all except Joey won’t hear of it. She’s a lot like her old man. She likes to earn her keep.”

         “So you just have the one child?”

         He grinned. “Far as I know.”

         I decided to stick my toe into a subject Ray had mentioned. “Ray told me that you married and divorced the same woman twice.”

         Truck leaned back and exhaled as he stretched one leg closer to my chair. “Ray told you that, did he?”

         I nodded.

         “Mmm. Married her in ’79. We had Joey in ’81. Divorced in ’88. Got married again in 1990 after she swore up and down she couldn’t live without me. But apparently, she could because we divorced again in 2001, this time her taking more than her fair share. The divorce was final on 9-11, can you beat that? While the rest of the world was mourning the disasters in New York and DC, I was celebrating—quietly . . . but celebrating—the end of a different kind of tragedy. But…” He slapped his hands against his thighs. “We have a child, and we have grandchildren, so I’m never fully rid of her.”

         I leaned over to rest my elbow on the table, my chin in the palm of my hand. “And does her have a name.”

         The creases around Truck’s eyes returned. “None I’d say in mixed company.”

         I sat up straight. “Truck . . .”

         “Catherine. But most people—friends and enemies—call her ‘Cat,’ and for a very good reason.”

         “Okay.” I returned my chin to the palm of my hand. “So there’s not a lot of love lost, I take it.”

         “Don’t get me wrong. She’s a good mother and a fantastic grandmother, I’ll give her that much.” Truck’s eyes grew distant. “She just couldn’t make it as my wife.”

         “And you as her husband?”

         Truck straightened again. “You know me and relationships, Jeannie.” He glanced toward the front of the restaurant, which I thought was a cue that he had said all he wanted to say about his marriage and that we were about to leave. As I reached for my purse, a hundred thoughts rushed to my mind. Had we ended the night on a sour note? When he returned me to Trisha’s car, would he kiss me? Or would we just hug, start out slow, which would be completely the opposite of our high school experience. Of course, high school was meshed with hormones and angst. We were hardly in that category now. Then, maybe—

         “Oh, this is just great,” he said, his voice low and almost miserable.

         “What?” I glanced over my shoulder, noting immediately the woman glaring in our direction. I looked at Truck who looked at me, almost apologetically. “Who is that?”

         “Let’s just say that the cat’s out of the bag.”

Chapter Nineteen

Tennessee Williams’ Maggie the Cat must have taken lessons from this woman. Or vice versa. Before I so much as had a second to turn around again, Truck’s ex-wife was at our table, looking down in disdain.

         “Who is this?” She spoke to Truck, but her eyes were on me.

         Truck didn’t answer her right away, which gave me a moment to study her. She had that look about her that said, “I may be getting on up in age, but I’ve managed to get Botox.” Don’t get me wrong; she wasn’t altogether unattractive. Big boned, maybe. And her hair had been dyed too black for a woman her age and with such pale skin. Not to mention that her makeup looked like it had been applied by someone stuck in the ’80s.

         Her blue eyes pierced like ice.

         But she wasn’t altogether unattractive.

         “Cat.” Truck’s one-word declaration brought my attention back to him. “This is Mrs. Landon. We went to high school together.” Truck then looked at me, one eyebrow cocked, probably matching my own at the use of my married name. Gracious, he really had been paying attention. “This is my ex-wife, Catherine.”

         I looked up as though I had all the time in the world. “Nice to meet you.”

         If either of us—Truck or I—thought this was going to be easy, we had another think coming. Instead of returning my greeting, Cat crossed her arms in defiance as she looked from Truck to me. “High school, huh?”

         “Albemarle High.” I answered. “Class of ’71. I’m here for our reunion.”

         “Well that’s interesting.” Her voice rose in a challenge. “Because Truck didn’t graduate from high school.”

         “I know. He dropped out two weeks before graduation. A real shame. But it appears he did all right for himself despite not receiving his diploma.” I looked from Cat to Truck and smiled.

         “Well then.” Cat uncrossed her arms. “Where is Mr. Landon, Mrs. Landon.”

         I raised my chin. “Back in Orlando.” I paused for good measure as I plotted my next comeback. “Probably having dinner with our sons about right now.”

         Truck responded by standing and extending his hand to me, which I took as I, too, stood. “Gosh, Cat.” He all but pushed her to one side. “We’d love to stay and cat-chat, but I really need to get this old friend back to her car.”

         “Well, pardon me for living.” Cat sniffed. “When I saw your car, I simply thought you might be dining with our daughter.” She walked on our heels as we headed for the front. I noted one or two tables where the check presenter lay near one of the diners, which begged the question, why were we heading up front without ours?

         Of course the answer was obvious. Truck wanted away from his ex-wife. I couldn’t say I blamed him. Had Jason walked into the restaurant I would have made every effort to get out as quickly as possible, too.

         “Did he tell you,” Cat spoke from behind us, “that we have a daughter?”

         With that question, Truck stopped. Turned. Glowered in such a way that I had forgotten about. Or, if not forgotten, had not thought of in forever. “We were just talking about our children when you walked in, Catherine. Did you think I would run into a high school friend and not talk about Joey?”

         We had made it back to the front of the restaurant to where the maître’d stood with his mouth gaping and his eyes wide. “Mr. Hardy?”

         Truck tapped the maître’d station with the fingertips of one hand while the other tightened around mine and tugged. “Joseph, tell Leon I’ll call him tomorrow.”

         “Yes, sir, Mr. Hardy.”

         Truck turned to Cat. “I don’t know what you really intended,” he said through clenched teeth, “but please, have a calzone on me.” And with that, he whisked me out of the door as his ex-wife stood with a look that mimicked Joseph’s.

***

I didn’t speak until we reached Truck’s Jeep Grand Wagoneer, a vehicle with more bells and whistles than I ever thought possible in a car. It also boasted the softest leather seats I’d ever had the pleasure of sitting upon. But, right then, as in earlier, my mind wasn’t so much on the bells, the whistles, or the car. My mind was on the man in the driver’s seat, his grip on the wheel. “You didn’t pay.”

         “I’ll take care of it later.” He turned his head long enough to give me a wink as shadows from outside lights played between us. “As you can tell, I’m one of Leon’s best customers.”

         “Favorite, I believe he said.”

         Truck looked at me again, this time long enough to give me a half smile. “Look, Jeannie. Back there. I’m sorry for—”

         “Truck, no. Don’t apologize. You couldn’t have possibly predicted what would have happened. Catherine—or Cat—coming in like that.”

         His fingers flexed, then gripped the wheel again. “Not with her you can’t. For sure with her you can’t.”

         I fought the urge to smile. “I did notice that I was introduced only as a friend from high school.” And as Mrs. Landon, but I wouldn’t go there.

         Truck turned the car into the parking lot of the business. “Yeah, like I was going to tell her the truth about us. High school and Tortoise and all that.”

         This time, I failed to quell the smile. “And the guardian angel?”

         He rolled his car next to Trisha’s, then turned the gear knob to PARK and shut off the engine. “Man. I cannot believe you remember that guardian angel.” He unbuckled his safety belt, then turned to face me.

         I did the same, turning to him. “Remember it? I still have it.”

         He laughed. “You’re kidding.”

         I placed my hand on my heart. “Honest to Pete.”

         Truck ran his hand over his face, then leaned back against the door. “How come?” His brow furrowed. Beautifully.

         I shrugged. “I don’t know, really. I guess I—I just never wanted to let it go. Somehow, it—somehow it kept me connected to you.”

         “What in the world made you want to be connected to me, Miss Jeannie?” Adorable the way he teased, the way he toyed with my emotions by the mere glint in his eyes.

         “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Hardy. I guess you being my first love and all . . .”

         He laughed again. “Nah. That title went to Corbett.”

         I looked at him, giving him my full attention until his eyes met mine and understanding washed over him. “No.” I kept my voice soft but certain. “That’s your title. You’ve always known that.”

         He remained silent for several long seconds, his eyes studying mine, mine studying his, until he sat upright. “I best get you to your car so you can get back to Trisha’s.”

         Disappointment poured through my veins like hot lava. Until that moment I hadn’t completely thought through how the evening would end. I knew that it would, of course, I just didn’t know how. I also realized as he opened his car door, got out, and then walked around to my door, that I wanted to see him again. In fact, I wanted to see him again and again. The idea of flying back to Florida seemed almost ridiculous, as if I had no family there—no sons, no grandchildren, no home. Somehow, once again, it was just Truck and me and a thousand possibilities of where this relationship, doomed though it may be, might go.

         The door opened and Truck’s hand reached for mine to help me out. We walked in silence to the driver’s side of Trisha’s car, me adjusting my purse over my shoulder. Once we’d reached the short destination, I touched the keyless entry button, which set off a beep and two flashes from the headlights. The inside of Trisha’s car illuminated, and I popped open the door, but left it closed.

         “Thank you for tonight.” My voice shook. It had been a long time since I’d had a first date and I felt as awkward, even with a man I’d nearly given my life up for. “Even with our unexpected visitor, I had a good time.”

         He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, and then retrieved a business card. “My cell phone is on the back here.” He flipped it over so I could see the digits scrawled in handwriting I easily recognized. “I want you to text me when you get back to Trisha’s. Let me know you made it back okay.”

         I took the card and nodded.

         “And I had a good time, too.” He reached down and brushed his lips against my cheek. When he drew away, his eyes were misty and impossible to read. “Goodnight, Teach.”

         “Goodnight, Bubba,” I said, then got into the car and started it with a simple push of a button as he gently closed the door.

         I cried all the way back to Trisha’s.

Chapter Twenty

I waited until I’d showered and slipped into my pajamas and then between the sheets—arranging the top sheet and spread under my arms—before I texted the number Truck had given me, my fingers quivering over the phone’s tiny keyboard.

            I’M BACK.

Clean. Simple. To the point.

            When Truck didn’t respond within a half-second, I added: AND I HAD A GOOD TIME.

            A long minute later I received his return text.

ME TOO. AND I’M GLAD YOU MADE IT BACK. TOOK LONGER THAN I THOUGHT. HAD STARTED TO WORRY.

I smiled at the thought of Truck worrying over me, then realized I had purposely caused him concern, which didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t that kind of woman. At least I hoped I wasn’t.

SORRY. I GOT READY FOR BED BEFORE I TEXTED. SHOULD HAVE LET YOU KNOW SOONER.

I waited. Staring at the dimming face of my phone, I waited. A moment later, a wickedly smiling emoji popped onto the screen followed by:

SO YOU ARE IN BED ALREADY?

Heat rushed to my face. Still, I somehow burrowed myself farther under the covers.

YES. YOU?

Truck didn’t answer for the longest space between texts ever recorded in the history of time. Finally:

YES. Then: CAN I CALL U? NOW I MEAN.

I smiled.

YES, I typed, then turned the volume to its lowest setting.

My phone rang. I flipped onto my side, pulled the covers over my head, then scrunched underneath before I answered. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and beat.

Why did I feel like we were in high school again? Why did I feel that, instead of a cell phone at my ear, my princess phone, baby pink in color, was pulled up against me, the built-in light illuminating the rotary dial while casting a glow around me? Why were the old emotions of trying to swim against the tide—and wanting to swim against the tide—once again washing over me? “Bubba?”

“Jeannie, listen—”

“Did I do something wrong? Earlier tonight?”

“No. Gosh, no, Jeannie. Listen—”

I breathed out. “I’m listening.”

“You gotta know—when Cat came in—Jeannie, I felt like—”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want—listen. I don’t want you to get caught up in her drama. You know? Not that you will. You’ll be heading back to Florida soon, right?”

I closed my eyes and smiled. Even more this felt like high school. And, wonder of wonders, I welcomed it. Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t want to go back? Right the wrongs while reliving the beautiful moments? “Truck—”

“So, how long are you in town for, Jeannie?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have a return flight, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then?”

How could I tell him all the things I was thinking? All the emotions rising inside me? “I was thinking that . . .” When it came to my return flight, just what was I hoping for? That he would want me to delay it? That in that delay, we could see each other again. And, in seeing each other, that we might finish what we’d started and ended in high school? Which was exactly what? What had we started all those years ago? Maybe high school was like Vegas—what happened there, stayed there.

“What were you thinking, Jeannie?” he asked, stirring me from my thoughts.

“I was thinking about calling Southwest. Postponing my flight. I’ll have to talk to Trisha and Earl first, of course, but . . .”

His sigh reached through the phone and covered me in gooseflesh. But was that a good sigh or one spent in resignation?

            “Would that be all right with you?”

            He didn’t answer right away. Then: “More than all right. But Jeannie?”

            “Yes?”

            Again, he kept me waiting until he answered with, “Nothing.”

            “Bubba?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Do you want to see me again?”

            “More than anything. I just don’t—”

            I waited until I worried that we’d been disconnected somehow. “Hello?”

            “I’m here. What I—what I meant to say is that I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt again. Ever.”

            “How could I?” I asked the questions as if  I didn’t know the answer. The myriad of answers. Even curled up under the covers in Trisha’s guest bedroom, my brain ticked off the list that began the summer after our breakup as seniors and ended with Jason and Tiffany and their unborn child. A baby who would be brother or sister to my sons. An uncle or aunt to my grandchildren.

            “You don’t know Catherine.”

            “And she doesn’t know me.”

            He chuckled. “No, she doesn’t. The way you popped back with ‘having dinner with our sons’ or whatever you said. That was something like the old Jeannie, right there.” Then, after another heart-thumping moment, “Hey—”

“Hey.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

            “Promise?”

            “On my life.”

            On his life. A life that, until two days ago, I hadn’t known for sure still existed. “Goodnight, Bubba.”

            “Goodnight, Teach,” he said. “Jeannie?”

            “Yes?”

            “Tonight. I think—I know—I got a little scared. It wasn’t you. It was me.”

            I had grown warm under the sheet and spread, so I peeked my face into the cooler air of Trisha’s guest bedroom. “Scared of what?”

            “Honestly?”

            “Yes. Always.”

            “You.”

            I turned onto my back again so that I lay as I had when the call started. “I’m scary?”

            “Yeah. You are.”

            I closed my eyes. Overhead, the ceiling fan whirred in a methodic rhythm, cooling my face. “You, too, you know.”

            He chuckled again. “That’s good to know. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

            If I’d been standing, I would have fainted. I would have swooned like one of those ladies from the old black and white movies I’d, over the years, come to enjoy. But instead, I took in a deep breath and said, “Goodnight, Mr. Hardy.”

***

My eyes squinted open later that morning; so late, in fact, that the room nearly danced in sunlight. I groaned as I reached for my phone to gauge the time—11:09.

By the time I readied myself for the day, the morning had changed to afternoon, a fact Earl noted when he met me in the foyer on my way to the kitchen.

            “Good afternoon.”

            “Very funny, Corbett.”

I slipped past him as, from over the staircase, Trisha’s concerned voice stopped me. “Jeannie?”

            I looked up and over my shoulder. “Hey there. How was the reunion?”

            She had dressed in a pair of denim, knee-length frayed shorts and a loose-fitting tee but her feet were bare. “Hold on,” she said before darting down the hallway and into their room, then back out. “I had to put my sandals on.” She bound down the stairs. “Earl,” she said to her husband who hadn’t moved, “go find something to do.”

            He laughed. “God help us.” He left as Trisha looped our arms together and steered me toward the kitchen.

            “Coffee?”

            “Please. And tell me everything about how it went last night.”

            Her palms gently pushed me toward the breakfast nook as she headed for the Keurig. “Oh, no. You first.” She placed a pod into the receptacle, then pushed the lid down. “I want every detail and don’t you dare leave a millisecond out.”

            “Where should I begin?”

            She pointed at me. “Wait. Do you want a bagel? Cream cheese? We have strawberry and plain. Oh, and Earl is taking us to a late lunch, but I know you’ve got to be hungry. Are you hungry?”

            My stomach growled in response and we both laughed. “I guess that’s a yes,” I said.

            Trisha set about preparing my breakfast. “Let’s start with the most important question.”

            “Which would be?”

            Trisha huffed, a fist on her hip, then pulled the coffee mug from the Keurig and brought it to me. “You know, Jeannie, you can be so frustrating. Just for that, you can get your own coffee fixings.”

            I laughed at her antics as I stood for the refrigerator and sugar bowl. “I guess you want to know how the night ended.”

            The bagel popped out of the toaster, and she dropped it onto a plate, which she brought to the table. “Did you get the cream cheese?”

            “Right here.”

            We sat across from each other, both of us sighing. “You know,” I observed, stirring sugar and half-n-half into my coffee, “only women can keep up with the conversations of women.”

            “Earl says listening to us talk is like trying to follow a spaghetti noodle in a plateful of spaghetti noodles.”

            I nearly spat out my coffee. “True.” I returned the mug to the table. “No kiss, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

            “None?” Whether aghast or relieved, I couldn’t be sure.

            I tapped my cheek with my index finger. “Right here.”

            Her cheek rested in the palm of her hand. “That may be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

            Silent, I slathered the bagel with cream cheese. No, the most romantic thing ever had been his admitting to a fear that equaled my own—his fear, and his desire for me to stay.

Chapter Twenty-one

I stood at the bathroom vanity, staring at my reflection as I brushed my teeth. Periodically, I closed my eyes; they burned from exhaustion. How could so much have happened in such a short period of time?

            While rinsing my dishes in the sink and placing them in the dishwasher, I’d asked Trisha about staying a while longer. She nearly came out of her skin with excitement. “Shouldn’t you make sure Earl is okay with it?” I asked.

            She answered me with a squeal and a hug. “Oh, come on, Jeannie. You know how Earl feels about you.”

            In truth, I did not. I stepped back from Trisha and crossed my arms. “Trisha, I broke up with Earl to date Truck, remember? Quite the scandal back then. If I stay, it’s to date Truck again. You cannot ignore that or how Earl may feel about it.”

            “Jeannie.” Her voice filled with both sighs and exuberance. “That was a long, long time ago.”

            “Then I’ll call Southwest and see what I can do.”

            Which I did, placing me on a “hold longer than twenty minutes” and “in the queue to have my call returned.” Naturally, just as I swooshed mouthwash along freshly brushed teeth, my phone rang. I spit so fast I nearly choked, then answered.

            Within minutes, I’d managed to change my return flight to an open-ended date.

I sat on the end of my bed in a room I’d call my own for the next who-knew-how-long, took a deep breath and called my oldest son, the one most likely to handle my news without flipping out.           

            “Hey, Mom,” Patrick answered.

            “Paddy, my boy,” I said, trying my best to pull off an Irish accent.

            He chuckled as good naturedly as possible. “How goes it?”

            I walked to the bed and sat on its edge. “It goes,” I said.

            “Did you enjoy the reunion? You’re not back, are you? I thought you were flying back tomorrow.”

            “No.” I crossed and then uncrossed my legs. “I mean, yes. Tomorrow. And, well, the part of the reunion I went to was good. And—uh—the part I didn’t go to was . . . also good.”

            “What does that mean? The part you didn’t go to.”

            “Hey, are you busy? Because this might take a minute.”

            “We’re getting ready to head over to Seth and Megan’s. We’re going to let the kids swim and stuff and then we’ll cook out later.”

            I smiled. The fact that my sons were more than brothers—they were best buds, really—warmed my heart. And that my daughters-in-law got along like sisters, the grandkids like siblings—this said something, at least, for the way Jason and I had raised them. “Should I call back later?”

            “No. Go ahead. You sound like you have something on your mind.”

            “I do.” I stood and walked to one of the windows, then gazed between the slats of the plantation blinds. Outside, Earl stood in the middle of the yard, carefully tending to some tea roses, his back to me. “But this may take a few minutes.”

            “Mom,” he chuckled. “You’re starting to scare me. You’re not planning to move back up there, are you? Because I gotta tell you, the kids—”

            “No. No, no, no. But . . .” I took another deep breath and released it. “Okay. Here’s the story: when I was in high school, my senior year, I dated Earl—”

            “The man you’re staying with while you’re up there? Earl-and-Trisha-Earl? Oh, my gosh, Mom. What are you saying? Have you two hooked up or something?”

            My son’s near-horrified voice almost made me laugh. “Gracious, no, Patrick. For heaven’s sake, don’t you know me better than that?”

            “Whew. Okay, so some other Earl.”

            “No-no. I was dating this Earl, but it was nothing, really. Friends.” I took a breath. “Mainly.” I glanced out the window again as the subject matter of this part of the conversation began to toss something—Miracle-Gro?—around the thorny bushes. “Anyway, we were dating and then we broke up because I met this guy who also went to school with us. His name was Truck.”

            “Truck? What kind of name is Truck?”

            “A nickname. Work with me, son. Truck was sort of a—” How did I explain Truck to my oldest son, a man who was as conservative as his father? Or, as conservative as his father used to be. “Hey, do you remember when Dad and I took you and Seth to see the revival of Grease?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, Truck was sort of a blend between Danny and Kenickie.”

            “Mom, please do not tell me that back in high school you were like Rizzo.”

            “Goodness, no. I was Sandy. Sort of. I mean, I never really smoked or put on black leather pants and danced around in a carnival, that kind of thing. I was the Sandy before all that.”

            “Good to know.”

            I turned away from the window, knowing there had been the nights I’d gone with Truck to race Tortoise. “But I was very much in love with Truck Hardy. And then, right before graduation, it all came to an end in a sad, Shakespearian kind of way.”

            “Young love, huh?”

            “Mmm.” By now I had returned to sit on the edge of the bed again. “Yeah, well, for years I had no idea what had happened to Truck until I—until I came here. And I found him again … and last night we went out on a date . . . and it was wonderful . . . and I’ve decided to stay here a little while longer. Just a little while to, you know, see where all this might go. Where it might lead. I mean, it may not lead anywh—”

            “Okay. Wait-wait-wait.” There was a pause, talking in the background. My daughter-in-law’s voice, low with whispered urgency. “Clare, give me just a second, okay. Tell the girls I’ll be out ready in two shakes, that I’m talking to Mimi.” Then, “Mom, are you—I mean, is he still a Danny and Kenickie.”

            I laughed. Hard. Maybe too hard, my nerves a raw ball of worry. “Gracious, no. He’s a businessman. Successful.”

            Again, my words were met with a pause. Then, “So, are you calling to ask permission or something? Because, quite honestly, you don’t need my permission to stay up there a few extra days so you can date your old boyfriend. For heaven’s sake, with all Dad has put us through, this is like cotton candy.”

            Relief pulsed through me. One down. One to go. “How do you think Seth will react?”

            “You know Seth. He’ll get a little blown up and bothered by it at first. But if this thing were to continue and you were to say something absolutely insane like you’re getting married and moving up there, well, then you’ll have both of your sons to deal with.”

            I shook my head. “No one is talking about getting married and moving.” No one except, perhaps, Jason and Tiffany. Not that I was going to say that.

            “Good to know, because, quite frankly, having one parent acting like a juvenile is enough. You know what I mean?”

            My brow furrowed. “Mmm. So I guess your dad told you his news.”

            Patrick released a sigh of exasperation. “Let’s not even talk about it right now. Besides, I really gotta go. The girls could be planning a takeover from the sounds of things out there. I’m not sure, but glitter may be involved . . .”

            I chuckled. “Give them a big squeeze from Mimi.”

            “I will.”

            “And, uh—Paddy, will you tell Seth for me?”

            “After I get a couple of beers in him.”

            I crossed my arms and tried not to allow the nerves to tighten back into that ball. “What will you say? Tell me quickly so the girls don’t start that revolution.”

            “That’s easy. I’ll tell him our mother is Sandy, our new daddy is Danny, and let’s be glad this didn’t happen sooner or there’d be a whole bunch of little Kenickies running around.”

            I stood. “Patrick Landon!”

            “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll break it to him gently. Whatever conservative spirit I got was sliced in half in that baby boy of yours.”

            “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

            “Bye, Mom.”

            I ended the call, then sent Truck a text. I HAVE CHANGED MY FLIGHT, I typed. I hesitated before hitting SEND, wondering if I should wait until he called as he said he would. “Oh, just go for it, Jeannie,” I said. My thumb pressed the right-facing arrow.

            A few seconds later, I received the return text. THERE IS A GOD.

            I pressed my hand against my chest. “Yep,” I said aloud, even as I typed the word.

            WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?

            I smiled as I returned with ABOUT TO GO TO LUNCH WITH TRISH AND EARL.

            I tapped my foot as I waited.

            DINNER WITH ME TONIGHT?

            I grinned. WILL CATHERINE JOIN US LIKE SHE DID LAST NIGHT? 🙂

            I’LL MAKE SURE SHE DOESN’T.

            My smile grew wider. YOU’RE NOT GOING TO HAVE HER KILLED, ARE YOU?

            NOT TODAY. HOW ABOUT I COME TO YOU THIS TIME?

            EAT HERE? IN TOWN?

            SURE. JUST NEED TO KNOW WHERE TO PICK YOU UP.

            Truck coming face to face with Earl and Trisha after all these years . . . I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. OR I CAN MEET YOU SOMEWHERE.

            NO MA’AM. MY MAMA RAISED ME BETTER THAN THAT.

            I chewed on my bottom lip for a second before responding. ALL RIGHT, MR. HARDY.

            ADDRESS?

            7549 N. MAPLE LANE

            I’LL GPS IT. SEE YOU AT 7:30?

            SEE YOU THEN.

Chapter Twenty-two

Trisha and I took one car while Earl took another to lunch so that afterward she and I could go shopping. With my stay extended, I needed a few additions to my wardrobe.

            “You know you can borrow anything I have, right?” Trisha asked as we breezed into one of the anchor stores at the local mall.

            “I know,” I said with a pat to my purse, “but part of Jason’s alimony is to keep my Visa card paid off.”

            Trisha stopped directly in front of a display of fluffy bathroom towels to gape at me. “Couldn’t that be horribly dangerous? For Jason, I mean?”

            I pulled her toward the centrally located escalators over which a Ladies Wear / Lingerie Upstairs sign indicated direction. “I’ve never once abused it. You know me better than that.”

            “Actually I don’t. I used to, but I can’t really say I know you as well now.”

            We stepped onto the escalator, and I gripped the rubbery handrail. “I made a deal with Jason to never go over a certain limit and I never have. Besides, after what he put me through, he should basically pay me to breathe.”

            Trisha laughed as we stepped off the escalator and directly to the casualwear section of the floor but then sobered. “I shouldn’t laugh. I’m really sorry for all he did to you.”

            I walked straight to a rack of INC dresses, Trisha right behind me. “I survived it.”

            “Still … if Earl ever did anything like that—”

            Her words stopped me as I had slid Size 6s from right to left. “Earl wouldn’t,” I said, remembering then how I had skipped out on Earl when we were in high school to date Truck. But Earl would never have done that to me. Not first, anyway. Once Truck and I had become an item, Trisha made her move, Earl bit into the proverbial apple and the rest, for them, was history.

            And it was a good history. They were right for each other in ways Earl and I could never have been. I hadn’t known it at the time, but there had always been a rebel streak in me. Before Truck, I had been the compliant daughter, sister, student, and friend. After Truck came into my life, he blew all that to kingdom come and back again. After Truck, I never once dated the “good ole boy.” My boyfriends after him all had their reckless side, never falling into the neatly drawn lines of propriety. Jason had been my first trip back to what my parents and Ben called “sensible sanity.”

            In all honesty—and if I couldn’t be honest with myself, then who could I be, I reasoned as I slid a maroon wrap dress across the chrome bar—my life could easily be divided into two parts: before Truck and after Truck. One part is calm and predictable and the other exciting and impulsive.

            “What are you thinking about?”

            I shook my head and forced a smile as I glanced behind her shoulder. “That I’m not finding anything here I like. I think I’ll go over to that section over there.”

            And, with that, we were off to stock my “back home” wardrobe.

            We left four hours later with our arms loaded with packages and my credit card allowance near its max.

***

“Promise me,” I said with a point of my finger toward Earl, “that you will exudegentlemanly behavior when Truck arrives.”

            “Exude?” He stood in front of the television watching, ah yet, another game. He held the remote in one hand, which he raised to lower the volume. “What kind of word is exude?”

            “One you know full well,” I said, my arms now crossed. “I’m serious, Earl Corbett.”

            “I know you are. I just don’t know if I can exude gentlemanly behavior when it comes to . . .” He swallowed hard. Like cartoon-character hard. “Truck Hardy.”

            “He’s not the same Truck we knew in high school.”

            Earl plopped into what I realized was his favorite chair. “I didn’t know him in high school, Jeannie. Remember? You were the only one in our little group who knew him.” He flung the recliner back and crossed his ankles. “How’d that work out for you again? I can’t remember.”

            Trisha breezed into the room about that time, bringing a foaming beer to her husband. “Earl Corbett. I will hurt you and hurt you good if you are anything but kind. Whatever Truck may or may not have been in high school is not who he is or is not today. We have Jeannie’s word on that and I—” She thumped Earl’s head. “—believe her.”

            “Owww.” Earl rubbed his head. “She brings me a beer with one hand and thumps my head with the other.”

            “I’ll do more than thump your head if you don’t behave,” she smarted back.

            Earl nearly spewed the sip of beer he’d just inhaled. “Oh, baby,” he teased.

            I rolled my eyes and cleared the room, Trisha behind me. “What are you wearing tonight?” she asked as we started down the hall toward my room. “Show me.”

            “I was thinking the Adrianna Papell jumpsuit.”

            “The black and white number?”

            I nodded.

            Trisha grabbed my arm. “I have a necklace and earring set perfect for it. Go lay it out on the bed, and I’ll be right back.”

            And, with that, she darted up the stairs.

***

Trisha insisted that she be the one to answer the door. Earl being Truck’s first encounter with our past was out of the question. And she wanted me to make a grand entrance, especially seeing how “put together” I looked in the white jumpsuit with the black sleeveless overlay, the black and white strappy sandals, and her black and white diamond lotus necklace and earrings. She’d also decided I just had to add a hammered sterling silver bangle.

            I had to admit, the whole look was smart.

            Even Earl, who’d now consumed a couple of beers along with a huge bowl of nachos with cheese dip, gave me an approving whistle. One I hoped didn’t bother his wife. If it did, she surely didn’t indicate it.

            When the front doorbell rang, Trisha all but kicked Earl’s chair into an upright position before scooting me to back to my room. “Give us five to seven minutes,” she muttered from behind me. “Then make your grand entrance.”

            “Five to seven,” I said over my shoulder. “Got it.”

            “Not four and not eight,” she countered. “Five to seven.”

            I giggled, then went into my room and closed the door with a click. While I waited the five-to-seven, I took a final look in the mirror, then retrieved my purse from where I’d left it on the bed, opening it to peer inside long enough to check for the essentials—my compact, my lip gloss, my phone. I then went back to the door, opening it without fanfare. I stuck my head out, listening.

            Earl and Truck were carrying on a conversation about football that traveled down the hallway on the wings of testosterone.

            I opened the door wider, stepped into the hallway, then closed the door as quietly as I had opened it. Moments later I rounded into the family room to find Earl still in his chair and Truck relaxed on one of the sofas. He had one arm slung over the back while the hand of the other loosely held a glass of what appeared to be scotch on the rocks.

            Well, now.

            He stood as soon as he saw me, and Earl did the same—the exuding gentleman playing his part. “Wow,” Truck said, a single breath leaving him. “Jeannie. Look at you.”

            “Look at you,” I said. Again, he surprised me, dressed in a casual but appropriate suit. I supposed that, for a season, I would always expect Truck to only wear blue jeans and tee shirts, both with grease stains.

            “You make me look like something the cat drug in.”

            “I have to agree with you,” Earl added.

            When I gave him a grimace, he chuckled. “Trisha went upstairs for a sec. Said for you to wait right here.”

            I could hear her footsteps descending the staircase seconds before she swept back into the room, a lacy shawl draped over one arm. “I thought you might need this,” she said, handing it to me. Then she looked from Earl to Truck and back to Earl. “Did I miss anything?” She stepped closer to her husband.

            “Only a mutual admiration society thing going on between these two,” Earl answered as his arm went around her waist. “So, where are you taking our girl tonight?”

            Three pair of eyes immediately shifted to him.

            “What?” he asked.

            “Our girl?” Trisha asked, mirth playing at the corners of her mouth. “Who is the our here, Earl?”

            Earl’s face shaded deep crimson. As the three of us began to laugh, he answered, “Open mouth, insert foot.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked as the GPS in Truck’s car—different from the Wagoneer—instructed him to turn left at the intersection.

            “I do.” He smiled from behind the steering wheel before patting the dashboard, just over the navigation map. “And fortunately, Bertha does, too.”

            “Bertha?”

            “Never owned a car I didn’t name. This one is Bertha.”

            I tucked one foot behind an ankle and shifted a little toward the driver’s side. “Why Bertha?”

            “This, my dear, is a Cadillac CT5.”

            I ran my hand along the creamy-soft leather seat beside me. “And quite nice.” I pointed to the dashboard. “The only thing missing from a car you drive is a pack of Lucky Strikes.”

            Truck laughed out loud. “Gave those up. Had to.”

            “Thank the good Lord for small miracles.” Personally, I’d never seen the attraction to cigarettes. Then again, I could hardly imagine the Truck I had known without them.

            “Those things will kill ya.”

            Concern grew inside of me. “Did you—?”

            He glanced over. “Heart attack? No. I had to give them up when we had Joey. Catherine was not having that baby’s father blowing smoke in the house or anywhere near her little girl.” He winked at me. “To be honest, I felt the same way. It’s one thing to kill yourself slowly over time. It’s another when it’s your lifeline.”

            “Well, then Catherine gets one gold star.” I said, my words nearly muted by the system’s instructions again. “So, you named the car Bertha because . . .”

            “My grandmother owned a Cadillac back in the day. Not quite as nice as this one, but a Caddy all the same.”

            I was beginning to understand Truck’s reasoning. “And your grandmother’s name was Bertha?”

            He reached over to playfully sock my chin. “She catches on quickly.”

            I laughed again. “Okay, so where are we going?”

            “The Salty Dog. It’s owned by a guy I know. A little hole in the wall café but they have the best Reubens served on rye with to-die-for Russian dressing.” He glanced at me before returning his attention to the road where a traffic light changed from yellow to red. “If you like Reubens,” he said, slowing the car to an easy stop.

            “I’m a fan of anything that includes kraut.”

            The light changed from red to green and Truck eased us back into the flow of traffic. “Oh. Well then, just wait until I introduce you to my favorite hotdog vendor.”

            I pressed my hands to my cheeks. “Side of the road?”

            “You really do catch on quick.”

            I patted Truck’s shoulder. “You and I are going to get along just fine in the dining room and the kitchen.”

            Truck blinked several times. “I hope we get along fine no matter where we are,” he said, his voice a little lower than before.

            I faced forward, hoping my expectations weren’t showing in the blush I could feel all the way to my toes. We had come into town. “I expect we will.”

            He cleared his throat then as though he were about to say something but changed his mind.

            “Were you about to say something?”

            “Not really.” He nodded toward the right side of the road. “Here we are.”

            “You have arrived,” the navigator announced in the British feminine voice he’d chosen.

            I pointed to the dashboard. “If you knew where you were going, why did you enter the address?”

            “Habit.” He opened his door to get out.

            I waited for him to come to my side of the car and, once he had opened my door, I swung out, holding on to his arm for balance. He closed the door, looked down at me, forcing my eyes to his. Once they’d found each other, his gaze went to where my hand remained. I started to move away, but he stopped me by placing his hand on mine. “I like the feel of your hand on my arm. And I like the idea of you by my side.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek. “Make no mistake, Miss Jeannie, no one will interrupt our dinner tonight.”

***

He wasn’t kidding.

            As soon as we walked in, a man wearing a camo do-rag on his head and sporting more tattoos up and down his arms than I ever imagined possible walked from the back of the narrow café to the door where we stood, acclimating to the semi-darkness inside. On both sides of the room heavy, oak four-top tables lined the walls, almost all filled to capacity. A few had only two or three seated, and the room buzzed with conversation and the strains of a classic piece of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

            “There you are,” the man said.

            Again, as the night before, the man and Truck exchanged a hearty hug and back-clap before separating. Truck turned to me. “Drake, this is Jeannie. Jeannie, Drake. He owns this most wonderful establishment.”

            Drake, a man who looked as though life had treated him as badly as it had well, turned to me, smiled a crooked smile, then clapped Truck again. “Only because this man believed in me.”

            I smiled but without understanding. “Nice to meet you. I hear good things about your Ruebens.”

            “Best in town,” Drake answered, then chuckled.

            “Got a table for me?” Truck asked.

            “Don’t I always?” He winked at me as though I were in on a joke. “Right this way.”

            We passed between the rows of tables, then beyond a bar area to a closed back door, which Drake opened to reveal a small, quiet room. A single table stood in its center and, all around, light from wall sconces flickered like dancing candlelight along the heart of pine paneling.

            I stepped into the room first, noting the antique sideboard against one wall where an open bottle of red wine with two stemmed glasses stood atop a silver tray. Over it hung an oversized painting depicting hunting dogs in pursuit. Riders wearing white breeches and red coats who sat atop glistening quarter horses followed behind in a forested landscape. Other complementary paintings hung from other walls, but nothing as breathtaking as this one. I stood before it, nearly gawking.

            “This is impressive,” I whispered as though I’d just walked into a holy sanctuary to view a painting of Christ’s Passion.

            “This is one of my favorite places,” Truck said from behind me, his voice equally quiet. “The food, this room—”

            I turned. “Our own private dining room?”

            “Nothing but the best for our Truck,” Drake said.

            “Thank you, Drake,” Truck said, almost dismissively. Then, with a chuckle, “Two Ruebens, seasoned fries, and a couple of pickle spears a piece. And bring us two waters if you will.”

            “Naomi will be right in.” Drake offered another wink before nodding toward the sideboard. “Got your wine there for you.”

            “Thank you,” Truck said again. “I’ll handle it from here.”

            Drake left us, closing the door away from the diners and the noise of conversations. Even the music faded, replaced by an instrumental. I stepped around Truck, who then began to pour the wine, to study the other paintings. In reality, I was only nominally interested, but I needed some space between him and me. Between what I was trying to understand and what I already did.

            “Here you go,” he said, and I turned.

“Thank you.” I took the goblet he extended toward me, then tilted it toward his until the rims tinged.

“To you, Jeannie, and to old friends and new friendships.”

“I like that.” I took a sip of the bold red wine. “Delicious.” I raised my chin to look him head-on. “Truck, tell me the truth.”

Truck took his own sip of wine, then placed both of our glasses on the table before extending his arms. “Dance with me,” he said ignoring my plea. I readily stepped into his arms.

“The last time we did this,” he said, “was prom.”

The memory crashed into me like a death wish. The first part of the night had gone well—me in my purchased yellow-dotted swiss dress and him in his rented tuxedo—until he told me he’d dropped out of school. We’d fought. Then he danced with Trisha of all people, not dancing with me at all. And then we fought some more until his goony friends—Ray being one of them—showed up to cause a scene, one that led the chaperones to force them to go. Truck and I weren’t far behind them, him storming out with me running behind him. Prom night—that evening I’d dreamt of every day of senior year—and I had enjoyed less than five seconds of it.

“We didn’t dance at prom,” I reminded him.

“Sure we did,” he said against my hair.

“You danced with Trisha, not me.”

He stopped swaying and stepped back, his brow drawn together. “Are you sure?”

I raised my brow. “Positive. If I remember any one thing about that night, it’s what didn’t happen.”

Truck’s smile started slowly, growing until it reached his eyes. They crinkled in the dim light, making me want to run a fingertip along the lines. “I guess I’m just remembering what did.”

Blessedly, the door opened and a young woman sporting a jet-black ponytail entered, carrying two glasses of water. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hardy. Your sandwiches will be in shortly.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“Saved by the waitress.” I stepped away from Truck and closer to the table where I picked up my wine glass and took a healthy sip. “Do you have a seating preference, Mr. Hardy?”

            “A seating preference?”

The waitress left the room, pulling the door behind her but not shutting it all the way.

            “Jason—my ex—always insisted on sitting where he could see what might be going on outside.”

            “Protecting you.” Truck pulled out the chair closest to the door for me. “I get that. I wouldn’t be surprised if most men didn’t think like that.”

            I looked up at him, observing the way he moved to his chair, the ease in which he slid it out, sat, and then scooted forward to lean his forearms against the table. Warmth slid through my veins and arteries and not from the wine. Truck Hardy would think in those terms. “Well,” I said as I made a bit of a show out of unfolding the burgundy linen napkin that lay like a scroll before me, “in Jason’s case he was probably watching the door to make sure none of his extracurricular activities walked in.”

            Truck winced. “Like last night.”

            “Cat is your ex-wife, not your on-the-side.” I placed the napkin in my lap, allowing it to drape on both sides of my legs before I crossed them and leaned back. “There’s a very big difference.”

            “I cannot for the life of me imagine any man running around on you, Jeannie.” He shook his head as I opened my mouth to retort. “No, I mean it.” He stood, retrieved the wine, and topped off our glasses. “Some men just don’t know what they have.” He left the bottle on the table between us. “I should know.”

            He should. After all, he also had thrown me away. “We were kids, Bubba.”

            A deep blush rushed from his collar to his hairline. “Love is love.”

            I looked down, straightened the silverware as though it needed to be. “Thank you for that.”

            “You’re welcome.” He raised his wine glass, and I did the same.

The door bumped open behind me. Our sandwiches had arrived, stopping us from saying anything more. Words we may have been thrilled to have shared . . . or sorry to have blurted out.

***

Truck held my hand on the way to his car and then, once we were both inside and seat-belted, he reached for it again. His, large and warm, tenderly holding my smaller one recalled emotions from way back. Reactions that butterfly-danced in my chest the way they had in high school. Love. Protection. Just as he’d expounded on earlier. When I was with Truck Hardy there wasn’t a single thing to be afraid of . . . except how I felt about Truck Hardy.

            That hadn’t changed either.  The incantation he’d spoken over me almost a half century ago, he had cast on me again. But now I was older. Wiser, surely. I had lived nearly a complete life. We weren’t quite in our golden years, but the heat from its fire grew warm, which meant acting like teenagers was out of the question.

            Right?

            “Do you want to listen to some music?” Truck asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

            I smiled at him. “Sure.”

            His thumb moved deftly along the steering wheel, pushing first one button and then another until the interior filled with a tune from the 70s. I smiled again as I laid my head back and closed my eyes. “Roberta Flack.” I spoke her name like a prayer. “Some things never change.”

            His hand squeezed mine so briefly I wondered if I’d imagined it. “No, ma’am. Some things don’t.”

            My purse vibrated. The spell now broken, I sat up, pulling my hand from Truck’s to reach for it. “Sorry. This might be my youngest son.” I hadn’t bothered to tell Truck that I’d spoken to Patrick as to the why of extending my stay, asking him to explain it to his brother.

            “No problem.”

            Caller ID and a lit photo of my brother, however, indicated that Ben was on the other end of the line. “Oh.”

            “Not your son?”

            “No.” The call went dead. Within seconds my phone vibrated again. “It’s Ben.”

            “Ben?” His voice let me know he’d forgotten my brother’s name. Or, perhaps, that I even had a sibling at all.

            “My brother.”

            “Oh yeah,” he said, both hands now on the wheel. He steered the car into Earl and Trisha’s neighborhood. “Go ahead.”

            I slid the green answer button from left to right, then held the phone to my ear. “Hey.”

            “Jeannie.” Ben’s voice was low. Serious. Dead serious. I didn’t have to wonder, especially with him using my proper name and not calling me Sheena as he usually did. I knew the progression of information. Patrick had told Seth of my reasons for staying. Seth had called Ben.

            “Hey,” I said again, this time with faux jubilance. “What’s up?”

            “You tell me.”

            I shot a smile at Truck as I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Oh, okay . . . Yeah, if it’s okay with you . . . sure . . . I’ll call you back as soon as I get to Trisha’s.”

            “Are you with him? Hardy?”

            The phone’s heat grew in intensity and the thought of getting brain cancer jumped into my already-addled thoughts. “Okay, then. I’ll call you back in less than a half hour.” I ended the call before Ben could answer.

            Truck’s eyes slid toward me as I turned off my phone and dropped it back into my purse. “Let me guess. He’s calling because he somehow found out who you’re out with tonight.”

            Heat shot through me, this time not from the wine and not from the phone. “He’s just—”

            “—a protective older brother.” He took my hand in his again, easing the embarrassment, not to mention the fear at the thought of having to return Ben’s call. “I’m the same way with Mary Lynn.” He grinned, letting me know that everything was all right. “Even though I’m a little brother.”

            “You’re not so little,” I teased, and he gave my hand another squeeze in return, then drove the car up Trisha’s driveway. Every window along the front of the house was dark save a glimmer of light illuminating the front door’s glass side panel. The porch glowed under a single lantern, a cluster of insects flitting around it. “I had a wonderful time tonight,” I said, which was mostly true. The memory of Trisha and Truck dancing at our high school prom and the call from Ben on the ride home notwithstanding.  

            “Me, too.” He raised my hand to his and kissed it. When I giggled, he asked, “What’s so funny?”

            “I was just thinking that, here I am, a woman in my sixties—”

“—not that you look it.”

“Flatterer.” I cleared my throat. “I’m on a date with my high school boyfriend of all people and he just kissed my hand.”

            A chuckle rumbled from deep in Truck’s throat. “And?”

            “And I got chills. Like a teenager gets chills.” I turned my face fully to his. His eyes widened for a moment before he hurriedly kissed my hand again, then released it to open his door. “Hold on.” He jumped out of the car, closed the door, then came around to my side in the gentlemanly way I’d—thanks to Jason—almost forgotten to expect from a man. “Let me walk you,” he said, looping my arm with his.

            Truck stopped when we reached the front steps. “Do you have a key?”

            “Oh. No.” I glanced at the door. “But I’ll bet Trisha left it unlocked.”

            “Let’s make sure.”

            We walked up the six brick steps to the wide front porch. He tried the knob, pushed, and the door popped open. “You were right.” The crinkles around his eyes returned and my desire to touch the lines right along with them. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

            “Okay.” I raised my chin. My eyes searched his, letting him know that if he wanted to kiss me, he could. But, once again, I received only the sweetest kiss on the cheek.

“Night, Teach.” He took the steps two at a time before his boots hit the brick walkway that curved from the drive.

            “Bubba?”

            He turned to look at me, seriousness lining his features.

            “Call me when you get home, okay? To let me know you made it.”

            “Call or text?”

            “Call.”

            The smile returned. “Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Twenty-five

I went straight to the liquor cabinet to search for something to calm my frayed nerves. But, after picking up first one choice and then another, I decided on a healthy bottle of water instead.

            Trisha found me standing in the dark at the kitchen sink, guzzling an eight-ounce glass of Fiji. “Hey,” she whispered. “Do you need some light?”

            After acknowledging her, I nodded toward the window. “Streetlamp is enough,” I said. It wasn’t that I particularly liked standing in the dark. Mainly, I wasn’t sure I wanted Trisha to see me in the condition my face might show.

            She took a glass out of the cabinet and poured water into it for herself. “How’d it go?”

            I forced a smile. “Good.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “We had dinner at The Salty Dog.”

            “I love that place.” She took a long swallow of her drink. “What’d you eat?”

            I cocked my head at her in a “Really? This is what you’re asking?”sort of way.

            “What?” She set her glass on the counter a little harder than it appeared she intended.

            “Reubens.”

            “I love their Reubens . . .what? What’s that look about?”

            I added water to my glass, then consumed it in three gulps. “Trisha, if I say what I’m probably about to say, will you keep it between us?

            Trisha blinked as though I’d slapped her. “Of course.”

            I set my glass in the sink. “Not a word to Earl.”

            Her head went from side to side in a swoosh.

            “There’s something that bothers me. No, not bothers me, really. I guess I’m just curious.” I turned to lean against the counter, then crossed my arms. “Actually, there are two things that have me curious.”

If Truck Hardy was the exact same as he had been in high school, then I would have no questions whatsoever and Trisha and I would have no need for conversation about it. But I found myself dealing with an entirely different man than the one I’d known so long ago.

            Trisha tapped my elbow. “Let’s go sit.” We glanced toward the bay window, where the moon—which hung like a lightbulb on the other side of the window—sent its heavenly glow over the table and tucked-in chairs.

            “Okay.” I nodded. “Sure.”

            “Talk to me,” she said once we’d settled. “Like when we were in high school. Just tell me what you’re thinking or feeling or all of the above.”

            I smiled at the sincerity of her words. A lot of years had passed since I’d had this kind of friendship. I had friends, yes, but we’d shared nothing like the heart-to-heart sessions Trisha and I once had over colas at the local dive or while sitting cross-legged on our bedroom floors, bottles of nail polish between us.

            “Last night, when we went out to eat over in Florence, the owner acted like he knew Truck—”

            “—well, of course.”

            “No, I mean . . . like they were the best of pals.” I leaned back in my chair to demonstrate. “You know that way men have of patting each other on the back when they hug?” I arched and my hands pounded the air.

            “Oh, yeah. Like brothers. Or teammates.”

            “Exactly.” I rested my hands in my lap. “Then, tonight, the same thing happened. Different restaurant, but the same vibe. I’m beginning to wonder . . .”

            “What? If Truck is like a business partner or something?”

            I sighed. “Good guess and yes. But that doesn’t line up with the lone wolf I used to know.”

            Trisha raised her hand, index finger extended toward the ceiling. “I have an idea. A, you could ask him, or B, we can go to the internet.”

            I had to think about my options for a moment. Going to the internet seemed like such an invasion of privacy and I said so. Trisha quickly came back with a reminder that whatever was on the internet was public knowledge.

“Hold on.” She left the room, returning with her laptop after a few minutes, which she placed on the table and opened. I crossed the room while she typed away, her professionally manicured nails clicking on the keys. When I returned with both our glasses half filled with Fiji, she looked up at me and smiled.

“I have the knowledge.” She sounded like something out of a 1970s television show. “I can share it.” She raised a brow. “Or I can shut this laptop and keep the information to myself. Up to you.”

            I set the glasses on the table, then sat. I stared at her for a long minute before saying, “Tell me.”

            “Both businesses are co-owned by David Hardy Smith & Associates.”

            “That’s Davey. His nephew” My hand clutched my water glass. “That’s right. Ray told me that all of Truck’s business dealings are through his nephew.”

            “Well, that’s—okay. There’s more.” Her face nearly gloated.

“What?”

            “There’s more,” she repeated.

            “I heard you the first time, Trisha. What do you mean, more?”

            “More businesses. I can tell you every business that man—or his nephew—has his fingers in.” She reached for her glass, took a sip, then added, “His fingers or his money.”

            I shifted my chair for a better look as she angled the laptop toward me. “Ray said something about him owning some convenience stores.”

            Trisha pointed at the screen, to an enterprise in Davey’s name. “They’re a pretty big deal around here. Davey’s. You can get gas, shop for all kinds of useless things, shower, sleep, eat … very popular with truck drivers.”

            “I’ve seen them, but I didn’t—” There was no need to say more. Convenience stores, an antique mall, restaurants. “The convenience stores and the antique mall . . . those sound like Truck. But restaurants. Nice restaurants?” I looked over at her. “He’s gone from the proverbial outcast to big man on campus.”

            Trisha closed out the screen. “And it only took forty-six years.” She paused. “He’s also co-owner of a local racetrack.”

“That I can believe.”

“Earl and I have never gone out there, but our sons have. They have all kinds of races. Kid’s cars, big people’s cars, those big trucks that get all muddy.”

I took another sip of water. “It’s like Broom Creek and Truck Hardy grew up and matured at the same time.”

“Brook Creek?”

“Never mind.”

She shrugged. “So, now you know. Ask him about it.”

            I stood and righted my chair. “I can’t ask him, Trisha. I can’t let him know I’ve looked into this.”

            Trisha stood, following suit. “Why not?”

            “Because.” I reached for our glasses. “Like I said a minute ago, it’s an invasion of privacy.” I placed the glasses in the sink. “Oh my gosh. I forgot. He’s calling—oh! And I’m supposed to call Ben.”

            “Ben, like your brother Ben?”

            I reached over and hugged her. “There’s more that I want to talk about. Let’s go out for breakfast in the morning. My treat.”

            “Can’t wait.”

I grabbed my purse from a chair in the foyer and dashed toward my bedroom.

***

I had six missed calls, one of them from Truck.

            “Hey,” his voice mail said. “I bet you forgot to turn your phone back on…” I didn’t wait to listen to the rest of his message. Instead, I clicked on the little phone icon at the top of the screen.

            Truck greeted me with a sleepy chuckle. “Was I right?”

            “Yes.” I plopped onto the bed and kicked off my shoes. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Don’t be. It happens. When did you figure it out?”

            “About a minute ago. Trisha and I were talking—”

            “Giving her the rundown of the evening?”

            Heat rushed over me. “Something like that. And drinking a lot of water. The food made me thirsty.” I would be in the bathroom all night, not that I would divulge that bit of information.

            Truck groaned as if he’d stretched or turned over in bed. I tried to picture him, then rushed the picture as far from my mind as possible. “Did you call Ben?”

            “No. And I’ve got five missed calls to prove it.”

            “Mmm. He must be worried.”

            “So am I,” I blurted.

            “Really? Now my curiosity is piqued. What exactly, Miss Jeannie, are you worried about?”

            I closed my eyes then squeezed them before remembering the lingering effects of squeezing one’s eyes, which I’d purchased ounces and ounces of creams to fight. “If you really want to know,” I said, forcing joviality into my voice, “you’ll just have to take me out again.”

            This time, Truck’s chuckle became a full-on burst of laughter. “Jeannie Travis. What happened to that reserved girl I used to know?”

            Now my eyes were wide open, not to mention my thoughts. I wanted to ask him where the bad boy I’d dated forty-six years ago had run off to. Instead, I said, “You probably heard. Got involved with some wild boy back in high school …”

            “Blaming me. Good one.” He yawned, but not loudly. “How about I grill us some steaks?”

            “When?”

            “Mmm—I have a meeting tomorrow night. How about the night after?”

            “Sounds perfect?”

            “Seven-thirty?”

            “Also sounds perfect. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope.”

“All right, then. Text me your address and I’ll bring myself.”

            “Couldn’t ask for more. Goodnight, Teach.”

            “Goodnight, Bubba.”

Chapter Twenty-six

I barely ended the call with Truck when my phone vibrated, alerting me that my brother was calling. Again.

            “Ben,” I said, my voice a sigh to let him know how sorry I felt for putting him off.

            “Sheena.” The concern in his tone was clear.

            “I know. I know.”

            “Did we not talk about this? Before you even left for the reunion?”

            “Yes, we did.” I spoke as quietly as possible, all the while wondering if my conversation could be heard through the ceiling and past the floor, then down the hall and into the master bedroom. Not that I was even one-hundred percent sure where the master bedroom began and ended.

            “And?”

            “And there are things you don’t know.”

            “I gotta tell you, Jeannie, when Seth called me—”

            Ah. Then I had been correct. Patrick had told Seth, followed quickly by Seth calling Ben. “Listen . . .”

            “I’m all ears.”

            “Ben . . . Truck is . . . well, you really won’t believe—”

            “Serving time?”

            “No,” I all but hissed.

            “Just got out of prison then?”

            “Would you stop it?” I sat up. “Hold on. I’m going to find my earbuds. I still need to take my makeup off, and you’ll just have to come into the bathroom with me.”

            “Oh, for the love of all that’s—by all means.”

            “Just hold on.” I busied myself by locating and then sticking in the earbuds. Once I heard the little beep that declared connection, I continued. “Okay. I’m here.”

            “And I’m still here. And annoyed. And your favorite sister-in-law is none too happy about how late it is either.”

            “Truck is rich.”

            Silence.

            “Hello?” I opened the jar of cold cream I snatched up from the vanity.

            A rumble of laughter tickled my ears. “I’m sorry. I think our call got somehow mixed up with someone else’s. Do party lines exist in the world of smartphones?”

            I rubbed the thick white goo in circular motions along my cheeks and the length of my nose, then over my forehead. “You think you heard wrong.” I wiped my fingers with a towel.

            “I know I heard wrong.”

            “Well, you didn’t.” I closed the toilet lid and sat on it, waiting for the cold cream to do its work, to penetrate the day’s layer of makeup. “At least, I think he’s rich.”

            “And you deduced this because he has a stolen Lamborghini in his garage?”

            I sat up straight, felt the muscles in my hips pull. I stood. Stretched. “Ben, if you’re not going to listen . . . if you’re going to be condescending . . .”

            He sighed so deeply, I heard it in stereo. “Go ahead.”

            “First . . . he owns a very large, very impressive, very successful—”

            “—halfway house.”

            I walked into the bedroom and plopped into a chair and crossed both my arms and legs simultaneously. “That’s it. I’m hanging up.”

            “Wait-wait-wait. Jeannie. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up and let you talk.”

            I waited a beat before continuing. “He owns an antique warehouse with 400 booths. A really big deal over in Florence. And it appears he has his hand—or his wallet—in a number of businesses around here.”

            “What do you mean, appears?”

            I explained to Ben what Trisha and I had uncovered earlier on the internet. “And . . . okay . . . I know this is going to sound ridiculous coming from a woman my age, but Ben we’ve been out a few times now and he hasn’t made a single pass. He held my hand and he kissed my cheek, but . . .”

            “The old Truck—”

            “—the old Truck would have been all over me by now. It’s like—I don’t know—like a hoodlum from high school has been replaced by a gentleman. A real, honest-to-goodness almost-seventy-year-old, still-handsome gentleman.”

            A pause passed. “I need time to think about all this.”

            “What’s to think about? This is my life, Ben.”

            “I know that, but . . . with Mom and Dad gone, I feel like—”

            “—like you’ve now got to parent me? Where were you when I married Jason?”

            Ben chuckled again. “Wait up, Sheena. Mom and Dad were alive when you met and married ole lover boy. I wasn’t responsible for you back then.”

            I smiled. “And you aren’t responsible for me now, big brother. I love you. I do. But this is one decision I’m going to have to make on my own.”

            “I’m sorry? What decision?”

            “I’ve extended my stay here. I want—I want to see where this leads. I owe it to myself. I owe it to Truck. And I owe it to the mess we made of things when we were kids.”

            “You hit the nail on the head, Jeannie.” His words came out sounding more “big brother” than I preferred. “You were kids.”

            “I know,” I said in a whisper. But I also knew that we had also been kids who thought we’d made a kid until nature revealed otherwise. “But I think I owe it—”

            “—what about what you owe to your boys? To your grandchildren who—as if you don’t know this—love their grandmother with everything they’ve got.”

            My heart ached then. Of course, I loved my boys. More than life itself I loved my grandchildren. I couldn’t imagine not seeing them in a regular routine. So what did I think would happen then? What if Truck and I pursued a relationship—a more-adult relationship? One not built solely on the hormones that had swirled and dipped and dove and then pulsated through our veins when we were too young to know what to do with them. Or too young to know but one thing to do with them. Back then, all they did was distract us from what we should have been focused on. What we should have been doing.

            “Let’s say,” Ben interrupted my thoughts as though he’d been a part of them, “that you and Truck decide to make another go of things. What are you going to do? Sell the house, leave Florida, and move back to our old hometown? You’re not going to do that, Jeannie, and you and I both know it. You’re not going to leave those kids.”

            I pressed my lips together.

            “And, if what you’re telling me about Truck is true, if he’s the businessman you say he is, he’s not going to pack up and move to Florida. Does he have kids? Grandkids?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then I say nip it in the bud, Jeannie. You’re just going to get your heart ripped out of your chest again and, quite frankly, I’m not sure I can watch.” He took a breath. “Not again. Especially not after Jason. I love you too much for that.”

            “I love you too.”

            Of course, he was right. He was right about everything. Sometimes I almost hated him for being so right and this was one of those times. “My cold cream is starting to slip down my face.”

            “What?”

            I placed a few fingertips along my jawline, then wiped them on my arm. “I put cold cream on. It takes—it takes off my make up. I need to—I need to wipe it off. I need—I need to go.”

            “Good segway.”

            Good or not, it was all I had and it was true.

            “Will you think about this, Jeannie? Think about what I just told you? Think about the boys and the kids?”

            I inhaled sharply. “Of course, Ben. Of course I will.”

            “Good. Now . . . go wash your face and get some sleep and we’ll talk again soon.”

            “Sounds good.”

            A minute later, as I wiped away the gooey substance of cold cream and foundation, of mascara and eyeshadow and lipstick, I began to cry. A slow trickle at first—one tear, then another, making tracks along smeared cheekbones until silent sobs wracked my body, which had crumbled to the floor in a broken heap. Think about the boys . . . Ben had said. Think about the kids.

            The question haunting me now played havoc with those two thoughts, wrestling with every emotion I had—the euphoria of new love. Of old love returning. The angst of knowing that if things went well—if Truck and I successfully rebuilt what we’d had—then other hearts would be broken. Or, if we rebuilt what we’d had without success, then—as Ben had said—my heart would again be wrenched from my chest.

So, at what point could I start thinking about me?

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Well, Ben’s none too happy.” I dropped a sugar cube from the silver tongs to the awaiting cup of coffee. A line of ripples formed from the center, making its way to the rim’s curve. “Pass the cream when you’re done,” I said to Trisha, who sat across from me at the cutesy breakfast & brunch café and seemed frozen in shock at my words.

            “You talked to him then?”

            “Last night.” I held my hand out for the small ceramic pitcher of cream. The one with daffodils painted on it. “Cream, please.”

            She added another dollop into her cup before handing it over. “I heard you the first time.” She took a sip, then said, “No wonder you’ve been testy this morning.”

            “Have I?”

            “Well, I’ve known you forever so I can pick up on these things—”

            I rested against the back of the cushioned chair. “He made me think.”

            “Ben’s always been good at that.” She took another swallow of her coffee. “This is good.”

            I hadn’t even tried it yet. Hadn’t even had my first cup that morning. Perhaps that explained the gnawing headache. I sat straight again, took a sip, and nodded. “It is.”

            “I think they order their coffee from Uruguay or Paraguay or Zimbabwe . . .”

            I stared at her.

            “Sorry,” she said. “What did he say?”

            I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it. The server—twenty-one if she was a day with a long ponytail that hung in a fat curl from the back of her head to her waist like a Barbie—stepped over and, smiling, asked if she could take our order. Trisha quickly ordered a Belgian waffle topped with strawberries while I opted for the granola, fruit, and yogurt bowl. “Barbie” stepped away, I took another sip of coffee, crossed my legs and rested again against the back of the chair. “He reminded me that I’m not about to leave Florida and that Truck isn’t about to move to Florida, so why am I pursuing this . . .”

            “And?” Trisha asked, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table. “Why are you?”

            “Good question. And don’t think I wasn’t up nearly all night asking myself the same and then trying to come up with an answer.”

            “Did you?”

            “Did I what?”

            Trisha hung her head like an old gas station dog. “Oh, honey. You are a mess. Did you come up with an answer?”

            “I didn’t, which means there’s nothing here, Trisha. There’s no reason to stay.”

            She sat straight and pointed at me before reaching for her cup of coffee again. “My sweet friend, are you putting the cart before the horse?”

            “Explain.”

            “You’re acting like you and Truck are going to get married or something. You’ve had how many dates now?”

            “Two.”

            “And he’s kissed you how many times?”

            I frowned at her. “Zero.”

            “As in, not once.”

            “Shuddup.”

            Trisha laughed. “Listen, sweet friend, I haven’t been married all these years to Earl Corbett for nothing. He’s not the same teenaged jock from high school. He’s got a solid head on his shoulders and so do I.” She paused long enough to take another sip of coffee.

            “And?”

            “And nothing. Just take this one day at a time. What’s the worst that could happen?”

            I’d thought about that during the night, too, and said so.

            “And what did you come up with?”

            “We could fall in love again . . . want to start our lives together . . .”

            “And that’s the worst?”

            I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “No. The worst, honestly, is that nothing could happen. We could realize we are just friends and nothing more. Nothing less. I’ll go back to Florida, and he’ll stay here and . . . nothing. The end.”

            “But?”

            “But my heart . . .” I placed my hand on my chest. “Trisha, I don’t think you realize how strong our love was back then.”

            Her eyes widened and then blinked in sympathy. “Oh . . . I think I do. You two were pretty obvious, Jeannie.”

            “Were we?”

            She laughed. “Lordy, yes. Girl, it was all over you.”

            I laughed too, then looked around as heat rushed over me. “Where is our food?”

            Trisha shook her head. “Good one.”

***

Trisha took me to a local bookstore where I purchased four novels written by my favorite writer, three I’d never read and one I had. I intended to give it to Trisha so she, too, could fall in love with the works of Melanie Rabins.

            As we neared Trisha’s car, I held them up and said, “I need these to take my mind off things.”

            Then, once we were inside the car, I reached into the store’s logoed bag to retrieve the one I’d read. “Here. For you.”

            She took it, then looked at it as if it were an alien, flipping it front to back.

            “She’s a great writer and I know you’ll love her work.”

            “What kind of book is this?”

            “You mean fiction or nonfiction?”

            “Yeah.” She placed the book on the console, then starting the car with a push of a button.

            “Fiction. A kind of sci-fi romance.”

            The quizzical look became more prominent. “Like Mr. Spock meets Wonder Woman?”

            I shook my head. “Not even close, but . . . just try it. If you don’t like it, no harm, no foul.”

            “What do birds have to do with this?” She backed out of the parking spot, then turned the dial to D before slanting her eyes toward me with a look that told me all I needed to know.

            “Very funny. Not birds fowl, you doofus. F-o-u-l, as if you didn’t know what I meant. Ah, the joys of having a nut for a best friend.”

            Trisha pushed at my shoulder. “Ah, the joy of having my best friend here again.”

***

The steaks were cooked to perfection and the wine was some of the best cabernet I’d ever tasted. The baked potatoes that were fluffy enough to be ice cream; Truck topped them with scoops of butter and thick bacon bits.

            “And not the kind you find on the supermarket shelf,” he said. “I fried this bacon myself.”

            I pinched a second nibble. “Crisped to perfection.”

            “You bet.” He reached for his wine glass and raised it toward me. I followed suit, waiting for his toast. “To you, Teach.”

            I’d hoped for more. I wanted to hear “to us.” But I’d take what I could get. I took a sip and swallowed, attempting to savor the flavor. “Truck, this is truly the best wine I’ve ever had.”

            “I have a source,” he answered with a wink from across the table-for-two that he’d draped in linen and topped with tapered candles that flickered in the dark between us. The television in the next room played a variety of country music, the volume turned down low.

            “I just bet you do.”

            He chuckled before asking, “So what have you been doing to keep yourself busy the last two days?” He picked up his fork and knife, then sliced away a piece of steak and brought it to his mouth. “Mmmmm…”

            I mimicked his actions, added my own moan, then answered his question. “Reading mostly. And talking with Trisha.”

            He dipped his fork into the potato. “Did you call Ben back the other night?”

            My shoulders dropped. “I did.”

            “Ouch. Doesn’t sound like it went well.” He placed his fork and knife on the plate in proper order, then reached for his wine. “Want to talk about it?”

            I shook my head. “Not now.” I also took another sip of wine. “How was your meeting?”

            His brow rose. “Really good. I may be buying into another business in town.”

            I picked up my utensils again. “Truck . . . tell me about this. I know you’ve got something to do with both restaurants we’ve been to . . . and the Davey stores.”

            He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “Leave it to a woman to go looking up a man’s business.”

            “Leave it to Trisha.”

            “Ah-ha. She’s looking out for you, I guess.”

            “You have to admit, you’re not the same guy we knew back at Albemarle High.”

            His eyes darkened. “Are you the same girl?”

            I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was positive the air had suddenly shifted. The air and everything inside me. “Truck,” I whispered. “I really wish . . .”

            “What, Jeannie?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table’s edge. “Tell me.”

            Right then I knew I was in the worst kind of trouble. I swallowed, then opened my mouth to bear my heart. My soul. To tell him how torn I was . . . stay or go. Stay. Go.

            Stay.

            But before I could get the words out, the doorbell rang.

            “Hold on,” he said with a groan, then stood and dropped his napkin beside his plate. “Be right back.”

            He walked to the front door, which I had a clear shot of, then glanced out the peephole. “Oh, goodness,” he said, not sounding upset in the least at our interruption. When the door opened wide, I looked past him to where one of the most beautiful young women I’d ever seen stood on the threshold. His arms opened wide as he cooed, “Hey, sweetheart.”

            And, with that, the young woman leapt into his arms.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“What’d ya knock for?” Truck asked as he set the young woman on her feet.

            “I saw you had company.” She looked to where I stood. “You must be Jeannie.” She slipped out of his arms and extended her hand toward me as she walked from the foyer to the dining area.

            I shook her hand. “I am.” I glanced at Truck. “And I’m also at a loss.”

            “I’m Joey,” she said, her hand landing lightly on her chest. “Truck’s daughter.”

            “Joey,” I said, remembering the name and relieved at the introduction.

By now Truck had closed the door and joined us. “How about a glass of wine, sweetheart?”

            “Dad,” she breathed out. “Gracious. You’ve got the house to yourself, you have an old friend for dinner, and you’re asking your daughter if she wants wine?” Joey tossed her long, dark hair with a laugh. “No. I just wanted you to know I’m back in town, I’ve dropped the kids off at the house and have absolutely forbidden them to come over.”

            At the furrowing of my brow, Joey added, “Did Dad tell you we live in the cottage behind the house?” She jutted her chin toward the back yard.

“He did, actually.” And he had. I’d just forgotten.

“Just got back from taking the kids to Disney for a week.” She beamed at her father. “Dad’s treat, of course. I, quite frankly, can’t afford to pay attention.”

            Truck’s arm slipped around his daughter’s shoulders and squeezed. “You have enough to do raising my grandchildren and going back to school yourself.” He smiled. “Joey’s going back to school.”

            “Studying nursing,” she said. “I’m forty-two, about to graduate, and figure I’ve got another twenty-five years left to do something that counts for something beyond raising kids.”

            “That can’t be easy,” I commented. I stood behind my chair, slipped my fingers over the antique wood. “The nursing part, I mean. I know how hard it is to raise kids. But college is hard enough when you’re fresh out of high school and you don’t have kids.”

            Joey nodded. “But it’s gonna be worth it.” She stepped away from Truck. “I’m outta here. Just wanted you to know.” She gave him a quick peck on his cheek. “By the way,” she added conspiratorially, “does Mom know . . .”

            “That Jeannie is here?”

            “That Jeannie is . . .” She pointed to the floor. “Here.”

            My eyes widened and my brow rose. Gosh, I hoped not. Our last encounter hadn’t gone all that well.

            Joey’s eyes crinkled with merriment as she said, “Dad said she swooped in on one of your dates.”

            “Joey.” Truck turned his daughter toward the door with a chuckle. “Isn’t it time to go now? You’ve got three young teenagers who probably need some supervision.”

            “Hey, I can take a hint,” she said. Then, over her shoulder, she called back, “He just doesn’t want me to tell you what all he had to say.” Her voice rose as her father playfully escorted her to the door. “Nice to meet you, Jeannie. Thank you for making my dad smile again.”

            After closing the door, Truck returned to the table with a sigh. “That’s Joey. She’s my girl.” He indicated that I should sit, and then did the same.

            “Truck, she’s absolutely adorable. Took me a minute, but I did remember that she lived in the cottage. And I also remembered that her husband left her for someone else.” I took a sip of wine before readjusting my napkin onto my lap. “I cannot imagine a man finding anyone more lovely than her.”

            “I can’t imagine a man finding anyone more lovely than you.”

            For a moment, my breath caught in my throat, refusing to return to my lungs or escape into the air that had grown still around us. “Thank you,” I finally said.

            “Teach—”

            “Truck.”

            He took a long swallow of wine, then returned the glass to the table before looking directly at me, the candlelight reflecting in the dark of his eyes. “What are we doing here?”

            I knew what he meant. I knew. I wondered the same thing, of course. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to voice it. I stared down at my plate. “Dinner?” I teased.

            “Jeannie.”

            “I know.”

            “Of course, we’re both over sixty-five—”

            “Speak for yourself.”

            He laughed nervously. “Teach.”

            “Truck.”

            “What I’m trying to say is that I’m too old for nonsense. And I’ve been through enough under the heading of love to know what it is and what it isn’t.”

            I drew in a shaky breath. “And what is it?”

            Truck rested against the back of the chair. “Do you ever think about what things were really like? Back then? For us?”

            I picked up my fork, stabbed at the now-cold potato, then returned the fork to my plate. “All the time. Probably too often. Too much.”

            “Even before—”

            “Why do you think I never returned for the reunions? There was more fear of seeing you than not seeing you.”

            “Fear.”

            “Until not too terribly long ago, I was still married.” I couldn’t make eye contact. I tried—a flicker of a glance. “And to a man I thought I loved. I mean, we made children together. Our lives were good . . . or so I thought. I could have lived my whole life under his roof and . . .”

            “And?”

            “And in his bed. And then Tiffany.”

            “Tell me about her.”

            This time I could make eye contact. “About Tiffany? Tiff, the bimbo?”

            Truck’s laughter reverberated through the room, settling on the furniture—all of it thick and rich, full of polish and patina. “Yeah. And then I’ll tell you about Dell.”

            “The computer company?”

            This time his laughter came halfhearted. “The boyfriend. Catherine’s. The man who swooped in and out and out and in, back and forth during the entirety of our marriage. Second marriage.”

            “Ah.”

            “Tell me.” He picked up his wine glass and stood. “On second thought, grab your wine and follow me into the living room. Let’s at least relax on a couch if we’re going to have this conversation.”

            I followed him into a back room—more of a study or a den than a living room—where he stopped in front of a modern, overstuffed sofa, covered by throw pillows. “How’s this?”

            I pushed a couple out of the way, kicked off my shoes, and settled into the comfort of it, holding my wine steady.

            Truck did the same, kicking off his shoes, tossing a couple of pillows onto the floor, and then sitting. “I’m ready to listen if you’re ready to talk.”

            I finished my wine, then placed the glass behind me on an end table where a marble leopard-print lamp cast a warm glow into the room. “She was a client. Of Jason’s. He was hired to landscape her entire one-acre lawn. Twenty-nine years old if she was a day.”

            “Ouch.”

            I leaned forward as if I were about to tell him secret. “She brought him lemonade.”

            “I just bet she did.”

            I chuckled; his words had removed a little of the stinger. “It gets hot in Florida.”

            “I just bet it does.”

            I stood, grabbed my glass, and said, “I need more wine. I’ll be right back.”

            What was I doing, telling Truck the intimate details of the greatest hurt of my life? Or maybe the second greatest, the first being when Truck had left me. Disappeared from my life and from town, and . . . from my world. What was I doing?

            I returned with the bottle, topped off his glass, and filled my own, suddenly not caring. I’d shared most of the sordid story with Ben. Nearly as much with Trisha. But no one—no one—knew the depths of betrayal I’d experienced. The tears I’d cried. The shame I’d felt.

            The rejection. And the way I’d begged.

            “She’s remarkably beautiful. Tiffany is. And young. In shape. The longest dang legs you’ve ever seen.” I quenched the visual of her with another swallow of cabernet. “And here I am, all five-foot-three of me.”

            A growl came low from Truck’s throat. “Do you remember that first day . . . that day I followed you home from school, driving Tortoise behind you while you sashayed in front of those hoity-toity houses in your neighborhood?”

            “Bentley Road. And they were no more hoity-toity than this house.”

            “Touché.”

            “Make the world go away—”

            “What?”

            “That’s the song that was playing on your radio. You had it blaring out the windows.”

            “The great Eddy Arnold. Now that was music. What else do you remember?”

            I allowed my mind to rush over that April afternoon, that encounter that changed my life, then smiled. “You said I had tough-looking legs.”

            “Still do.”

            “Flatterer.”

            “Keep talking, Jeannie.”

            Another sip of wine and I was ready. “It was the whole betrayal of the thing. I mean, how could I compete with a woman still in her early thirties? Practically a child. And then there was the way he told me.”

“About her?”

I nodded as I stared past him to the built-in bookcases filled with bric-a-brac and elegantly framed photographs. “About them.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Did I? Not really. Not then, anyway. It was too awful. Too degrading. “She’s having hischild. My grown sons, with practically grown children of their own, will have a baby brother or sister.” I checked his face for any reaction, which was minimal. “They’re supposed to get married . . .”

            “A baby, huh?”

            “Let’s see how her body looks after carrying around a bowling ball for nine months.”

            “Me-ow,” Truck teased with a lopsided grin.

            I scooted back against the arm of the sofa, brought my feet up and rested them close to Truck’s knee, crossing them at the ankles. His hand slipped over and around one foot. Squeezed. “You also had the prettiest feet, as I recall.” He peered at them. “Nothings changed.”

            The wine was going to my head. More specifically, the wine had warmed my entire body.

            Or maybe the heat—and the comfort—came solely from the man at the other end of the sofa.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“When he told me,” I continued, “I begged him not to leave. I literally got down on my knees and begged him not to leave.”

            “Oh, Jeannie.”

            “I was afraid, Truck. The very idea of living on my own. Being alone. The long days, the endless nights. Paying all the bills with money I wasn’t sure of. You know, where it would come from. I had my retirement, but how far would it go? Jason had always taken care of all that.”

            “But you managed.” Again, his hand squeezed my foot.

            “Well, I’m selling the house.” I shrugged. “It’s too much house anyway. Even when we were raising the boys, it was too big. After Jason left, it got larger and larger.”

            He glanced around. “Sometimes I feel like this house is too much. That maybe I should be in the cottage. Joey and the kids should be in here.”

            “But?”

            “Joey wouldn’t hear of it.”

            “Is this—is this where you lived with Catherine?”

            “Nooooo. She got that house. And if you think Bentley Road was impressive . . .”

            I licked my lips, swallowed more wine. “I see.”

            “She also got a nice settlement. Did you at least get a nice settlement?”

            I nodded. “After a night or two of crying and begging and texting and begging some more, I called Ben who put the fear of God in me. Then I made an appointment with the toughest lawyer in all of Central Florida.” I grinned. “Suddenly, it became about revenge . . . and survival.”

            “I’d say good for you, but I don’t want to feel like I’m betraying my own kind.”

            I kicked him playfully with my free foot. “I still have to sell the house. The place where my children grew up. The place where they brought their kids after they became fathers, and I watched those children grow and play. And . . . it seems I’ve collected a lot of stuff over the years. Closets and drawers need to be emptied. Not to mention the garage. The attic.”

            “What’s the plan, then?”

            “You mean after the sell?”

            “Yeah.”

            I shrugged again. “I don’t know. An apartment? A smaller house? I could buy a house; the settlement was good enough and we have a lot of equity. Unfortunately, when I sell, I have to give Jason forty percent of the profit.”

            “You could move back home.” I looked at him. “Here.”

            I could only stare in answer. Would I leave my boys? My grandchildren? Not in a million years. But what if a clean break was exactly what I needed? I wouldn’t have to see Jason except on rare occasions. I wouldn’t be subjected to the sight of him, Tiffany, and their baby. And Truck was here. . .

            The man who hadn’t even kissed me yet. Not once since we’d reconnected. So maybe he was being a friend. Just a friend. Maybe he’d been hurt enough with Catherine that—

            “How do you feel about that?” he asked, drawing me back.

            I slipped my foot from his hand, stood, my legs wobbly. “I dunno,” I whispered.

            Truck joined me, took my glass, and then placed both his and mine on the end table where they tinged as their rims touched.

            “What are you doing?” I asked.

            “Something I should have done a few nights ago,” he said, his hands now cupping my face, his breath warm.

            And then his lips were on mine, sweet and tender, while I melted into him. Wine or not, I was a goner. This was the same kiss I remembered. Everything nearly the same. Everything nearly— “Truck . . .”

            “Jeannie . . . Baby—”

            I slid my arms around his neck, pressed my face against his chest. “Do you know how long it’s been since I heard you call me that?”

            “Too long.”

            I stepped back, my head swimming. “I should go. Now. Before I completely lose my senses.”

            “No, no. You’re not driving anywhere. Not with all that wine in you.”

            “But Truck. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for—”

            He kissed me again, this time quickly. “I’ve got plenty of bedrooms here.” He tugged me toward the front of the house. “And every one of them has an ensuite.”

            “I’m extremely impressed,” I muttered. “But do the doors have locks?”

            He chuckled as he led the way, holding my hand as though I were a child. When we came to the first guest bedroom, he opened the door, flipped on the light. “This is lovely,” I said, because it was. Cherry furniture, the bed draped in a plush cream-colored comforter. Large, matted paintings of cherub-faced children from a bygone century graced beige walls. Everything emanated calm and quiet. A place of rest. “Who decorated?”

            His hand brushed up under my hair, clasped my neck. “I have talents you don’t know about.”

            I looked up at him, my vision blurred, my thoughts smoky. “You also have talents I do know about.”

            He planted another kiss on my lips, then warned, “Be careful, Teach.”

            I smiled. “I’ll try.”

            He stepped back, then pointed down the hallway. “I’m at the end there. Last door on the left. If you need me.”

            Truck left, closing the door behind him, then reopened it. “Call Trisha. She’ll be worried.”

            “I will.”

            His eyes locked with mine, held. And I knew what he was thinking. Same thing I was thinking. But I also knew that neither of us would act on our thoughts. Not tonight, anyway. But when I couldn’t say. “I will,” I said again.

            Once again, he closed the door with a click, and then his footsteps padded against the carpet, down the hallway. I walked over to the bed and flopped on top of it, then reached for my purse. My phone. Finding neither. I groaned. If I remembered correctly, my phone would still be in the kitchen. If I remembered correctly.

            I slid off the bed, opened the door, and headed that way. A few minutes later I was back on the bed, phone in hand, pressed against my ear, waiting for Trisha to answer. “Jeannie?”

            “Hey. Don’t let your imagination run wild, but I’m staying here tonight.”

            “Don’t let my imagination run wild?”

            “I’ve had too much wine. I’ll tell you later. I promise. But I’m not driving tonight.”

            “Where’s Truck?”

            “In his room, I guess. I’m in one of the guest rooms.”

            “Jeannie,” she said, drawing my name out. “I gotta tell you something.”

            I closed my eyes, a negative of the overhead light now tattooed behind my lids. This didn’t sound good. “I’m listening.”

            “Ben called me this evening.”

            I squeezed my eyes, then opened them. “And?”

            “He’s just worried, Jeannie.”

            “You told him where I was?”

            “I—yeah. I hope that’s okay.”

            “That’s okay.” My head, which had been swimming earlier, now ached. I sat up and dug into my purse, hoping to find some Tylenol, but finding nothing to take away the pain. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

            “Of course. But he’s going to call back later. At least I think he will.”

            I closed my eyes again, breathed in deep, then exhaled. “If he does, tell him I’ve already gone to bed. Which is true . . . I’m going to find some aspirin and I’m going to bed. Okay?”

            “Okay.” She waited a beat, and I did too. “Jeannie?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Be careful.”

            I nodded my agreement. “Night, Trisha.”

            “G’night.”

            I went searching in the ensuite bath, opening first the medicine cabinet, and finding nothing, and then a small vanity drawer. There, like water in the desert, lay a bottle of Advil. I checked the expiration date, then tapped two into my hand. Minutes later, I had undressed down to my underwear, and managed to snuggle under the plush, warm bedcoverings. Within seconds, I was asleep, dreaming of the man sleeping in the last room on the left . . . and Ben, standing in the hallway between us.

Chapter Thirty

I woke with a jerk and a circle of drool on a taupe-colored pillowcase. I sat up, wiped my mouth, and looked around, not fully recognizing the room. I blinked. Pushed my hair from my face. Dabbed the sleep from my eyes. When I opened them again, the fuzzy picture of my existence came into focus.

            Truck’s guest bedroom.

            I shot out of bed and into the ensuite where, with one glance into the mirror, I stopped short. No, no, no . . .

            Fortunately, Truck had everything I needed in the bath’s Roman shower, and most of it from Bath & Body Works. Japanese Cherry Blossom Moisturizing body wash, the complementary body cream, and a loofa. There was even a Venus razor for women and Pureology hair care products tucked into one of the niches. Was there anything the man hadn’t thought of?

            This was surely not the Truck of our teenage years. The Truck I had known back then wouldn’t have been caught dead in a store like Bath & Body Works, and he surely wouldn’t have known the value of Pureology products.

            After my shower, I found a blow dryer under the vanity, ran it over my hair, applied a touch of makeup, then dressed in the same clothes I’d arrived in the night before. When I opened the bedroom door, an invitation of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon met me. My stomach rumbled.

            I found Truck in the kitchen, bustling about. “Good morning,” I said, which caused him to stop in his work and look over at me.

            The old twinkle in his eyes took up its dance. “Well, as I live and breathe. I didn’t dream it after all.”

            I placed my hands on my hips and cocked my head to one side. “Didn’t dream what?”

            “That Jeannie Travis slept in my house.”

            “Ha. Ha.”

            He turned the heat down under the cast iron frying pan where the bacon sizzled and hissed, then walked over, standing toe to toe and towering over me. “Good morning,” he said, his voice throaty.

            “Good morning.”

            He placed a quick kiss on my lips before turning away. “Coffee?”

            “Yes, please.”

            I found a seat at one of the cushiony bar chairs and let the man wait on me a little. “How do you take it?” He held up a coffee mug.

            “Sugar and half-n-half if you have it.”

            “You don’t need sugar,” he said.

“I don’t?”

“You’re sweet enough.”

            I chuckled. “Don’t start.”

            He placed the now-filled mug on the bar in front of me, the rich aroma circling above the content.

I grabbed his wrist before he could turn away for the cream and sugar. “I have a question, Mr. Hardy.”

            “Fire away.”

            “Who stocked the guest bathroom?” I cocked one brow for effect.

            Truck’s laughter filled the room. “Joey,” he admitted after he’d sobered. “Now I have a question for you.”

            “Fire away,” I parroted.

            “Scrambled or fried?”

            “Fried. Over medium and placed on top of a piece of buttered toast.”

            He kissed me again, just as tenderly, just as quickly. “I know your type. You’ll burst the yolk so that the bread soaks it up and then you’ll gobble the whole thing down.”

            “I’m brutal that way.”

            Again, he laughed. “I’m on it, princess.”

***

After breakfast, Truck left for work, and I returned to Trisha’s. She, of course, was standing in the foyer, waiting for me to spill as soon as I walked in.

            I couldn’t help but laugh.

            “Is there any specific detail I need about last night?”

            I looked toward the kitchen. “Is there any way I can get a cup of coffee?” I’d only had one at Truck’s and the need for a second weighed as heavy as my emotions.

            “Follow me,” she said.

            Minutes later, over fresh-brewed java, I gave her all the details from the night before, including meeting Joey, that I’d told Truck some of the more intimate details of my breakup with Jason, and that I’d had too much wine to make driving back a possibility.

            “And you really slept in separate bedrooms?”

            I nodded. “We really did.” I took a long sip of coffee, then set my mug back on the table, and sighed. “He asked me out for tonight, but I told him I had promised to do something with you.” I winced.

            Trisha’s eyes widened. “What did you promise to do with me?”

            “Nothing. I just—I just think it’s best to give us a day or so to . . . I’m not sure where all this is leading, Trisha, and I really need to think.” I looked at her. “Tell me what Ben said.”

            Trisha shrugged. “He’s just worried, Jeannie. He threatened to come here, but I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea.”

            I grimaced. “Oh. Did he agree with you?”

            “It’s hard to tell with Ben.”

            “You’ve got that right.” I took a moment to think through my next steps. “I’ll call him,” I said. “Then, I’ll get dressed for the day.” I stood, taking my cup of coffee with me.

            “So,” Trisha said, stopping me. “What are we doing tonight?”

            I looked over my shoulder at her and caught her grin. “Wanna go to a movie?”

            She popped up from her seat. “I’ll see what’s playing. You—” She pointed her finger. “—go call Ben. God willing, he’s not already on a plane.”

            “Or sitting at the gate in the airport. Be back here in about an hour.” I started for the door leading to the rest of the house. “I’m also going to read today. I’m going to be completely lazy and I’m going to get lost in a book.”

            Once in my room, I pulled my phone from my purse to find a text from Truck.

            YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL FIRST THING IN THE MORNING.

            Heat rushed through me. He’d never truly seen me first thing in the morning. Well, except that one time after prom when we’d fallen asleep in the back of Tortoise only to wake up with my fancy dress crumpled and twisted, my flowers crushed, and my makeup more under my eyes than on the lids and lashes.

            YOU’RE NOT SO BAD YOURSELF, I texted back, then smiled. Seriously, unlike so many men in our age group, he’d not grown a potbelly or gone soft around the biceps. I wondered how he stayed in shape. I knew how I did—I ate right, walked, and lifted light weights. Although, at the rate of things since I’d come back home, I’d be a tubbo in no time.

            The vibration of my phone caused me to jump and I looked down.

I’LL MISS YOU TONIGHT.

I smiled. TRISHA AND I ARE GOING TO A MOVIE.

YOUR LOSS, he returned.

Truth was, I wanted to be with Truck more than anything. But I needed—truly needed—to think.

My phone vibrated again. TOMORROW NIGHT?

Could I think through everything I needed to by then? I wasn’t sure. But what possible excuse could I give to put him off even by one additional night?

SOUNDS GOOD. CALL ME LATER?

He answered with a thumbs-up emoji.

Then, as I started to place my call to Ben, another emoji filled the screen, this one of a rose-colored heart.

Oh.

I sent a bitmoji—something my grandson Freddie had taught me to do—of myself, grinning and dancing, which earned me another emoji of a face, laughing until it cried.

I giggled as I dialed Ben’s number. He answered on the third ring, and from the background noise, one thing was very clear.

My big brother was sitting at the gate in an airport.

Chapter Thirty-one

“This is insanity,” Ben stormed as he paced the Corbett family room. He glared at Earl, who sat in his usual chair, seemingly unfazed. “I cannot believe you, of all people, Corbett, didn’t do something to stop it.”

            Earl’s eyes grew large. “Me? What do I have to do with this?”

            I shot a look at Trisha who chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. Or perhaps a jag of tears. I wasn’t sure which.

            My brother had grown thicker around the waistline and his hairline receded, but—to me and Cynthia, at least—he was still a handsome cuss. Even in a fit of ire. As Trisha often said, his dark eyes and silver hair had robbed him of the telltales that haunted most of us who had moved fifty-plus years from high school. “You and she—” He looked over at Trisha, the tips of his ears growing red. “Well, I know it was a long time ago, but once upon a time, you two—you were at the very least protective.”

            “We still are,” Trisha interjected from her place at the end of a plush leather sofa where I took up residence at the other.

            Ben slid into a chair next to Earl’s. “Am I the only one here . . .” He turned toward my oldest friend. “. . . who remembers exactly who this guy was? Am I the only one who remembers how messed up she was after he broke her heart?”

            “But Ben—” Trisha began.

            “You know,” I interrupted, “I am sitting right here.” I pointed to my chest. “And I’m not a child and I’m not even close to that seventeen-year-old who was so filled with angst. I’m an adult woman with grown sons and nearly grown grandchildren, Ben Travis.”

            The look he shot my way nearly took me back fifty years.

            He stood. “You, little sister, are coming with me.”

            I raised my brow but refused to move. “And to where would that be?”

            “We’ll fly back to Florida. First thing tomorrow. Don’t you have a house on the market?”

            “Not. Quite.”

            “Well, you need to get to work on that. You’ve got boxes to pack. Things to . . .” He waved his hands in the air. “. . .sell. And a new place to buy. Something smaller, you said. Less to keep up with.”

            I decided to have a little fun. After all, and as I’d just said, I was no longer a child. Ben couldn’t order me around as though I were. “You’re right there.” I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling and to buy a little time. “But I’m thinking that instead of buying in Orlando, I’ll come back here.” When his eyes widened—and after Trisha finished clapping—I added, “Or maybe I can be a snowbird. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Here part of the year, there when it gets too cold?”

            Ben threw his head back and growled.

            “Are you serious?” Trisha asked. “Because I can call my realtor—”

            I shook my head in her direction, letting her know I wasn’t fully serious. But now that the words were out of my mouth, I wasn’t fully teasing either. So I smiled.

            “Sheena—”

            I crossed my arms. “Ben, seriously. I’m teasing.” I swallowed. “I think . . . But you have to listen to me. I am a grown woman, and I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and as it stands right now, Truck and I are simply renewing an old friendship.” Then again, based on the kiss we’d shared, perhaps more than that.

            Trisha sat straight, turning to Ben. “Plus, he’s not the same boy from high school, Ben. I mean, remember back in those days? How much pot did you take into those lungs of yours? You walked around stoned more than you didn’t.”

            Rose-red creeped from under Ben’s tee, then settled in his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

            “When was the last time you were stoned, Ben Travis?” she continued. “Or pulled an all-nighter? Or drove your car too fast? Or—”

            “Put Clearasil on a pimple?” I added.

            Earl laughed. “Clearasil,” he quipped under his breath.

            “Or . . .” Trisha said, “Put a dollar’s worth of gas in your car and drove for hours on end?”

            “Or . . .” Earl said, now in the game, “punched buttons on a jukebox?”

            Light chuckles began to fill the room.

            “Or,” Ben now threw in, “played 45s on a record player?”

            Once we’d sobered, Trisha said, “Point is, Ben, we’ve all changed. Earl was the super jock of our high school, but—” She looked over at her husband, “when was the last time you ran fifty yards, a ball tucked under your arm . . . a bunch of guys chasing after you hoping to tackle you into the ground before you reached the goal line?”

            Earl curled a lip toward Trisha. “I can still run the fifty.”

            “Fifty feet . . . maybe.”

“Okay.” Ben pointed at me. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

            I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of deal?”

            “Set a meeting between you, me, and—lover boy.”

            “We’re not—okay. I can do that. But not tonight. Trisha and I are going to a movie.”

            I returned to my room and laid flat on the bed, my ankles crossed, and my arms folded against my middle.

I still needed to think. For sure, Ben’s arrival had thrown a kink into everything. Absolutely everything. But I knew one thing for certain—he would like the Truck of today. If he could get over the Truck of the past, that is.

            And my sons—they weren’t one hundred percent in my corner. Our corner.

            Not that we had a corner.

            How could I ask Truck to meet Ben—they’d never actually met in person—when I wasn’t sure where Truck and I were headed. He had certainly wooed me. And, perhaps, I’d intrigued him. Well, it seemed that way. But had I put a “cart before a horse” as the old saying went?

            There was only one way to find out. Quite frankly, I was too old to play games. We were all too old to play games.

            I had plugged my phone in; the cord stretched from the wall to the bedside table. I retrieved it, pulling the cord away and allowing it to drop to the floor, then opened the old text message from Truck and sent one back.

BUSY?

I laid the phone beside me and waited, but I may as well have kept it in my hand. Within seconds it vibrated.

ALWAYS. BUT NEVER TOO BUSY FOR YOU.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, then pressed a hand against my stomach to quell the butterflies that had taken up residence.

I stared at his words—should I call him or continue texting him my questions?

I didn’t have to wonder long. My phone rang, displaying his name and number.

“Hey there.” I kept my voice low.

“Were you sleeping?” The very sound of his voice sending the butterflies into flight.

“No, why?”

“You sound like you’ve been asleep.”

“I’m just keeping my voice down.”

“Where are you?”

“In my room. But—” I paused. Then, “Where are you?”

“Office. Getting ready to head downstairs to talk to Mary Lynn about an order.”

I smiled, picturing him being all businesslike. Professional. “Truck—”

“Teach.”

My smile grew broader. This man . . .

“We’re um—we’re having dinner tomorrow night?”

“If that’s what you’d like to do.” Paper shuffled beyond his voice—he was multi-tasking.

“My brother is here.”

“Really? That’s good? Or . . . good. Bring him along.”

Well, that solved one problem. “Truck?”

“Teach?”

I inhaled. Exhaled. Now or never. “Where do you see this heading?”

He didn’t answer right away. If I knew Truck—and I didn’t. Not really. Not anymore. But if I did, he was thinking. Making sure he gave the best answer. “I’ve thought about that a lot.”

“You have?” I asked, my voice sounding as much like a seventeen-year-old as I felt.

“Yep.”

“And?”

“Jeannie, I couldn’t make things work with Catherine? Do you know why?”

Seemed to me her snarkiness might be sufficient, but I didn’t want to say anything against Joey’s mother. “No.”

“First of all, I didn’t get married for a long time after—after high school. I dated. Ran around plenty.”

I could just imagine. That was the Truck I’d known.

“No comment?” he teased.

“No.”

He chuckled. “All right then. Here’s the truth. I married Catherine because she was pregnant with Joey, but—Catherine wasn’t you, Jeannie. No one was you. No one could ever be you. No one but you.”

I melted into the bedspread, the linens, and the mattress. Said nothing.

“That’s the truth of it, Jeannie. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?”

“No.”

“Well then.” He breathed out slowly. “Let me answer it for you.”

Chapter Thirty-two

“Loving you,” Truck continued, “was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Letting you go—for me—was the dumbest.”

            I smiled even as tears formed in my now-closed eyes.

            “But maybe not.”

            “Meaning?” I didn’t bother to open my eyes.

            “I needed to let you go to find myself. To figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I’m not sure I would have had much to offer you back then. Not like now, you know?”

            The businessman, the bank account, the self-assured man, the doting father and grandfather. “I know.”

            His sigh held years of anguish. “If you’d had your way—and if I’d had mine—we would have gotten married, Jeannie, and made it—what—three years tops? You’d have had Truck Junior like we thought you were going to have back then. But life interfered. Or maybe the Big Guy upstairs stepped in to stop us from ruining everything.”

            “The Big Guy?”

            “Yeah. You ever think about God’s hand in all this? What-all happened to us?”

            “Even the stuff we got wrong?”

            “Yep.”

            “Sometimes.”

            “So after three years I would have left, and you’d have had to raise our son alone. I’d have run off to who-knows-where and got married again because I had a Jeannie-shaped hole in my heart. I’d send you some child support every so often. I’d come by to see our son once a year. Maybe twice if I was close enough. By the time he made it to junior high, I’d have been on my third wife. He’d have two or three half-siblings he never really got to know. Of course, you’d have gone back to school, gotten your degree, all while living with your parents. They’d never say, ‘I told you so,’ but at night, lying there on their bed, they’d say it to each other. And they’d hate me, the father of their grandson, for making life so hard for their little girl. Something I know well.” He took a long breath and released it but gave no time for response. “You’d have married and your new husband—the one you really deserved, the one who deserved you—would want to adopt my little boy and . . .”

            I waited. When he didn’t continue, I cut in. “And?”

            He audibly winced. “And I probably would have let him. The best part of you and the best part of me—the best part of us, Jeannie—would then belong to someone else.”

            “But it didn’t happen that way.” I kept my voice barely above a whisper.

            “No. Because—”

            “Because you let us go.”

            “I let you go,” he returned as though he’d rehearsed the scene a hundred times. “Us I kept in my heart from Day One.”

            My free hand clenched from the pain of his scenario. Truth was, I had kept us in my heart too. I had tucked Jeannie and Truck into a far corner where it couldn’t be seen or heard or even felt. Only in rare moments—perhaps after a dream that involved our high school days or if I spotted a classic muscle car on the road—did I take the memories out, dust them off, polish their fine patina, and stare as them as if they were too precious to handle. Then I’d place them back where they belonged. Hidden. Safe.

            After all, I had married. I had my sons who I loved with every fiber of my being. Nothing Jason did or didn’t do could have changed the fact that our love created those two fine young men. But until I decided, finally, to come home for our class reunion . . . until then, I had not allowed myself to retrieve the memories, dust them off, polish their patina, and then place them on a table for all the world to see.

            “So,” I began again, “where does that leave us now?”

            “Anywhere you want us to be, Teach.”

            I blinked, allowing the fresh tears that slipped down my cheeks to rest along my jawline. “Meaning?”

            He chuckled. “When I saw you that day—that day you showed up here—I remembered something I told God one time.”

            God again.

            “Which was?”

            “If I ever got the chance to see you again, to take you out or whatever you want to call it, I’d take it slow. The way I should have back then, back at Albemarle.”

            “We were just kids, Truck. And you—”

            “I was all hormones and stupid packed into a nineteen-year-old boy’s body.”

            I smiled at the reference. The memory.

            “You won’t get an argument from me on that one, Mr. Hardy.”

            He chuckled again, low and confident.

He knew.

He remembered.

            “Do you remember,” I began, taking the conversation in a new direction, “one time when you and I were talking about religion?”

            “That I don’t remember.”

            “It was that time we went fishing.”

            Again, the low rumble of laughter. “Oh, man.”

            “Six o’clock on a Sunday morning—the best part of sleeping in—and you somehow talked me into going fishing with you.”

            “I went fishing. You tagged along.”

            “What did I know about fishing?” I asked around a grin.

            “Apparently nothing.”

            “You did it all. For me.”

            “Had to.”

            “Even hooking the bait.”

            “Feel sorry for the bait, I told you, and you’d feel sorry for the fish.”

            I giggled. “Yep. Not that it mattered.”

            “Fish will always be safe around you, Jeannie Travis.”

            I wouldn’t bother to tell him that I’d gotten pretty good at it. Living with two boys and Jason who would rather fish than breathe had made me quite the fisherwoman. Still, no amount of catch-and-release or catch-and-fry-up could come close to that morning along the riverbank with Truck. “And then I fell in the water.”

            “I remember it now. I remember it all. You didn’t know a catfish from a smallmouth bass.”

            “No. And later, after we’d eaten lunch, you told me about the time you were baptized. You said the preacher asked the Lord to ‘wash this sinner boy clean.’ But that you were only clean for about two days.”

            “Yeah. Well, I didn’t know then what I know now.”

            My heart skipped. “What do you know now, Truck, that you didn’t know then?”

            “That it’s a day-by-day thing. Being washed clean in the soul is like being washed clean in the body. You gotta keep it up.”

            I wasn’t sure what that meant either but knowing anything more than he had just told me in those long precious minutes was all as I could wrap my brain around anyway.

            “Jeannie?”

            “What, Bubba . . .”

            “I gotta go, sweetheart. But I’ll call you later on, okay?”

            Disappointment wrapped itself around my heart. “I’m going to a movie with Trisha, but—”

            “Call me once you get back to your room, okay?”

            “It might be late,” I reminded him.

            “Hmmm,” he said, “It’s never too late, Miss Travis. Not in this lifetime anyway.”

***

Later that night, after our return home from the movies, my call to Truck had gone straight to voice mail. “Hey,” I said, leaving a breathy message after the sound of the beep. “You’re either on the phone with another woman or you’ve turned your phone off. Call me tomorrow, okay? I’m slipping off to Slumberland.”

I fell asleep almost immediately after ending my call, half wishing he’d wake me up by calling back. But he didn’t.

When my eyes blinked open the next morning, I found a short text from him.

HEY SWEETHEART. SORRY I COULDN’T CALL BACK.YES, ANOTHER WOMAN

Still lying in bed, I stared at the confession a moment before I typed back:

ANOTHER WOMAN. WELL, IT WAS A FUN RIDE, MR. HARDY. SHORT, BUT FUN

I added a smiley face, although I wasn’t altogether sure. What other woman could he be talking to so late at night?

But before I could swing my legs over the edge of the bed to head to the bathroom, my phone dinged his reply.

JOEY 😊

I smiled.

YOU’RE FORGIVEN, I replied.

By the time I returned from the bathroom, I’d received another text.

WHEW!

He added a little heart, which left me smiling as I slipped out of my nightgown and into my day clothes. But after I’d gotten dressed, I found another text, this one without an emoji.

WE NEED TO TALK, it said.

Chapter Thirty-three

While my heart fluttered, I placed an immediate call to Truck. Again, it went to voice mail. This time I didn’t bother to leave a message.

Then, still clad in sleepwear and a robe, I made my way down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Good morning.”

I looked up to see Ben skipping halfway down the curved staircase. “Where are you off to?”

“A long walk.” He kissed my cheek when he reached the first floor. “I’ll be gone about an hour.”

I nodded, feeling strangely guilty that I managed to keep my weight down and my bloodwork numbers in line, despite the miniscule amount of exercise I sometimes worked into my schedule.   

I found Trisha at the breakfast nook table, nursing a cup of coffee, her nose pointed toward the face of her phone.

After our initial good mornings, I prepared my own coffee and joined her. “Can you give me your attention?”

She placed her phone on the table. “I’m all yours.”

“He talked about God.”

            She peered at me from over the rim of her cup, her eyes wide and lovely, even without makeup. “Who talked about God?”

            “Truck.” I set my cup on the table, then rested my elbows near the edge and laced my fingers together.

            “Truck talked about God?” She took a quick swallow before placing her mug in front of her. “When did that happen?”

            “Yesterday. I called him after the big Ben showdown.”

            She looked over her shoulder as if my brother might walk into the room at any given moment.

            “He’s gone for a walk.”

            “When did he do that?”

            “Just now. One questionable EKG and a little angina and now he’s all about walking every day.”

            Trisha mouthed an “oh,” then picked up her mug. “So . . . Truck and God?” She wrinkled her nose. “Truck?”

            I laughed. “I know, right?” I ran my index finger around the rim of my cup. “I mean, it wasn’t like he started preaching at me or anything—”

            “But—what did he say?”

            I shrugged. “He asked if I ever thought about God’s hand in our lives.”

            Trisha waited, not moving. Not blinking.

            I shrugged again. “I said that sometimes I do. I guess . . .” Surely thinking about God should be something we do more than just sometimes. Right?

            I couldn’t help but remember the few times I’d gone to church during my formative years. And of Jason and me, the two of us doing our part in raising our sons with a sense of morality. Of knowing that there was something—Someone—far superior. Someone we could trust. Talk to when we needed Him. Ask for help in helpless situations . . . perhaps?

            I frowned. But Truck had talked about God in a way that didn’t make Him sound like an Almighty ATM. Perhaps Truck’s change had come in more ways than just financial success. Perhaps the sometimes-deep Truck from high school had grown deeper still.

            Maybe. But where did that leave us?

“You want eggs?” Trisha stood. “I am suddenly famished, and I’m thinking a fried egg over easy and a piece of toast.”

            “Sure.” I swiveled out of my seat. “What can I do to help?”

            Trisha was already pulling eggs from the refrigerator. “Get the bread from the drawer over there and pop a couple of pieces in the toaster.” She set about heating the griddle next to her stovetop before spraying it with cooking oil. “Did he say anything else?”

            I opened the bread drawer and pulled out the half loaf before untwisting the tie and removing a couple of slices. “One or two?”

            “One.”

            I dropped the bread into the toaster, pushed the lever down, then returned the loaf to the drawer before leaning against the counter. “He said that he had told God . . . something about a do-over.”

            “A do-over?”

            I waved my hand in the air as if to dismiss that portion of the conversation. “We talked about—see, there was this time back in high school when Truck told me about getting baptized down in the river. His grandpa was there and all proud of him and . . .  well, the preacher had bellowed something about ‘washing this sinner boy clean.’”

            Trisha flipped the eggs like a short-order cook, then flipped them back again. “I like my eggs gooshy. You?”

            I laughed as the toast popped up. “Sure.” I retrieved two plates from the cabinet, plopped one piece of toast into the center of each. “Butter?”

            “No.”

            I didn’t want butter either. Why add calories to something that was delicious enough by itself? I took the plates to the counter closer to Trisha and watched as she expertly slipped the eggs onto the golden bread before pulling two forks from the silverware drawer.

            We each grabbed a plate and headed back to the table. As soon as we sat, Trisha looked up at me. “Should we bless the food or something?”

            I shrugged. “I—I guess I could say the one we taught the boys when they were little.”

            “Probably the same one we taught our kids. God is great?”

            My face warmed. Surely a grown woman—a woman in her sixties—could offer something more to God than a child’s prayer. “Maybe I can do better than that.” I bowed my head and repeated a prayer I’d heard my grandfather pray before every family meal. “For what we are about to receive, make us grateful.” I looked up as Trisha did the same. “That wasn’t too hard.” She glanced out the window and smiled. “And no thunder or lightning.”

            “Or earthquake.”

            We grinned at each other before picking up our forks and slicing into the egg’s yolks. “So,” she said around a bite. “Do you think—” She swallowed. “Do you think Truck has gone religious or something?”

            I also swallowed, the deliciousness warming me to my toes. “I haven’t had this in years. It’s so good. Why haven’t I had it in years?” I sliced another bite. “And, no. I mean, I don’t—I mean, maybe? He seems to have changed in so many ways. I guess religion could do that to a person, right?”

            Trisha nodded as she chewed, then swallowed. “That’s what I hear. Did you ever take the boys to church? Earl and I—we did with our kids. It was good.” She started to take another bite, then stopped. “I wonder why we quit?”

            I took a sip of coffee before answering. “Same as Jason and me, I’m betting. The kids get grown . . . and then sleeping in seems to be the thing to do on Sunday mornings.”

            “Probably. After they got old enough, they drove themselves to youth group. Church. Yeah, you’re right, I’m sure. One Sunday morning when it’s easier to snuggle back under the weight of blankets and the next thing you know, you’re out of the habit.”

            I stood from the table, fingers gripping my mug’s handle. “Maybe—maybe if Jason and I had stayed with it . . .” At the sink, I poured out my now-tepid coffee and then started a fresh cup at the Keurig.

            “What?”

            “What, what?”

            “You said that maybe if you and Jason had stayed with it, but then you trailed off. What? What would have happened different?”

            I finished preparing my coffee, stirring the sugar and cream a little more than necessary. “I don’t know, Trisha. Maybe Jason wouldn’t have—”

            She nearly slammed her coffee mug on the table. “Is that what you think?”

            I returned to my chair. “I don’t know.”

            After pushing her empty plate away, she leaned toward me. “Girl, I only met the man two or three times, but—ask Earl, I told him—I knew he was a player.”

            My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

            She folded her arms over her middle then leaned back to cross her legs. I could almost sense her slippered foot bopping up and down beneath the table. “Jeannie. Really? You didn’t see it? Do you think this—Tiffany—was the first?”

            I brought my elbows to the table and raked my fingers into the curls near my temple. “I—I—”

            “Don’t know.”

            I looked at her for a long minute before responding. “I never thought about it. We were so busy all the time. He had his business, I had my teaching job, the boys . . . then the next thing I knew there were college graduations, followed by weddings, grandkids . . . I just never thought about it.” I looked down at my plate, the half-eaten breakfast swimming before my eyes. “I don’t put anything past him though.” Not anymore.

            Trisha took a final sip of coffee before standing. “He just got caught with Tiffany.”

            “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘caught.’”

            Now she stood at the Keurig to make her next cup. “Jeannie, you’ve never said what happened.”

            Again, I only looked at her.

            She raised her hands, one pod of coffee clutched in the right. “Well? What happened?”

Chapter Thirty-four

I pushed my plate away, unable to swallow another bite. “I told Jason I was going to retire from teaching. Things were getting harder. You know?”

            She stirred cream and sugar into her coffee and returned to the table. “I wouldn’t be a teacher now for all the money in the world. Not even a good retirement plan could get me to teach little rug rats.”

            I couldn’t help but smile. Trisha probably couldn’t remember the last time she’d cashed a paycheck. After Earl’s practice was up and going, she quit her nursing career to focus on raising their children. “Jason acted like he was all for me retiring and, well, I foolishly thought that, once that happened, I could help Jason more with his business’s paperwork. I told him that meant he could slow down in the day-to-day. That he could turn some things over to his senior workers. So, I put in my official retirement date, the school gave me a party . . .” I bit my lower lip.

“And?”

“We went home that night and I—I admit I was pretty buzzed with what I thought my future would now look like. I started spilling my plans. The places we could travel. We had plenty of money, I told him. A decent retirement plan of our own, never mind what the State would pay me. ‘Where should we go first?’ I asked. ‘Paris? Or maybe London? I always wanted to see London.’” I blinked before looking across the table to where my childhood best friend now sat blowing steam from her coffee mug, enraptured by my story. “I was sitting on the bed, dressed in probably my sexiest nightgown, thinking I was so irresistible.” I smirked. “Apparently not.”

            “And then?”

            “He stood at the foot of the bed and just said it like he was letting me know the car needed a tune up.” I put on my best “Jason” voice. “‘See, Jeannie, one of my clients—her name is Tiffany. I think I told you about her. She’s a new client.’ I told him I knew who he was talking about. After all, I handled some of his paperwork. Then he says, ‘She brought me lemonade . . .’ and I don’t know, Trisha. Right then and there, I knew.”

I looked out bay window. Two small birds flitted in the bird bath that stood just beyond the patio, near the flower garden. Tiny splashes of water rose and fell around them, delighting them. 

I turned back to Trisha. “Do you think women have some sort of innate antenna? I remember feeling like the blood was draining out of my head. One second, I was oblivious and the next I had full-on understanding of what it meant to live with a cheating husband.”

            “What did you say? I mean, what can you say when your husband tells you that he’s got some other fruit hanging on the vine?”

            I shook my head. “I hate to tell you this part.” I swallowed. “I was crying by that point . . . and I literally got off the bed, got on my knees and begged him to not leave.”

            Trisha’s face grew serious. “What were you thinking?”

            “That I couldn’t live on my own. Manage my own life. I had just retired, Trisha. Took a cut in my monthly income.” I breathed in. Out. “A few days of groveling and then Ben swooped in and . . . lawyers . . . blah, blah, blah.” I shrugged. “And now here we are. I lived a life with that man, gave him two sons, and now I can barely stand to look at him. Think about him.”

            “Then don’t.”

            I swiped at a tear forming in the corner of my eye. “It’s not always easy.”

            “Like I said, he was and always has been a jerk.”

            Those words. I could say them, of course, but it hurt to hear them coming from Trisha. Jason was and would always be the father of my sons.

“Thing is, because of the boys, you’ll always be tied to him,” she said as though she’d read my mind.

            I nodded. “I know. That’s been the worse part of living in Orlando. I keep running into him. So far, never her . . . but him, yeah. And now . . . they’re starting their own little family, and our sons are going to be big brothers to her child, which means she’ll probably start showing up at stuff. I mean, think about it. When we go to school functions for the grandkids, what will I do? How will it be for my boys and my grandchildren to have us sitting on opposite sides of the room?”

            She didn’t answer right away. Then she smiled. “I have an idea.”

            “Uh-oh.”

            Trisha gave me her best cat-like grin. “Move here.”

            “Trisha—”

            “Come on. I’ll help you find a place. You were planning to move from the house soon anyway. Besides, looks like things are going pretty well with you and Mr. Hardy. Do you really think you can just leave now that things are . . .?”

            “I don’t know, Trish.”

            She folded her arms onto the table and locked her eyes with mine. “Jeannie, seriously. Is there a woman alive who doesn’t wonder what would happen if she had a chance with the one who got away?”

            A challenge had been set. “What about you, Trisha? Do you ever think about the one who got away?”

            Again, she grinned at me. “No, I married one of your got-aways. He was the only one I ever really wanted.”

            “Really? Even back—”

            “Even then. You had him. He was crazy for you, but I knew you weren’t really that into him. Then Truck came along and—”

            “And I was a goner.” I jumped. “Oh-my-gosh. I left my phone in my room.” I stood. “I’ll be back in a sec to help with the dishes. I need to check—”

            I darted down the hall as Ben walked through the front door. “Where are you going—”

            “I’ll be right back.” I threw the words over my shoulder, then burst into my room. Sure enough, there lay my phone on my perfectly made bed. And, sure enough, I’d missed a call from Truck.

            I’d also missed a call from Patrick whose voice message said he was just “touching base.”

            Okay. Sure.

            But Truck hadn’t left a message. I called him back and, again, the call went to voice message.

            My shoulders slumped as I went to my bath to brush my teeth. When I returned to the kitchen, now presentable, Trisha had finished cleaning up.  “I told you I’d help.”

            “It’s no biggie. Most of the work is done by the dishwasher. Did you miss a call?”

            I leaned against the counter. “Yeah.” I sighed. “Two actually. One from Truck and one from Patrick.” I cut my eyes over to Trisha who now eyed me. “Truck sent a message this morning that we ‘need to talk.’” I air quoted the last part.

            “Wonder what that means.” She draped a tea towel over the few dishes she’d washed by hand and placed in the drainer. “Sounds ominous.”

            “Don’t it though . . .”

            “Did I hear Ben come in?”

            “Yeah. I think he’s upstairs in the shower.”

            Trisha walked across the room where her tablet lay on the table. “So, while you were getting all spiffy, I’ve done a little web surfing.”

            I crossed the room to see what she had to show me. “Real estate.”

            “Local real estate.” She practically beamed.

            I crossed my arms. “Trisha—”

            “Hear me out.” She swiped left then held the tablet’s face toward mine. “This is the most adorable cottage—one bedroom, one bath—right near Betty Blue Lake.”

            My gosh. I hadn’t thought of Betty Blue Lake in years. We’d spent summers swimming in its warm water, dodging fish—and other slimy things—who lived beneath the surface year-round. As teens we’d built bonfires and roasted hot dogs and made S’mores. Then, as young people often did in those days, someone would bring out a guitar and we’d sing folk tunes—“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.”

            Well, hallelujah.

            Still—

            “How did you do this so quickly?”

            She shrugged. “I may have been looking last night . . .”

            “Trisha.” I laughed. “I just don’t think I’m ready to buy anything—”

            “It’s not for sale.”

            I blinked. “Then why—”

            “Because it is for rent. And it’s so reasonably priced . . . and we’ve got an appointment to go see it tomorrow.”

            “Trisha!” I started laughing. After all, what else could I do? This woman was relentless.

            “Morning, girls.” I turned toward the voice of my big brother as he ambled into the room and straight for the Keurig. His hair was slicked back from his post-walk shower, and he smelled of soap and some kind of woodsy body spray. “What are we talking about?” But before I could answer, he pointed his attention toward Trisha. “Mugs?”

            “In the cabinet in front of you.” She stood. “I’ve got whole milk, half-n-half, some flavored creamer Earl likes . . .”

            “Black is good.”

            Ah, my brother. A man’s man. Drinking caffeine in the way of an old cowboy . . . I couldn’t have stopped the smile spreading across my face even if I’d tried. “By the way…” I turned to him fully. “We’re having dinner with Truck tonight.”

            Ben pressed the necessary buttons to make a cup of coffee to his liking. “Ah. Bring it on.”

Chapter Thirty-five

Other than quick texts, Truck and I weren’t able to have the “we need to talk” conversation that day. Instead, we confirmed when and where we were going to meet for dinner, which, as it turned out, was another restaurant Truck had financially saved from collapse. This one—Greek, with white linen tablecloths, silverware wrapped in gray linen napkins, and thick smoky glassware. Authentic music skipped between the patron’s dining room conversations, the tunes piped from overhead speakers, and the aroma of garlic and onions met us as soon as Ben opened the wide, white-painted front door for me.

            Truck sat at a corner table, but stood as soon as I entered, the carpet thick beneath my sandals. His smile reached across the dimly lit room, instantly putting me at ease, although the meaning behind his ominous text message still hung at the forefront of my thoughts. I looked back at Ben whose expression remained stoic. He was the big brother who, even though I was certainly old enough to take care of myself, wanted Truck to know that if he hurt me again, this time Ben really would track him down. This time there really would be the devil to pay.

            “Behave,” I whispered.

            But before Ben could retort, Truck met us halfway in the crowded room, his hand extended for the expected shake between gentlemen. “You must be Ben.”

            “And you must be Truck.”

            “And I must be Jeannie.” I looked up at Truck who bent forward to kiss my cheek. As always, he smelled enticing, his cologne spicy and warm. He had dressed in dark jeans, a gray tee, and a black blazer, which made him look every inch a man comfortable in his own skin.

            Then again, he always had been.

            “You look lovely,” he told me.

            I lowered my lashes. “Thank you.”

            “Then again, you always do.”

            Before I could respond or Ben could harrumph, Truck swept his arm toward where he’d been sitting. “We’re over here.”

            Within minutes, we toasted the evening with glasses of the chilled white wine Truck had chosen. After an initially tense quarter hour, my old high school beau had Ben practically wrapped around his little finger with talk of which wine—krasi—paired perfectly with the foods of each course. When the fish was served, the conversation turned to the sport of fishing. I had finally relaxed when, after Truck excused himself for a moment, Ben leaned across the table and said, “You have my permission to run off with this man if you really, really want to.”

            As we exited the restaurant—again without Truck having to pay—Truck extended his hand in a goodnight gesture toward Ben, who gladly reciprocated. “Thank you for dinner.” Ben spoke around a genuine smile. “This was a nice evening.”

            Truck nodded, his eyes hooded. “Ben . . . would you mind terribly if I drive Jeannie back to the house?”

            Ben’s smile morphed into a grin as he turned to me. “I suppose that’s up to my little sister.”

            This time, I kissed Ben’s cheek. “That will be fine, big brother.”

            As we watched Ben amble toward his car, Truck called after him, “We’ll be right behind you.”

            I slid my arm around Truck’s waist as his arm wrapped around my shoulders. “Will we now?” My eyes slanted and teased.

            Truck nudged me toward where his Jeep sat under the glow of a streetlamp. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Jeannie. I wouldn’t want to sully your reputation.”

            “Again?”

            He laughed easily, then reached into his coat pocket for his key fob. With a quick press of a button, the front and back lights blinked red, and the doors unlocked. After helping me into the passenger’s side, Truck made a show of buckling my seatbelt, then turned his face for the kiss I’d been wanting to give him since we’d first entered the restaurant.

            When he ended the magic of the moment, I whispered, “That was nice.”

            “Very.”

            Our eyes met and held, and, for a moment, I felt transported to our days at Albermarle High, to being in Tortoise, and of emotions neither one of us were ready to handle. If I could do it all again . . .

            The thought caught hold, and I blinked, which caused him to do the same. “I’d best stay true to my words to your brother.” He stood straight.

            “If you feel that you must.” Again, my eyes teased. Or, perhaps, they merely tested.

            “I feel that I must.” He gave me half a grin, but I knew—the tone of his voice had grown serious. Almost sad.

            When he settled himself behind the steering wheel and pushed START, he turned to me. “We may have a small problem.” He put the Jeep in REVERSE.

            “Is that why we need to talk?”

            “It is.”

            I took a deep breath. “I’m listening.”

            Truck remained quiet until we reached a red light. As we idled at the four-way intersection, he reached for my hand, which I gladly gave.

            “Your hand is cold,” I told him.

            “Yours is warm.”

            I placed my other hand over ours. “Tell me.”

            The light went from red to green and Truck eased the automobile along the way. “Do you remember me telling you that I was talking to Joey last night when you called?”

            “Of course.”

            “Seems Catherine has found out about you.”

            About me. What about me? “Meaning?”

            “She knows who you are, Jeannie. Exactly who you are.”

            I had to think for a moment. Hadn’t he told her when she barged into the restaurant, that I was a friend from high school? So where was the problem? “I’m not following, Truck.”

            “She’s always known, Jeannie. She’s always known that there was a girl in high school, the one who got away, the one I never fully got over.”

            Pride now washed in the tub of my confusion. “The one who got away, huh?”

            His hand squeezed mine. “Don’t kid. You don’t know her, Jeannie. She can make your life more miserable than you might imagine.”

            I pressed my lips together then spoke. “She’s made your life miserable.”

            Again, he slowed for a traffic light, one going from yellow to red. “More than you might imagine.”

            “Tell me.”

            But Truck remained silent until we reached the driveway, pulling in behind Ben’s rental car. Once he’d released my hand to place the Jeep in PARK, he shifted to face me, his hand reaching for mine again.

            I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned toward him, which brought a smile.

            “Tell me.” This time my words came in a whisper.

            “Catherine was a lot like you . . .”

            I furrowed my brow. “How?”

            “Came from the right people. A pretty girl. I had gone to work for an antiques dealer—Mr. Carroway—as a driver. He’d go to all these sales, then come back with a handful of receipts. My job was to drive the U-Haul, get the purchases loaded up so they wouldn’t get damaged, then bring them back to the warehouse . . . stock them. Eventually, he—Mr. Carroway—taught me about cataloguing. And little by little, he taught me the business of business.” He blinked a few times, then shook his head as though he were pushing away a memory. “Anyway, Catherine’s family owned one of the estate sale businesses over in Kentucky. She met me at the loading dock and—second only to you—I thought she was about the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”

            I pictured the woman I had met that first night Truck and I had gone out since my return to town for the reunion. Tall. Big boned. Dyed-black hair, icy blue eyes, pale skin . . . way too much makeup. I didn’t think we looked a thing alike and said so.

            “No, you don’t look alike. But she was pretty. Soft, kind features. And smart.”

            Soft, kind features? Were we talking about the same woman?

            Truck chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking.”

            “Do ya now?”

            “The Catherine you met is not the Catherine I met. But time . . . time made her angry. I—”

            “Why?”

            Pain crossed his features, and he closed his eyes against it. “Me, Jeannie.”

            “You?”

            “Yes, me. I can be—could be . . .”

            I waited, but he said nothing, his eyes remaining as they were. “What?”

            Then his eyes opened. “She tried—but she couldn’t be . . .”

            I waited as long as I dared. “Be?”

            “You, Jeannie. She couldn’t be you. And I made sure she knew it.”

Chapter Thirty-six

“How? How did you make sure she knew it?”

            He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed in the pale light of the moon that now filtered through the windshield’s tinting. “When we first married, Jeannie, I was drinking. A lot. And often. I’d managed to hide my excesses pretty well when we were dating . . .” His smile came short and fast, but his eyes stayed on mine. “A man can do more than he gives himself credit for when he’s young and he wants something.”

            A man could do more than he gave himself credit for when he was middle aged and wanted something too. If Jason had proven nothing to me, he had at least proven that. “But not after you married.”

            “After we married, all bets were off. To be honest with you, Jeannie, I’m not sure how she put up with me as long as she did. Then . . . when I realized she wasn’t—wasn’t you . . . when I realized that all the Jim Beam in the world wasn’t going to change her into you or undo my past mistakes, I . . .” This time his eyes closed before fluttering open again to find mine. “I started looking somewhere else.”

            It only took a moment to understand. “An affair.”

            He chuckled sorrowfully. “If only.”

            My heart hurt and for more reasons than one. With those two words, I was no longer tied only to Truck. Now I had something in common with his ex-wife. “More than one affair.”

            His nod was slight. “But once Catherine started showing real good, you know, in her pregnancy with Joey, I came to my senses. I replaced the bottle with working longer and harder than I ever had in my life. I was determined, Jeannie, to be a good husband. Then Joey was born and I meant to be the best daddy the world had ever known.”

            I forced a smile. “And you obviously are.”

            “By the time Joey was six or seven years old, I was more daddy than husband and more employee than either one of those two. Catherine . . . she had simply had enough. She filed for divorce, moved out of our little house, and took Joey with her.” Truck’s eyes filled with tears, something I had to ask myself if I’d ever seen before. The answer came soon enough; I had not. “The worst part was her taking Joey, if I was honest. And I was.”

            “But then you remarried.”

            Truck laid his head back against the driver’s window and laughed as though he were coughing up a bad memory. “Oh, yes. In those years, I’d gone from worker to manager and then when Mr. Carroway said he was retiring and wanting to sell the business to me, I jumped at the opportunity. He’d made it a success, but I had a dream of what you see now, and I knew I could make it happen. Seemed God just smiled down on this ole boy.”

            “God again,” I whispered.

            Truck blinked. “What?”

            “You sure do talk about God a lot . . .”

            “Do I?”

            “Well, maybe not a lot.”

            “He definitely has had his hand on me.” This time, his smile was full-on. “Wouldn’t my old grandpa be proud.”

            Right then, I didn’t have words, so I said nothing as I tried to catch my thoughts in the net of my brain, to put them order, and have them make sense. Then, “So what happened? What brought you and Catherine back together?”

            His brow shot up. “That same success. Catherine now saw dollar signs, and she used Joey to make sure that all I saw was signs of a family, back together again. It didn’t take long, though . . .” His words faded into the hum of the air conditioning that continued to pipe into the cab.

            “What didn’t take long? I thought—I thought you were married for a while the second time.”

            “More in name only than anything else. I still couldn’t put Catherine in a Jeannie-shaped hole, and I still worked too many hours and then . . . Joey turned nineteen—she was off doing her own thing and—Catherine—well, Catherine was off doing exactly what I’d done previously. I may as well have been the laughingstock of the town, except that—except I’d managed to find favor in the eyes of many of the men whose businesses I’d invested in. Men who were good enough to be straight up with me. Tell me what was happening right under my nose if I’d stopped working long enough to notice.” He ran a hand over his face. “With that guy I told you about. Dell. But by then the damage was wide enough and deep enough. This time, I filed for divorce, found her a nice little apartment and had her things moved there while she was off in New York on one of her shopping sprees.” He air-quoted the last two words. “She called me from the airport to tell me she was on her way home and I told her that her home had been moved. She’d find the key to her new place with the next-door neighbor—a Mrs. Shilling.”

            On one hand, I found his strategy inventive, but on the other, I found it distasteful. Jason had, at the very least, left me with the house—a place I still needed to sell. Soon.

            “You’re not saying much.”

            I didn’t have much to say. “I’m listening.” My words seemed to echo around us.

            “This time, the divorce was long and ugly. I tried to keep things fairy civil for Joey’s sake, but at some point, Joey told me to just ‘go for it.’ So I paid a lawyer way too much money and we aired every inch of dirty laundry we had.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, then continued. “During that time, Jeannie, I met a woman—a nice woman—and we began seeing each other. But Catherine . . . Catherine drug her name through the mud enough that she—well, she said her tearful goodbyes and off she went.”

            He closed his eyes again, this time for several minutes while I waited, counting them.  When he opened them again, he straightened. “She’ll do the same to you, Jeannie. Especially now that she knows who you are. That you are that Jeannie. If you stay here, you’ll end up—I don’t know—hating me and—”

            “I could never hate you, Truck. I’ve loved you too long for that.”

            The air grew still between us. “I’m not sure I’m worth what she’ll do to you. To us.”

            I released his hand and brought mine up to cup the side of his face. “You’re worth far more than you’ve ever realized. Always have been.”

            He turned his face to kiss my palm then reached for my hand and pulled me closer to him. “Teach—”

            His kiss was tender but filled with mourning, although for what I wasn’t sure. What we’d lost all those years ago? What we might have gained and might possibly lose again? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I only knew that I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—let anyone or anything take this man from me.

            Not again.

Chapter Thirty-seven

“So, you love me, huh?”

            We walked hand in hand toward Earl and Trisha’s front door where the front porch lights illuminated the patterned brick below. I stopped, stared up at him. “What?”

            Truck grinned at me. “Back there.” He jerked his head toward the driveway. “When we were talking. You said you’d loved me for too long to hate me. The way you said it . . . well, I don’t know, Miss Jeannie. I’m thinking you said you still love me.” His smile grew as wide as his eyes, mischievous.

            I tugged him toward the porch. “You, Mr. Harding, are a menace to society.”

            Truck laughed easily, the weight of our prior conversation now lifted from his shoulders. “But you love me.”

            We climbed the steps and stopped beneath the hum of insects drawn to the light. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

            He kissed me again, soundly this time, without regret. “What if we just stay out here and do this all night?” he asked against my lips.

            “I’d say you’d best get some mosquito spray first.”

            Truck swatted at the air around us and frowned. “You are correct. Sadly correct, but you’re correct nonetheless.”

            “Call me tomorrow?”

            “I’ll call you tonight as soon as I get home. How’s that?”

            “Even better.” I kissed his cheek. “Drive safely.”

            He started down the steps, then turned and winked. “By the way . . . I love you, too.”

            My heart danced. “I never said—”

            “Oh, yes, you did.” He dashed back up to the porch, scooped me up and hurried us both into the shadows where he kissed me again, leaving me breathless with laughter. “Admit it.” He squeezed, his fingers digging in for a tickle. “Admit it or I’ll tickle it out of you.”

            My laughter carried into the night air and I sighed as I wrapped my arms tighter around him. “I love you, Truck Hardy. I have loved you since senior year and I’ve never stopped. Even when I thought I had, I hadn’t. And I believe I will love you until my dying breath.” I dipped my head back to look into his eyes. “There. Happy?”

            “Beyond happy. There’s another word for it, but I don’t know—”

            “Euphoric.”

            His kiss was sweet and brief. “Gosh, woman, you are a bad influence. Get yourself back in that house before the rumor committee gets in on this.”

            I giggled all the way back to the porch, watching as he returned to the Jeep. As soon as he was inside, I waved, then opened the door and stepped quietly to my room.

***

The cottage on Betty Blue Lake had, at one time, been the mother-in-law guesthouse of the owners, whose home sprawled in odd mid-century-modern angles several yards away. I didn’t know the owners—a younger couple in their forties—but I remembered the house. “Didn’t this used to be—”

            Trisha nodded as she shot me a look that said we’d talk about it later.

            As we moved from the front of the main house, past a pool whose blue water sparkled under the morning sunlight, Jennifer Vanderson spoke in excited tones about the place. “Marcus’s mother lived in the pool house for a while,” she said, her smile bright and wide. She tossed thick, curled blond tresses over one shoulder as she glanced back at us. “But then she went to live with her daughter in Colorado.”

            “I take it Marcus is your husband,” I said.

            She swung around then, stopping long enough to plant her hands on her hips, fingers splayed. “Oh, gosh. Yes. I’m sorry. He’s not here right now—actually, his job is to drive my mother-in-law to Colorado and my job is to get the place ready to rent and then rent it out. I’ve gotten the first part done, now I’m hoping to finish up the second.”

            Trisha and I smiled at the young woman who appeared to have oodles of energy. “So,” I began, “when will it be ready?”

            “It’s ready now.”

            “And it’s fully furnished?”

            Jennifer threw up her hands. “Gracious. Come on in and I’ll show you. Nothing fancy, but I think it’s nice.” She turned and charged forward with me staring first after her and then at Trisha who stifled laughter.

            For certain, the cottage’s furnishings were ideal and, as Jennifer had said, nothing fancy but certainly adequate. The entire area consisted of no more than five-hundred square feet (if I had to guess). The front door opened to a living/dining room combo, the galley kitchen just beyond it. A small hallway led to a bedroom with the same gleaming hardwood floors as the rest of the place, which wrapped around to a tiled bathroom that sported a claw-foot tub with shower. Jennifer pointed to the far wall with double louver doors. “That’s the linen closet on one side and a stackable washer and dryer on the other.”

            My eyes widened. “Oh. Perfect.”

            She crossed her arms. “Do you mind telling me if you’re looking for long-term or . . .”

            I smiled to calm whatever fears she might have. “I live in Orlando, but I grew up here and I’d like to divide my time between the two now. Would that be a problem?”

            “I don’t think so. But I do have to ask for references and . . .” She looked around the more-than-spacious bathroom. “I’ll need first and last month’s rent and—”

            “That’s not a problem.” I glanced at Trisha who was now grinning like the proverbial mule eating corn.

            “And I need to go over a few rules, which seems silly seeing as you’re older than . . . me, I mean.”

            I crossed my arms and swallowed my giggle. “Well, I can give you references if you don’t mind Dr. and Mrs. Corbett here and then there’s a friend of mine, a businessman from Florence. As for being older, I promise you there won’t be any wild parties or drugs or excessive drinking or—”

            Jennifer brought her hands to red cheeks. “I’m sure you’re fine. I’m sure my mama wouldn’t—”

            Trisha interrupted the awkwardness. “Did your mother grow up here?”

            “Oh, yeah. She was Kate Johnson before she married my daddy.”

            Trisha looked at me and me at her, both of us showing off half-turned smiles.

            “I believe we went to school with your mother.” I spoke the words as though I wasn’t sure but maybe . . . when in truth, I knew exactly who her mother had been. “Wasn’t this the house she grew up in?”

            Sadness settled in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. My grandparents built this house, and Mama grew up here and then I grew up here because my grandparents raised me. Gram and PaPa lived here until they passed away and left the house to me. It’s a great house with good bones, Marcus says, so we did some remodeling and moved in rather than selling it.”

            I nodded slowly in understanding. “I’m sorry for the way you received the house, but it looks like you’ve fixed it up nice.”

            Jennifer sighed. “Tell you what. If you’re ready, I don’t think I’ll really need references. I’ve got the contract in the kitchen, and we can sign it if you’d like.”

            I nodded. “One more question if you don’t mind. Is the contract for six months, a year, or—”

            My new landlord breezed past Trisha and me. “It’s for as long as you’d like it to be. I can fill in that blank line quick as a wink.”

            As if on cue, Trisha winked at me as we followed behind. A half hour later, after we buckled ourselves into her car, she let out a “whoop!” She started the car, put it in Reverse, and began to back up. “Truck is gonna be thrilled.”

            “Ben is gonna be . . .” I couldn’t finish. “And my sons are gonna be even more . . .”

            Trisha turned the car out of the driveway and onto the street. “But Truck is gonna be thrilled.” She shot a cheesy grin my way. “And I’m . . .”

            “Euphoric?”

            “Yes! I’m euphoric.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

“Kate Johnson.” I spoke the name in a most matter-of-fact tone that afternoon in a phone call placed to Truck. I had curled up in a chair in my bedroom at Earl and Trisha’s and placed the call to him nearly the minute we got back to the house.

            He, of course, was at work. Just because it was a Saturday didn’t mean he, a business owner, could stay home and be lazy. Not that Truck had ever been lazy.

            “Who?”

            I pretended to laugh. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember Kate Johnson.”

            Silence penetrated the miles between us. “Oh,” he finally said. “Her. Yeah, I think I do. What about her?”

            “Did you ever go to her house . . . back in high school when you two were a thing? Before you and I were a thing?”

            “Nope. Her parents were not as welcoming as—hold on . . . yeah?” I heard Mary Lynn’s voice in the background, filling Truck in on some business matter. Then, “Say hello to Jeannie.” I imagined him sitting at his office desk, holding the phone out toward her. “Hey, Jeannie,” she called out.

            “Hey, back.”

            The shuffling of Truck putting the phone to his ear brought him back to our conversation. “No. I never went to her house. Why do you ask?”

            “Well …” I twirled a strand of hair around one finger. “Today, I went to the house she grew up in. The one she lived in after she married. The one she raised her daughter in and her daughter and her husband now live in.”

            “Why’d you do that?”

            “Because I’m going to rent the mother-in-law cottage out back. Well, I’m not going to. I actually signed a lease this morning.”

            “Do you mean—”

            “I’m moving here, Truck. Part time, anyway. Trisha talked me into it. The place is furnished, not fabulously, but furnished, so I don’t have to worry about that. And this way I can live here and, I dunno . . .”

            “Will you sell the house in Orlando?”

            I continued with the hair twirling, this time more emphatically. “I was going to do that anyway. I think what I want to do is get a small apartment there so I will have a place when I want to visit the boys and my grandchildren but also have a place here. I have finally figured out that this is home, Truck.” You are home, I wanted to say, but I refrained.

            “Wow. So, um, what do your sons say about this?”

            The hair twirling stopped as I straightened in the chair. “They don’t know yet. I’m—I’m planning to fly home early next week. I need to get the house in order. Get it on the market. Find an apartment there. A storage unit.” I laughed. “I have about a million things going on in my head right now, Mr. Hardy. Next step is to get one of those composition books and start making notes.”

            “And Ben? What does he say?”

            “He doesn’t know either. He and Earl are out playing golf. But when they return, I’ll tell him. So . . . what do you think?”

            I felt more than heard his sigh. “Well, I’m all for it, if that’s what you’re asking. I just want to make sure you’re sure.”

            “About?”

            “Everything. Moving. Leaving your sons. Your grandchildren. Me?”

            “Honestly, no. I’m not sure about leaving my children and my grandchildren in Florida while I move back to Maryland. But it feels right, you know?”

            “And me? Are you sure about me?”

            “Oh, Bubba. You, I’m one-hundred percent sure of.”

            But the truth was, I was not a hundred percent sure. Something had hammered at me since the night before. While married to Catherine, Truck had had affairs. Not one. More than one. He’d said as much. Jason had also had affairs. As Trisha had pointed out, Tiffany wasn’t his first—a tiny little truth I’d always known but kept hidden from myself for way too long.

            But Truck said he hadn’t exactly been in love with Catherine. He loved her, sure, but in love . . . that was a different animal altogether. Still, something about Truck seemed to have changed, most especially since our time together those last two months of senior year. Not just in years. He had, in many ways, become the man I’d hoped—back then—he’d become. Back in high school, he had put on a pretense of being some dumb ole hick. In the process of trying to convince everyone else, he’d convinced himself.

            But not me. I’d known then what I knew now: Truck Hardy was one smart cookie.

            I also knew what he’d, little by little, shown me. I’d seen the way he read people, the way he knew antiques, the way he could make an engine run or run better, and how he was perfectly at ease on a farm the way he had the day we’d picked up the hitchhiker. The one who lived on a barely surviving farm. The one whose truck didn’t work until L. P. Hardy looked under its hood. L. P Hardy, who then milked the young man’s cow like he did it every day of his life so as to help that same young man get caught up on chores. Truck Hardy who’d said he’d only read one book in his life—The Old Man and the Sea—but who then went on to quote Catcher in the Rye.

            And sure, on that awful night when he’d sent me home in the rain via taxi because I “wasn’t ready yet” even though I’d certainly led him to believe I was, the night when he’d called me some really awful names and then hollered at me as I left his crummy apartment that if I didn’t “want to fight the bull, stay out of the ring,” . . . that night he’d found another girl. This one ready, willing, and able. This one from another county, though. Because at the very heart of himself, Truck had wanted to make sure not to hurt what little bit of reputation I had left.

            No. Whatever goodness and smartness had existed in Truck Hardy back then had developed into a maturity I had believed in almost from the moment I’d met him. This Truck Hardy was no longer that Truck Hardy. This man was no longer that boy.

            “I’m sure of you too.” His words brought me back. “Well, pretty sure.”

            I curled my upper lip and crossed my eyes as if he could see me. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

            After clearing his throat, he added, “Are we doing anything tonight?”

            “You are not on my calendar, sir.”

            “Let’s rectify that. When does Ben fly out?”

            Oh. Yes. My big brother. “Tomorrow morning. So, maybe I should spend the evening with him.”

            “That would be the proper thing to do.” The chuckle in his throat brought a smile to my face. To my whole body, really.

            “Well, we must be proper.”

            “But tomorrow night—”

            “We don’t have to be proper?”

            “Why Miss Travis—” The deep Southern twang rang in his voice the way it had back when he used to use it to make me laugh. “—the way you do go on.”

            In other words, I scolded myself, stay out of the ring if you don’t want to fight the bull.

Chapter Thirty-nine

I saw Truck long enough on Saturday to show him my new “home.”

            We talked only a little about Kate Johnson, the girl he’d “gone with” back in high school, a girl who—if I remembered correctly (and I did)—had worn entirely too much makeup for her own good and had chosen as an act of defiance to run with members of a less than savory crowd.

            Truck being one of them.

            Which brought us to the conversation about my own relationship with Truck, but I assured him that ours had nothing to do with rebellion against my parents and everything to do with the way he’d made me feel. Like, for the first time in my life, alive. Not just alive but also living.

            If that made any sense.

            Truck stood in the middle of the living room / dining room combination, hands on his hips, surveying. “You’re right about the furniture.”

            I shrugged. “It’s not meant to be forever.” Heat rushed to my face, a blush I hoped Truck didn’t see. “I don’t mean—I’m not trying to insinuate—”

            Truck walked over to where I stood near what appeared to be an unused fireplace and wrapped his arms around me. “I know, but let’s not abandon the idea.”

            Now who was playing in the bullfighter’s ring?

            I slipped out of his arms and playfully stuck a finger toward his nose. “I promised no wild parties and no overnight guests.”

            I hadn’t actually promised the second part, but the rule seemed plausible.

            Truck laughed. “What are we, sixteen?”

            I moved to a safe distance. “Do you want to see the rest of the place? Maybe I can purchase some things from your business and spruce things up a little?”

            Truck followed me to the back of the cottage. “It wouldn’t take much.” He pushed down on the mattress. “Seriously, sweetheart, I’d replace this.”

“You think?”

“No telling how old it is.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll add that to my list of things to do.” I’d bought the composition book and had already filled two pages.

Truck then pointed to one of the corners opposite the bed. “I have a piece in one of the booths that would look nice there. If you’d like, we can go now, and I can show you.”

            I clapped like a child of five. “Yes, please.”

            He turned me around by my shoulders then herded me toward the front door. “Let’s go then, Miss Jeannie. I’ll drive.”

***

Truck outranked Trisha in a faux bid to drive me to the airport on Tuesday. After a tearful goodbye and a kiss at the terminal’s departure curb, I found my way to the nearest Starbucks where I ordered myself a London Fog. An hour later, I stared out the window to the tiny lifeforms below, searching for what might be Truck’s place of business or his house. But I gave up as my vision grew misty and instead closed my eyes and fell into a fitful sleep during the remainder of the flight.

            In Orlando’s international airport, I exited the plane and into a great throng of vacationers wearing Mickey Mouse ears or sporting Sea World tee shirts. Children, now exhausted from their week in the Happiest Place on Earth, wailed in their mother’s arms or lay on the carpeted floor, whining.

            I kept my focus on getting to the gate link train that would shoot me toward the main terminal and baggage claim where all good pieces of luggage took their sweet time to arrive. Finally, having secured my oversized suitcase, I wheeled toward the outside. The sliding glass doors slid open, and I stepped into thick, hot air.

            I blew out a long breath and looked for the Uber I’d sent for.

            A half hour later I stepped into the cool foyer of my home.

            My home. But not for long.

            I sent a quick text to my sons letting them know I had arrived back safe and sound and that we’d touch base tomorrow. I’m extremely tired, I wrote, although that was far from it. Truth was, I didn’t have the nerve to face them. Not yet.

            After looking through the mail my neighbor had agreed to bring in for me while I was away, I took my luggage upstairs to my bedroom—the same room where Jason had told me he was leaving me for a woman who made him lemonade—then into the bath to start a hot tub full of bubbles. As it filled with lavender-scented relief, I sent Truck a text.

            I’M HOME.

            Within less than thirty-seconds, his reply lit up my screen.

            I WONDERED. I KNEW THE PLANE LANDED. I KEPT WATCH.

            Of course he had. Then, before I could answer:

            I MISS YOU ALREADY.

            I burst into tears. This man. Whatever effect he’d had on me so many years ago had not lessened. I loved him. I loved him now with a new and brilliant kind of love. A love that understood what I could not have possibly known at seventeen. So then . . .

            I MISS YOU ALREADY TOO. I’M GOING TO TAKE A HOT BATH AND GO TO BED.

            I set my phone on the granite vanity countertop and began to peel out of my clothes, allowing them to pool at my feet. When my phone dinged again, I picked it up, taking it with me as I sat on the edge of the tub and turned off the water’s flow.

            A quick glance showed a cute emoji, devilishly so.

            MR. HARDY!

            I grinned as I pressed SEND, then stepped into the water, sinking beneath its foamy scented bubbles until it covered my shoulders. After taking a deep breath, I clasped my nose and plunged all the way under.

***

That night I dreamed we were back at Albermarle High—Truck, Trisha, Earl, me. All of us. Kate, Ray, Mac, Wally. In the dream, Truck—who was the young man of nineteen I’d met so long ago—stood in one of the school hallways yelling at our old English teacher, Mrs. Strickland, because she was flunking him for not turning in his final term paper according to her directives. He yelled back, telling her that these were his thoughts on Romeo and Juliet. I stood beside him—the old me—my hands and eyes pleading, asking her why she couldn’t see the smarts he had, even if they didn’t fit the mold. “He’s going to be very successful one day,” I bellowed. But Mrs. Strickland just shook her head and kept on shaking her head, saying nothing.

            And then, in the way of dreams, Truck and I were standing on the platform at the edge of the cliff overlooking the waterfalls where we’d gone after Prom, him in his “monkey suit” and me in my dotted Swiss formal gown. As he threw his cuff links into the water below, I tried to catch them, unsuccessfully. You got me into this mother, he was saying, much as he had before, but I’m never wearing one again. The emotions that had swirled around us that night spun around me again. Above the waterfall’s spray I kept screaming at him, telling him how much I loved him, begging him to tell me the same.

            And then we jumped from the height of the bridge to the warm, churning water below, plunging within its depths. My hand reached for his and his mine. At first, we couldn’t find each other, but then we did. I kicked but my legs got tangled in the skirt of my dress, but he pulled until we broke above the surface, both of us gasping.

            Suddenly, we were in my old bedroom, the one on Bently Road. My parents were gone. The doors were locked. We had found our way to my bed, but instead of welcoming us, the mattress and Peter Max spread began to swallow us. Get off of me, my mind shouted as I pushed against Truck’s shoulders. But when he moved toward the door telling me he had joined the Marines, I ran after him, jumping onto his back. “You can’t leave! You can’t leave! Don’t ever leave!”

            But he was gone, and in his place stood Ben who untangled me from his young body. “Hey, Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Calm down. He’ll be back.” Then he laughed. “In about forty-five years.”

            “You make a joke out of everything,” I bellowed at him. “Everything!”

I bolted out of my second-floor bedroom, leaving behind the princess phone and the Peter Max décor, running down the stairs to the first level and out the front door where Truck, behind Tortoise’s steering wheel, backed out of the driveway, his eyes locked on mine. But mine were on the guardian angel swinging from the rearview mirror, its wings illuminated and waving as if about to take flight. “I can’t live without you,” I screamed, although I wasn’t sure if it were to Truck or the car ornament.

“You can’t go where I’m going!” Truck’s expression held a mixture of frustration and anger, all pointed at me. “You can’t, Jeannie. You can’t!”

            I jerked awake as dawn crept through the curtains of my bedroom window. My legs had gotten tangled in the sheets, and my sweat-soaked pajamas clung to my skin.

Chapter Forty

I drank my morning cup of coffee while leaning over the kitchen counter, my forehead planted in the palm of my hand. Not the most graceful of ways to drink a morning brew, but the only way I could keep my head from blowing off my neck.

            In the previous night’s dream—or had it been during the early-morning hours—the memories and the emotions that went with them had rushed back to me. Why they hadn’t before—at Trisha and Earl’s or while with Truck—why they waited until I had come back to the place Jason and I had called “home,” was anyone’s guess. A certified shrink couldn’t unravel this case. Only I could figure it out. Or at least try.

            Back in high school, Truck and I had loved each other in a way we’d never loved anyone before. Yet we’d walked away from that relationship, mostly to survive. Truck knew it, even when I didn’t. We spent the night of our last date on the Potomac listening to a classical orchestra playing Bach and Schubert. Not exactly a Bubba Hardy kind of thing to do. I’d planned to end things between us because Ben had said that cutting all ties was right. Just two little words, he’d said. Good and bye.

But Truck beat me to the punch. “Jeannie,” he’d said, speaking my name so sweetly and gently I could have melted right back to square one with him, “I’m going away for a little while.” He’d made the declaration as though he wasn’t planning to stay gone long. Like, I’m going away for a week to ten days . . . but we both knew he meant for good. “If you want to come with me . . .” he started but never quite finished the sentence because, again, we both were fully aware that what I wanted or what he wanted no longer mattered. He was leaving for God-only-knew-where and I was leaving for Darcey College in the fall and, chances were, we’d never see each other again.

            Which probably would have remained true had I not gone to the reunion.

            I took another slurp of coffee.

The really funny thing was that Truck had wanted for me, in the end, exactly what I wanted for me—to be a teacher. A good teacher. The best teacher, he’d said. And I had been. For a while, it may have been enough. But then Jason . . .

I went out to the garage, opened my car door, and slid into the driver’s seat, then removed the guardian angel from the rearview mirror and held it to my chest. The anguish of that last night on the river and all the days and nights that followed pushed down on my chest, leaving me nearly unable to breathe. I gasped a few times, trying to keep the crying jag that threatened to rise to the surface, but it did no good.

            Only the stifling heat and my need for a tissue got me back inside. I brought the angel with me, still holding it to my chest. I drank a few more sips of coffee before heading to the bathroom to take a shower, to wash the night sweats and the garage humidity away. All the while a question rolled around in my mind. Had the dream been a premonition of things to come or simply a nightmare of what had been? Could I leave my children and grandchildren behind in Florida, move back to Maryland, albeit parttime, for no good reason at all? I mean, in the end? Again? Truck had said that Catherine would make our lives miserable, and I’d assured him I could get through whatever she threw my way.

            But perhaps what he’d meant was that he couldn’t.

            No. I shook my head under the spray of a cool shower spray, the water plastering my hair to my head. No. He’d told me he loved me. I’d told him that I loved him. And God knew I did. Always had in some obscure sort of way.

            God again.

            I lathered my entire body with body wash and allowed one more memory to wash over me. Shortly before graduation, shortly before Truck ended things between us on the Potomac, I’d gone, alone, to a church service. This was during the time I thought I might be pregnant with Truck’s child, a time when he’d declared that we’d get married, and I’d determined that we would not. I wasn’t ready for such a commitment, and he surely wasn’t, even though he believed otherwise. I hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure what I was doing there, sitting on the hard pew, studying the stained-glass windows and listening to the good church folk around me singing hymns. But I knew that, with all my regrets, I had no regrets, which made no sense whatsoever.

            But most things at seventeen make little sense.

            So I asked God to forgive me for everything I’d ever done wrong in my entire life, knowingly or unknowingly. Still, I’d left feeling as though nothing had really changed because I knew, deep down I knew, that whatever wrongs I’d done, I’d probably do them again.

            I turned off the shower, stepped out, and wrapped myself in a towel.

            Perhaps what Truck had said recently was true—perhaps it wasn’t a one and done kind of thing. One dunk in the river and all was well. Maybe we just needed to hand every day over to God and see what the two of us could do with it.

***

My boys showed up shortly before noon. Between the shower and their arrival, I called my realtor to start the ball rolling to get the house on the market sooner rather than later and then called an “apartment hunter.” One of those people whose sole professional objective is to get you into the temporary home of your dreams.

            She and I had an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon.

            I’d also texted Truck to inform him of my progress. He texted back:

            HOWEVER LONG THIS IS GOING TO TAKE IS TOO LONG FOR ME.

            I was about to reply when the front door opened, and two sour-looking men walked in. “Hey, Mom.” They spoke the words in unison, as though rehearsed.     

            The house was almost shotgun in style—a walk into the front door led to a wide foyer. Off to one side was a rarely used living room, to the other a dining room we sometimes used, and then the end opened up to a modern kitchen that overlooked a much-used family room. From there, French doors led to the patio and the back yard.

            I happened to be standing in the foyer, near the kitchen, phone in hand. I thumbed the button to hide the evidence of Truck’s message, then shoved the phone into the side pocket of my shorts. “Well, look who’s here.” I kept my voice chipper as I threw open my arms for a simultaneous hug.

            After stepping back, they both gave me the same look their father used to give after seeing the credit card invoice. “Oh, dear, but don’t you both look serious.”

Chapter Forty-one

My sons also looked ridiculously like Jason. During their growing up years, wherever we went—school, church, sporting events—people commented to their father, “You can’t deny them, can you?” Both tall and muscular in build. Both naturally tanned in complexion and chiseled around the jaw. Both topped with the same blue-black hair. Honestly, if I hadn’t squeezed them both out of my womb, I could have easily denied ever having anything much to do with their being in the world. Or, as Hat once said, it was as if my genes didn’t even try.

            But despite all that, they were my boys, and I loved them beyond measure. Disappointing them wasn’t high on my “to-do” list. And, from the looks they gave me now, I feared we were on the horizon.

            I raised my brow. “I can see someone has something to say.” With a wave of my hand, I indicated we should sit in the den, which we did—them on opposite ends of the sofa and me in my favorite reading chair. Patrick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he cast a sympathetic glance my way. “Look, Mom . . . we talked to Uncle Ben last night.”

            “Did you now?” I ground my teeth together. If Ben had turned on me, he’d be in for it, that much was for sure.

            Seth, never the gentle follower, looked from Patrick to me and back to Patrick again. “Yeah. He three-wayed us, letting us know you were on your way home.”

            I shook my head as if clearing it of cobwebs. “I told you the same thing.”

            Seth’s cough was laced with aggravation. “Yeah, but he called, Mom. He didn’t text.”

            “Like,” Patrick cut in, “did you not want to talk to us about—I mean, you told us about this guy, but . . .”

            I leaned back, crossed my legs, and then clasped my hands together. “What did Uncle Ben have to say about . . . this guy?”

            Now it was Patrick’s turn to look from Seth back to me. “Well, he said you were high school sweethearts—”

            “I told you that right after I met up with Truck again.”

            “Mom.” Seth ran his fingers through the soft curls we had once fought to tame. “Truck?”

            “It’s a nickname, Seth.”

            “What kind of a nickname is Truck? I mean, Mom, he sounds like—well, Uncle Ben said that back in high school he was a—” He looked to his older brother.

            Patrick cracked his knuckles. “Greaser.”

            I widened my eyes at my most-gentle son. “Didn’t we—you and I—have that conversation? Remember? Grease? Danny and Sandy? Kinicki?”

            Seth threw his head back, his eyes closed. “Dear sweet Jesus in heaven.”

            “And . . . Patrick . . . didn’t I tell you that today he is a successful businessman?” I kept my voice calm. Gentle. There was little need for a shouting match, especially since I happened to still be their mother and perfectly capable of running my own life.

            More or less.

            Seth’s jaw clenched but Patrick blinked as he shifted on the sofa. “Yeah, Mom. You did.”

            “Antiques,” Seth said as if Truck had gone into shipping drugs from Columbia.

            Patrick cleared his throat to let his brother know he could handle answering by himself. “Uncle Ben said that, too. He said he’s successful, highly thought of within the community, and the three of you had a nice Greek dinner.”

            I nodded my approval at the answer, thinking I’d have to call Ben up later and let him know that. Especially considering he’d been ready to kidnap me and whisk me back to Florida only a few days ago.

            Then it was Seth’s turn to clear his throat and do a little shifting. “Mom.”

            I gave him my full attention. “Yes, Son.”

            “Our question is this—what do you intend to do from here? Because Uncle Ben mentioned something about an apartment. And I’m quite certain you never mentioned that to Paddy when y’all . . . talked.”

            “No. I didn’t—it’s really a mother-in-law suite built—I guess you could call it a pool house, but . . . it was built . . . well, primarily for the homeowner’s mother-in-law.”

            My youngest son’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”

            I waved my hand in the air as though to erase my previous explanation. “Never mind. Point is, I’ve put down six months’ rent on the place just so Truck and I can see if we have anything to build on. Again.”

            Patrick slumped back as Seth popped himself on the forehead with the flat of his palm. “I cannot believe this, Mom. What does that mean exactly?”

            “I thought I just explained it.”

            He scooted forward. “No. I mean, where does that leave us?” He pointed at Patrick and then back to himself. “Or Megan and Clare and the kids?”

            I took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly enough that he’d not realize how his words hurt me. Cut me. “Son. You are a grown man. Your brother—” I looked to Patrick. “—is a grown man. You have wives and children of your own. You have jobs and busy lives. I have—” I raised my hands, then let them fall back into my lap. “I have a chance to find love again with—with someone I loved more deeply and more passionately than I can begin to express to you.” When Seth blanched, I added, “Not that I would express it to you.”

            “But . . .” Patrick began with a sigh. “What about Dad?”

            Somehow, I knew from the get-go that Jason would be brought into all this. “What about your father?”

            They both struggled to answer, enough that I felt compelled to help them out of what clearly had become an uncomfortable moment. In their minds, I suppose, I’d always loved only Jason, had been with only him, and would die with nothing changing. They couldn’t conceive of a mother who’d once been a teenager, who had once been carefree and wild, all at the same time. They couldn’t imagine me in short skirts, walking along Bently Road, carrying an armload of textbooks. They would never be able to picture me standing on a cliff overlooking the Potomac, watching my prom date cast his shirt, his cummerbund, and his cufflinks into the water below. They’d never see me as the girl who went to car races out at Broom Creek, or who cheered her greaser boyfriend as he beat another greaser who’d won the national title earlier in the year. They’d never guess I knew all about class competitions and jumping too soon and red-lighting and modified production entries. Even if I showed them photos of Truck and me back in those glory days—not that I had any—they wouldn’t believe it. To them, my life began the day I gave birth to Patrick. How either of them had come into existence was not a topic for conversation.

            “Never mind about Dad,” Seth said. “Let me just wrap my brain around this, okay? You want to go up there for six months and not see your grandchildren for six months and not see your sons for six months?”

            “Absolutely not.” I hoped my voice sounded as vehement as I felt.

            Patrick’s kindness cut through his brother’s irritation. “Then what, Mom?”

            “Yes, I’m going up there and—right now—that’s for six months. But you’d better believe I’ll come back before this trial period is over. I intend to not miss anything important to my grandchildren. I will fly the friendly skies like a jetsetter from the 1960s.”

            Seth shook his head with a sigh. “This is nuts.”

            I slid forward in my chair, rested my hands on my knees, and gave him my best “I love you” look. “Maybe it is, Son. But I—I have to know. You can’t appreciate this now—and I hope you never have to—but something precious was thrown away back then and I need to see if I can get it back.”

            Patrick stood, walked over to me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Does it mean that much to you, Mom?”

            “He means that much to me.”

            “Well then. It’s your life.”

            But when Seth stood, a shift of cold arrogance rose with him. “No. I won’t accept this.” He looked around, then back to me. “If you want to sell this house and get another place here in O-town, fine. If you want to date someone here . . . fine. Marry him for all I care. But Mom—this other mess is like a dang Hallmark movie.”

            “What’s wrong with a Hallmark movie?”

            He pointed at me. “You hate Hallmark movies.”

            “Not all of them.”

            He practically growled as he stepped away from the arrangement of furniture. Then he threw his hand up at Patrick. “You can be all nice about this, but I don’t have to pretend something—” He took a few more steps away from his brother and me. “I’m outta here.” He turned, his head still shaking, his hands slapping the air. “Get a grip, Mom. When you do, call me.”

Chapter Forty-two

I didn’t move—nor did Patrick—until after the front door opened and slammed shut, my son’s footsteps nothing but an echo. Only then did Patrick drop down, squatting so his eyes could gaze into mine. “He’ll get over it.”

            “I don’t know.”

            “He’s still—he’s still hurting from Dad’s news. After all, until that baby’s born, he’s the baby.”

            I looked at my feet. Seth had never been the proverbial youngest child. Headstrong. Independent. Too quick to judge based only on the facts presented to him at the start rather than throughout. No, Seth had never played the “but-I’m-the-baby” card. “Hmmm.”

            “Mom?”

            I brought my eyes back to the tender gaze of my oldest son’s. “Do you love him?”

            “Your brother?”

            He chuckled with a half-smile, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “No. This Truck dude.”

            I gave him a half smile. “I think so.”

            “Ya gotta know so. Isn’t that what you said when I was thinking about proposing to Clare?”

            “Yep.”

            “When you know so, you let me know, okay?”

            “I will.”

            “Promise?”

            “I promise.”

            He leaned forward, kissed my cheek, then stood. “I better get home. Call me later, okay?”

            I nodded, barely holding it together until after he’d left by way of the front door. Only then did I let the tears slip from my eyes, down my cheeks.

***

Within two weeks I’d found an apartment. I signed a one-year lease, put down the first and last month’s rent, placed the house on the market and had not one, but two bids. “You’ll handle that?” I asked my realtor.

            She assured me she would.

            Then, a few days later, we had a winner—a family of five—along with a move-out/move-in date and enough boxes and packing supplies from the U-Haul store to hopefully take care of business. Patrick, who touched base every day, suggested I also rent a storage facility and have a moving sale. Seth hadn’t bothered to reach out on his own, although he answered if I called. Our conversations were stilted, and we never once touched on the subject of my leaving town. Or Truck. But he didn’t balk when I told him I wanted to take the grandchildren—all of them—out to dinner one night and he didn’t lecture me when I explained that I wanted to explain to them, best I could, the situation. He merely said, “That’s fine, Mom.”

            I spoke to Truck every night, sometimes long into the night, and Trisha at least twice a day—usually in route from one location to the other. While I told her everything about Seth’s unhappiness, I left out that little detail when talking with Truck.

            During the day, Melody Prescott and I sorted through the contents of closets and drawers, tabletops and shelving. We made four piles—take it to the apartment, sell it, Goodwill it, or trash it. In the evenings, Hat came by to help with the heavy lifting. I rewarded them both with dinner, both cooked and ordered in, and my undying gratitude.

            While Hat wasn’t sure about the whole “Truck and Jeannie” thing, Melody thought it was trés romantique. Her words—apparently she’d started taking one of those online language courses and chose French.

            “She’s hoping for a trip to Paris for our next anniversary.” Hat, who stretched upright from his knees in front of the dining room hutch, held up a vase he pulled from its recesses, one I hadn’t seen in years. One that had come with a large bouquet of flowers from my “dearly departed” ex-husband.

            Melody and I spoke in unison from our place at the cherry table where we carefully staged my wedding china, which I intended to sell along with the entire set of furniture. “Goodwill.”

            Then Melody struck a pose. “Paris au printemps, c’est magnifique.”

            I raised my brow. “Oo-la-la. Très bon.”

            “Oh, ha-ha,” Hat mocked as he held up another vase similar to the last one. “Same?”

            “Oui.”

            Hat set the second vase next to the first one then craned his neck to look farther into the hutch. “I think that’s it. Oh, wait.”

            I paused in my work as he dipped his arm into the opening. He slid something toward him before bringing it out.

            “A book?” Melody asked. “In the dining room hutch?”

            I shook my head. “No idea.”

            Hat studied the cover for a moment. “The Old Man and the Sea?”

            “Let me see . . .” I walked to him, taking the book in my hand and flipping it over, then opening the hardback cover. “It’s a first edition,” I breathed out. “Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1952.” I pressed the book to my chest. “Did either of you read the book about Max Perkins?” Seeing from their expressions that neither had, I continued. “Max Perkins was an editor at Scribner’s and he more or less discovered Hemmingway. Anyway . . .” I opened the book, which remained in fairly good shape considering its age, to the dedication page and held it up. “Hemmingway dedicated the book to both Charles and Max, which may have been the first time anyone ever knew that books were not written, they were edited.”

I laughed lightly as an old memory skipped across my memory. Truck and me. Senior year of high school. Slave Day. Truck purchasing me for fifty dollars to wash Tortoise. Me spying a copy of Romeo and Juliet in the back seat of the car and asking him if he was reading it. Of course, he wasn’t. But he then told me about the one and only book he’d read, start to finish, in his lifetime.

“What was it for pity’s sake?”

“The Old Man and the Sea.”

Not a bad choice for somebody who’d read only one book.

I only happened to be the biggest Hemingway fan anywhere around, but he didn’t know that. But what fascinated Truck was the author’s ability to just come right out and tell a story. Nothing fancy. “Just saying what he means.”

I wasn’t sure now how a first edition copy of the book landed in my dining room hutch, but I knew exactly what I intended to do with it.

***

I called Truck after the longest, hottest soak in Epson’s salts I’d ever allowed myself. “I have a gift for you.”

            The rumble of a chuckle vibrated through my earbud. “I have a gift for you too.”

            “Truck . . . I’m serious.” How that man could turn every conversation into a flirt-fest was anyone’s guess.

            “I’m serious too.”

            I sighed, happiness now replacing the muscle aches from an hour before. “I mean something you can—” I almost said “touch” but decided against it. “Something you can place on a shelf.”

            Again, a chuckle, but he followed it up with a bigger surprise. “Well, Miss Jeannie, what I have for you can also be placed on a shelf.”

            Now he had my attention. “Really?”

            “Scouts honor.”

            “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

            “Nope.”

            “Then your vow is useless to me,” I teased.

            A momentary pause separated our good-humored banner. Then, “How much longer do you think you’ll be down there?”

            I had pretty much narrowed my arrival back in Maryland to the minute. The absolute second. “Of course, this time I’m driving. I’ll want my car, and I’ve got some things I’m bringing up there with me.”

            “Like my gift.”

            “Yes.”

            “That I can put on a shelf.”

            My heart thumped. “That’s the one.”

            “Hmm. I’m trying to figure out how you’re going to fit on a shelf.”

            I raked my bottom lip with my teeth. How I missed this man. I could nearly count those seconds and minutes that separated us.

            He cleared his throat. “How much more do you have to do?”

            “We’re nearly done. Tomorrow’s my last night sleeping in the house. The next day is the moving sale and then . . .”

“You’ve gotten all this done in record time. Not sure if I could or not.”

“Melody and Hat have been terrific. And Patrick and his crew came over one day to help.”

            “That’s your oldest son?”

            “Yes.”

            “What about—”

            “Seth? No, he’s not much of a packer. Or an unpacker.” I fought to keep my tone upbeat.

            After another pause, he said, “So I’m looking at the calendar. You’re leaving on a Saturday, and you’ll be here the next day.”

            Okay. Back to business. Good. The last thing I wanted was for Truck to think he’d come between my son and me. “Yeah. I don’t want to try to drive all that way in one day, so I figured I’ll stop about halfway, get a good night’s sleep and then get up early the next morning and finish the trip.”

            “Call me when you’re about here and I’ll meet you at the new place. Help you unload.”

            I smiled at his gallantry. “Sounds like a plan, Mr. Hardy.”

Chapter Forty-three

The following day I shared the story of finding the classic book with Seth who happened to stop by, hoping it would offer a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with my leaving. I didn’t mention, of course, that I planned to give the book to Truck.

            “Oh my gosh.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, an opened bag of Lay’s potato chips in one hand, his other dipping into it.

            I stood opposite him, downing a sweaty bottle of ice-cold water. “What?” Our words echoed within the rooms nearly devoid of furnishings and whatnots.

            “Dad bought that for you.”

            “When?”

            He blinked a few times, opened his mouth for another chip, then chewed and swallowed. “I dunno. I guess not too long before you separated.” He set the bag on the counter, brushed the crumbs from his fingers into the sink, then headed for the refrigerator. “I came by one day when he was looking for a good place to hide it so you wouldn’t find it, and I suggested somewhere in the dining room.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water for himself. “I told him you hardly ever go in there except for holiday meals so . . .”

            The news nearly gutted me. Jason, knowing how much I loved Hemingway, had found a first edition copy in nearly pristine shape—a few watermarks here and there and an inscription on the first page—and purchased it for me. For me. How was it that a man who—

            “I know what you’re thinking over there, Mom.”

            I cocked a brow. “Do you now?”

            “You’re wondering how Dad, if he was so in love with Tiffany, would have bought you something so rare and probably expensive.”

            “No doubt he paid a pretty penny for it.” Which I figured was a pretty penny Miss Tiffany would never see. At least I had that.

            “So, what are you going to do with it?”

            No way I’d tell him I planned to give it to my new boyfriend. Or, my old boyfriend, depending on how one looked at it. “I’m going to take it to Maryland with me.”

            “And read it?” He shivered. “I don’t think I’d like the way old pages feel.”

            For a man who only read sports magazines, I doubted old pages or new pages mattered as long as they were slick. “You know, I can practically quote some of the passages.”

            Seth finished off his water before tossing the bottle in the recycling bin and then closing the chip bag by folding the top end over end. “I’m sure you can.” He stared at me for a few minutes before looking beyond me. “Everything looks so weird.” He craned his neck. “But the back yard looks good. Uncle Hat did a great job while you were gone.”

            “Yes, he did.”

            “By the way—and I hope you won’t get peeved at me—but I told Dad you were moving back to Maryland.”

            I placed my water bottle on the counter next to me and crossed my arms. “I’m not moving-moving, Seth. I’m just—”

            He raised one hand to stop me. “Call it what you will, Mom. Anyway, I told him.”

            Well, fine then. “And what did he say?”

            “That he hoped you’d be happy.” He shrugged. “Said it kinda funny.”

            “And what do you hope for me, Seth?”

            He leaned against the counter again, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, a near mimic of my stance. “Honestly?”

            “Of course.”

            “I want you happy here. Not there. I want you and Dad to figure this nonsense out and I want us to be a family again. I want Tiffany to go back to where she came from and—”

            “But there’s a baby now, Seth.”

            His jaw flexed. “You asked me what I wanted. I told you. Don’t try to rationalize it with facts.” He took a deep breath and released it like a bull about to charge. “Well, that’s enough for now.” His eyes, nearly cold, found mine. “I told Megan I’d give this my best shot. This is it. My best shot.”

            Somewhere, on the floor beneath me, my heart lay sliced and dying. But he was my son, and I couldn’t let him know that. “I’ll take what I can get.”

            He nodded, then turned and walked out of the room. Down through the foyer. Out the door.

            Again.

***

I leaned against the footboard of my bed—my marriage bed—scrolling through a selection of take-out options when someone knocked on the downstairs door. I peered out a front-facing window to see a strange car—a black SUV—parked in the driveway.

            I gave a little sigh, then allowed the draperies to fall back into place before padding out of the bedroom in bare feet and down the stairs. Hat and Melody had told me to expect early arrivals for the moving sale. Nice people with bright smiles who might say, “I know the sale doesn’t start until tomorrow, but I was wondering if . . .”

            “Tell them no,” Melody had warned. “Especially if they come by the night before. You don’t want to be in the house alone with strangers.”

            I prepared myself to turn potential buyers away as I stepped onto the landing, all the while wishing I had a dog. Nothing spelled “vulnerable” easier than a woman in a big house alone at night.

            Stretching on my tiptoes, I peered through the peephole to see . . . nothing. I squinted, straining my whole body before realizing that a flesh-colored finger was pressed against the outside hole.

            I should have bought a gun when Hat suggested it several months ago. I would probably shoot my foot off, but still. I also wished I was wearing more than shorts and a tee.

            After tossing a “Honey, I’ve got it,” into the recesses of the house (that might work, right?) I bellowed in my best “I’m not afraid of you” voice, “Who is it?”

            “Guess.”

            I didn’t have to guess. I opened the door so quickly I nearly took my toes with it then threw my arms around Truck Hardy’s neck. “It’s you!”

            He placed his hand on my waist to hold me at arm’s length. “Who is this honey you just hollered at?”

            Again, I threw myself against him, pressing kisses into his neck, noting his wonderful warmth, the spice of his cologne intoxicating me. “Just a ruse to scare off bad guys.”

            Now his arms circled me, squeezing. “It’s not working, Travis.”

            I pulled him into the house and closed the door. “What are you doing here?”

            “I didn’t want you to drive up to Maryland alone, and so I thought I’d come and surprise you.” His kiss was tender and entirely too short. “Did I?”

            “Yes.”

            “Hungry?”

            “Starving.” I held up my phone. “I was about to order take-out.”

            “Not happening, Teach.” He looked down at my feet. “Put some shoes on.” His eyes traveled the length of me. “And something a little less . . . less. We’re going out.”

            Upstairs, I changed into a pair of linen slacks and its matching sleeveless top, then stepped into strappy sandals. I brushed my hair out of its sloppy ponytail, allowing it to fall freely toward my shoulders. After touching up the little bit of makeup I’d put on earlier in the day, I spritzed a bit of cologne into the air, walked into it, grabbed my purse and headed back down to find Truck sitting in the near-empty den.

            He stood as I walked in, whistled, then joined me. “So this is where you live.”

            I nodded. “It’s where we raised the boys.”

            “And what do they say about all this? You moving?”

            I took him by the hand and tugged. “Let’s get something to eat, Mr. Hardy. I’m near-famished.”

            The area around his eyes crinkled as he smiled down at me and nodded. “I see.”

            I’m sure he did. I’m sure he understood fully. But for that night—and that meal—I had no intention of discussing it.

            The next day, however, would be another story. The first day of the sale involved his meeting both of my boys, their wives, my grandchildren. He met Hat and Melody and the neighbors who stopped by to see what they might purchase from me. Not to mention the strangers whose feet trod all over the place, picking up one thing, buying another.

            Naturally, everyone who mattered fell under the impressiveness of my former/current beau. Everyone, save one.

            But Truck wasn’t easily defeated. He figured out quickly that Seth was none too pleased with his mother’s recent decisions, the ones made so “late in life,” and then worked to unravel the tapestry of any argument my son might raise. Then, as the day first day of the sale came nearly to a close, I leaned against the doorway of the hollow living room eavesdropping as Truck told Seth stories of how, once upon a time, we’d spent our teenage nights at the racetracks of Maryland. About the time Seth cracked a smile in wonder, the unthinkable happened.

            The front door opened, and my ex-husband walked in.

Chapter Forty-four

“I need to talk to you.”

            “Hello to you too, Jason.”

            I cut my eyes to where Seth and Truck stood, their attention now turned to the foyer. To me. To Jason.

            “Dad.” Seth’s smile grew as he stepped toward his father, even as Jason moved to shake Truck’s hand, his eyes set.

            “Jason Landon.”

            The new man in my life was not so much as slightly rocked. He took Jason’s hand and, after a quick shake, said, “L. P. Hardy, but most folks call me Truck.”

            “Truck?” The sneer in Jason’s tone let me know exactly where this was headed.

            I took the necessary steps to stand closer to Truck. “That’s right. Because he don’t take that truck off nobody.”

            Truck looked at me and smiled. “You remember that, Jeannie?”

            I returned the sentiment. “Of course I remember it.”

            Jason crossed his arms and spread his feet as though he were a football coach standing on the sidelines. “So this is the guy from Albemarle High.”

            Truck chuckled, a delightful sound that came from deep inside his chest. “Good ole Albemarle High.”

            For a few seconds we just stared at each other until a nonplused Patrick walked around the corner. “Oh. Hey, Dad.”

            Jason made a quick show of patting his son on the back. “Hey yourself.” He turned back to me. “Seriously, Jeannie. I need to talk to you.” He pointed up. “Can we go somewhere please. Somewhere private? Upstairs?”

            Truck shifted beside me.

“How about outside on the patio?” I suggested.

“Mom.” Seth’s eyes grew wide as if he were trying to send me some telepathic message. “It’s hotter than the sun out there. Awful muggy too.”

I gave Truck my best I’m sorry look.

“It’s okay.” His voice was whisper soft and his hand reached up to tweak my chin. Shivers ran down my spine. This man.

I turned back to Jason. “Fine. Upstairs. But let’s make this quick.”

We were halfway up before he spoke. “Our room?”

“If you mean my room, no.” We reached the landing. I looked around, assessing my options and choosing the closest. “Seth’s old room.”

My ex-husband followed me into the empty space that had once been filled with a twin bed, desk, dresser, and enough awards and movie posters to sink a ship. Now, the carpet held imprints of where furniture had been, a clear path from the door to the bed, the bed to the closet. I crossed my arms as I faced the man who had caused an almost insurmountable amount of pain into my life. “What?”

Jason, handsome as he’d ever been, looked surprised. “Wow, Jeannie. Is that any way to greet the father of your sons?”

I took a deep breath, counted to three, then exhaled and allowed sarcasm to drip from my new greeting. “Hello, Jason. What can I do for you?”

The area around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That’s so much better. So much kinder. Don’t you think?”

I said nothing in response.

His eyes roamed up and down my body. “You look good.”

“I look hot and tired.”

He grinned. “Okay. You look hot.”

I kept my snarky reply to myself.

“All right, all right. Seth tells me you’re going back to Maryland.”

“Just for a season.” Maybe. If the season included the rest of my life.

“Because of this guy downstairs?”

I only looked at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes. An old boyfriend?”

Again, I only looked at him.

“Seth says from high school.”

I widened my eyes—a silent request that he get on with it.

“So, he’s the one . . .”

“I’m sorry?”

Jason snickered as he waved his hand through the air as though he was swatting a fly. “Never mind. Look, Jeannie . . . I get the need to . . . hook up.”

“How dare you.” I squeezed my arms tighter against me.

“I don’t mean that as any form of condemnation.”

“Then how do you mean it?”

He brought his hands up as though he were pushing against an invisible wall. “Hold on, Jeannie. Gosh, why do you always have to start—”

“I have to start?”

“Look. Okay. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Start over, okay?”

Again, I waited.

“Seth—well, Seth and I had a long talk yesterday. After he was here talking to you. He told me—he told me you found the book.”

“Yes. Thank you. It’s—it was a nice gesture.”

“Yeah, well. I know how you feel about . . . that kind of thing. Anyway. Seth . . . he told me . . . Jeannie, I think our son—well, both of our boys—would like to see the two of us try to work things out.”

High pitched ringing started low in my ears, working its way out, permeating the room in surround sound. “What?” I could barely hear my own voice. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jason walked to the framing around the closet door, then leaned against it. “I was just as shocked.”

“Aren’t you and Tiffany—”

“There’s some . . . things. Some issues.”

“She’s pregnant, Jason. That means you set a wedding date and get married. Not try to get back with your ex-wife.”

“I know that.” He crossed his legs at the ankles and recrossed his arms. “I know. And we should have already done that by now.”

“But living together was so much easier, right? Not so much commitment? What were your plans, Jase?”

He shrugged in that little boy way that had always undone me. “I dunno, Jeannie. I really don’t know. I mean, I thought I loved her, but—”

My brow furrowed. “But?”

“You know.” Again, the little-boy shrug. “There’s you and me. And history. And the boys. Our grandchildren. There’s—”

“A baby on the way.” My voice rose louder than I’d intended, which only increased the volume of his.

“We can work that out, Jeannie. Just—don’t go. Stay here.”

I raised my arms as if surveying the room. “Look around, Jason. I’ve sold nearly everything. What I haven’t sold, I’ve given to the boys, sent to my new apartment, or packed for Maryland. You cannot come in here at the eleventh hour and say things like this to me.”

“But I love you, Jeannie.”

I ground my teeth together. “Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “And no, you don’t love me. You love—well, I no longer know what or who you love. Maybe yourself and maybe only yourself. But not me.”

“Do you love—him?” He jerked his head toward the door, the movement going down the stairs and into the foyer where I imagined Truck stood listening. Not so much as to eavesdrop as to protect.

“I—”

Before I could finish my declaration, footsteps pounded up the stairs and Seth swung into the room. “Mom.” His eyes pled with mine. “Please. Give Dad a chance, okay? Give this family a chance.”

My heart twisted in one moment and turned to flames the next. “Seth. I’m not the one who—”

“But Dad just got caught up.” The same pleading eyes that had met mine now turned to the man whose own matched them. “Isn’t that what you said, Dad? That’s right, isn’t it?”

Jason looked from our son to me. “That’s right, Jeannie. If you’ll just give me some time to explain—”

I raised my hand. “No. Stop right there.” I bit my bottom lip. Hard. Everything in my life—from the moment Truck had broken up with me that awful day in 1971 to the previous night—had finally come together. How dare these two upset the applecart of my heart. “I’m going to Maryland. I don’t know how it will all turn out, but just as you, Jason, had to figure things out for yourself, well, so do I. I don’t know what will happen once I get there, but I’m giving myself at least three months.” I turned fully to my son. “I’m sorry. You’re a grown man with a wife and children. A life. And I pray you never find yourself at a crossroad like this. But if you do, I also pray you handle it well.” I needed to get out of the door. From there, down the stairs. Into the foyer where my future waited. “Forgive me. I have a sale to wrap up and a good night’s sleep to try to get.” By now I’d reached the door. I gripped the door jamb and took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Please excuse me but I don’t want to discuss this further.”

“Mom, you’re going to trade years with your husband—with Dad—for whatever it was you had for a minute back in the 70s?”

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, both he and Jason stood in the center of the room looking back at me, hopeful. “Get your life in order, Jason. Do the right thing.”

Chapter Forty-five

I slipped into my bedroom and closed the door, then pressed my ear against it, waiting until I heard the last of everyone’s departure.

            Everyone, I hoped, but one.

            Within moments, a tap came to the door. By now I had slid down to the floor, my knees at my chest, my head pounding.

            “Sweetheart?”

            I stood. Opened the door and stepped into Truck’s embrace.

            Only then did I cry. Up until then, I’d been too angry. Too confused. Too . . . worried.

            “Everyone is gone. I’ve locked the front door.” He tilted his face up to mine. “You need a good hot shower and a long night’s sleep.”

            I glanced over at the king-size rice bed, still unmade and rumpled from the night before. “The movers will be here tomorrow to get this furniture and take it over to the apartment.” I sighed. “And all the other things.”

            Truck’s hands rested against my shoulders, turning me. “Get that shower. I’ll order pizza. Sound good?”

            “No. There’s a sandwich shop not far from here—Carlton’s. Call there. I want tuna fish salad on sourdough.”

            He kissed the top of my head. “Fries with that?”

            “Fritos.”

            Truck pushed me toward the opened door of the master bath. “Scoot.”

            “Yessir.”

            “Good girl.”

            When I returned downstairs, Truck had a picnic laid out on the living room floor. He’d used an old beach towel he must have found in the linen closet as a table, and he sat cross legged before it. “Don’t get up.” I eased down to join him. To take in the sandwiches, the bags of chips, the wrapped pickles, and two sweating bottles of beer. “A feast for a king.”

            Truck raised his beer. “To a queen. Dig in.”

            I did, now realizing how hungry I’d grown. But halfway through the sandwich, the Fritos, and the beer, I laid my head onto the thick padding of carpet, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

***

By the end of Saturday, everything I’d hoped to sell was gone, Truck and I had taken several carloads of things over to my new apartment, and the moving company had done the rest. Patrick had coordinated the latter. Seth wasn’t speaking to me. Or, at least, he didn’t bother to come over to help in any way.

            Before leaving for the day, Patrick patted me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek. “He’ll get over this, Mom.”

            I nodded in agreement, but I wasn’t so sure.

            On Sunday morning, Truck slid behind the steering wheel of my car and, together, set out for Maryland, the angel from our high school days swinging from the rearview mirror. Every so often, Truck reached up to touch it, then looked over and smiled. We spoke of inconsequential things—the sunrise, the forecast, the expected delays along 95 North. For lunch, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel near Savannah. Truck pulled the triangle peg game from beside the cubby filled with jellies, then challenged me to a duel.

            He beat me, six out of six times.

            Back inside the car, Truck listened to a Sirius XM country station dedicated to the kind of music he’d listened to back in the day. I smiled as the car rocked along the highway, then allowed the rhythm of both to lull me to sleep.

            Sometime later, as we neared Albemarle, I realized we hadn’t really talked, the two of us. Everything we’d discussed that day—in fact, the day before—had been surface chatter. Not once had we discussed Jason’s intrusion. Nor our future. The light teasing had been shrouded in a level of tension almost hidden.

            After reaching my new but temporary home, Truck parked my car, killed the engine, then extended a cupped hand toward me. “You have your key?”

            “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I dug into my purse, pushing items aside, looking. “Here.” I handed it over.

            “Grab just a couple of things and I’ll get the door open for us, then come back and get the rest.”

            “Sounds good.”

            Within minutes everything I’d brought with me had been dumped either in the bedroom or the living room, left there for me to deal with later.

            “I know you must be tired, but knowing you, you want to get it all done.”

            I cocked my head and smiled. “Does that mean you won’t be helping me?”

            He jutted his thumb toward the door. “I’ve really got to get to the office. Spend an hour or two. Mary Lynn’s been blowing my phone up.”

            “Oh.” I didn’t mention that I’d heard the constant dinging the last hour of our drive. “Can you hold on for a minute?”

            Using my key, I sliced open one of the small boxes—the one marked BOOKS—and removed the one on top, the one wrapped in gift paper. I extended it. “For you.”

            Color rushed to Truck’s face, but he smiled as though he was in on a secret.

            “What’s that look about?”

            He shook his head. “Nothing.” He took the proffered gift. “What’s this about?”

            “My way of saying thank you.” I reached up and kissed his cheek. “For everything.”

            “Teach,” he breathed out.

            “Bubba.”

            The color that stained his face deepened as he tore into the gift. As soon as he saw the cover—the title—he said, “You remembered this too?”

            I wrapped his arm with both of mine. “I told you. I remember everything.”

            He opened the front cover. “This is a first edition.” I couldn’t miss the awe in his voice even if I were deaf.

            But I wouldn’t tell him that Jason had purchased it for me. I couldn’t. “Do you like it?”

            “I love it.” He kissed the top of my head.

            I turned my face toward his. “Do you like me?”

            This time, his kiss found my lips. “I love you. You know that, right?”

            “I think so.”

            He stepped back. “You think so?”

            “I know so.”

            He tweaked my chin. “You’d better.” He looked at his watch. “I really need to go.”

            I tapped the book. “I’ll expect a full report by next week.”

            This brought a chuckle. “We’ll see.” He chewed on his bottom lip, looking around the tiny box-like place I now called home. “You sure about all this? That’s some house you’re selling back there in Orlando.”

            “I was selling it anyway. I would have sold it whether I found you or not.”

            His chin bobbed in a single nod. “Okay. I really gotta—”

            “I know. Go.”

            Again, he kissed the top of my head, then opened the door and walked out, closing it gently behind him.

            “Bye,” I whispered into the air. I turned, looked at the collection of boxes that needed to be opened and emptied and determined to finish organizing before I did anything else. Before a hot soak. Before a glass of wine. Before a call to Trisha.

            After getting everything in place—books, bric-a-brac, kitchen items—I went into the bedroom to start on the boxes of clothes and toiletries waiting for my attention. Moments after I swung in, seconds after I again used my key to open the first box, I spotted a framed photograph sitting atop the bedside table. “Goodness . . .”

            I abandoned the box, walked over, and gingerly picked it up, then allowed my fingers to dance over the glass. The frame. The photo behind the glass had been taken years before on the night of the Memorial Day race at Broom Creek, the one with cash prizes and trophies. Several of the “big boys” had come from places as far away as Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Virginia to race. That afternoon the weather had been hot, the sky a shocking blue. Truck’s car, Tortoise, purred like a kitten, ready to take on the competition. He beat a ’68 GTO, a pair of Corvettes, and kept going and going until it came down to Truck and a guy in a ’55 Chevy for the class trophy.

            The guy—the driver, skinny and sporting a ducktail pompadour —had Truck nervous. “Accomplished,” Truck had told me. A national champion. I gave Truck a kiss for good luck. The two cars moved into their lanes. I stood on the sidelines, watching Truck’s focus, taking in Tortoise’s beauty, knowing I loved them both—the man and the car—more than anything in the world.

            And then they were off . . . both crossing the finish line within a half-second of the other. I had no clue the outcome until the win light came on. Then I knew, as did everyone else, that Truck—and Tortoise—had won. Nothing in my life—ever—had matched that moment. I ran as fast as I could toward where Truck drove back on the return road. I ran right in front of Tortoise, forcing Truck to stop, and jumped into the car, my whole body practically atop his. “Oh baby, oh baby,” he’d said over and over, leaving me unsure if he meant me or the car.

            Later, after Truck had received his trophy, which he gave to me before kissing me in front of everyone as though no one was there, Pop Summers had taken the sepia-tinted photo I now held. The two of us, young and ecstatic. Beyond the moon in love. Everything and nothing at all in front of us.

            I blinked.

            That night. That special night . . .

            I held the framed photo to my chest and breathed in. Out. In again. Obviously, Truck had kept the photo over the years, but the frame had been recently purchased. When had he snuck this in? No wonder he’d looked so sheepish earlier.

I returned the picture to the table, then looked around before unpacking the rest of my things.       

Chapter Forty-six

I didn’t hear from Truck that night or during the following day. By that evening, I grew frantic, thinking my move back to Maryland had been a huge mistake. Neither Trisha’s reassurances to the contrary nor her encouragement to call him could calm me.

            Finally, at about nine o’clock as I sat propped up in bed pretending to read a book, the phone rang. I slid the answer icon from left to right, unsure of the appropriate greeting. Part of me wanted to cry in relief, another wanted to scream and rail. I chose neither, opting for a simple “Hey.”

            “Hey, yourself.”

            He sounded beat and I said so.

            Truck chuckled in return. “That’ll teach me to take off for Florida.”

            “So . . . work?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Where are you now?”

            “Home.”

            I didn’t know what to say next. So much churned inside me, but I couldn’t find a good place to begin with my thoughts. Emotions had ping-ponged for hours in the shadows of this tiny foreign bit of square footage I now called home. “Why don’t you get some sleep and call me tomorrow sometime?”

            “Another day, another dollar. How about tomorrow night? Got plans?”

            I wanted to cry. Did I have plans? I knew—really knew—three people in this whole stupid town I had once known every person within. What did he think I was doing with myself? I’d come for him. For us. But the last twenty-four hours had left me miserably unsure. “No plans.”

            He chuckled again, although I wasn’t sure why. “Dinner?”

            I smiled at the thought. “I’d love to have dinner.”

            “Here?”

            “Are you going to serve me too much wine again? Like last time?”

            Again, the chuckle, but this one exhausted. Strained. “There’s a thought.”

            “Speaking of wine—I found the photo of us.” I reached over and picked it up. Studied it again for the hundredth time. “Look at those groovy kids wearing groovy clothes. And you were right when you said I had tough looking legs.”

            “You still do.” He paused and I remained silent. What could I say? Yes, Truck. My legs are fabulous and, if memory serves, that’s what drew you to me in the first place. “Anyway, I’m glad you found it. I take it you like it?”

            “I love it. How’d you get it in here?”

            “When I brought the second load in. I’d been hiding it with my stuff the whole time, hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

            “Oh. Well, you are a sneaky one.”

            He paused again. “Now I’m confused. What does that have to do with wine?”

            I placed the photo back before snuggling down beneath the sheet and light blanket. “When I found it, I spent a few minutes remembering the day of the race. That night. Do you remember talking the store clerk into selling us champagne on a Sunday?”

            “I sure did, didn’t I?”

            “You sure did.”

            He sighed and, within the breath of him, contentment rose. “That was some day.”

            “That was some night.”

            “Jeannie . . . you know . . . I’m sorry about . . .”

            “About?” I had no idea where the answer might fall. That night? The days and nights that followed? The night he cut me loose and ripped my heart in two? The years since?

            “Not calling today.”

            That wasn’t the answer. It wasn’t even close to what he’d meant to say. I knew him well enough to know that. At least that. But I wasn’t about to press. “You’re forgiven.”

            His breathing, deep and even, floated across the miles and, for a moment, I thought he’d fallen into a deep sleep. I waited, listening. I closed my eyes and imagined him slumbering beside me. I burrowed further under the bedcovers. Finally, he broke the reverie. The contemplation therein. “I’ll let you go.”

            “All right. Bye.”

            “Seven tomorrow?”

            “Seven sounds good.”

            “Jeannie?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I love you. I hope you know that.”

            I pressed the phone to my lips as though he’d know I’d kissed him. “I do. And I love you, too.”

***

“I’m sure nothing’s the matter.” Trisha’s words, spoken across a four-top table at a local café, sounded a great deal less concerned than my heart felt.

            I stabbed at the mound of potato salad that sat next to a turkey and cheese on sourdough sandwich and shrugged. “I guess. Maybe—maybe it’s just the way he left things back in high school and . . . maybe I’m just reflecting on that.”

            Trisha placed a forkful of garden salad into her mouth then pointed the fork at me as she chewed. “There you go,” she said after swallowing. Then she rolled her eyes. “My gosh, this is the best homemade ranch dressing I’ve ever had.”

            I pretended to smile before taking another bite.

            “You never told me.”

            I looked up. “Told you what?”

            “How it ended.” She took a long sip of iced tea. “You were so despondent back then, I didn’t dare ask. Then we went off to college and, you know, that was that. No need in digging up old bones.”

            I stared at her for a moment before answering. “It’s all a little fuzzy now.”

            “It’s been a while.”

            “And yet it feels like yesterday.”

            “Tell me . . .”

            I took my own sip of iced tea, then leaned forward, resting my forearms on the edge of the table. “We took a canoe ride down the river . . .”

            “Sweet.”

            “It was, but it wasn’t. I think we both knew we had come to the end of things and even our plans for the evening showed it.”

            “What were your plans?”

            I smiled at the memory. “We went to the barge—remember the barge?”

            “Of course. We could take canoes there and listen to concerts.”

            “That night it was classical music.”

            Trisha squinted her eyes. “Truck?”

            I laughed. “He knew how much I loved that sort of thing whether he did or not and, I think, he wanted to do one last thing for me. I’d been thinking about how best to break up—as much as I loved him, we were not on the same page of any book. Still, the whole thing was very romantic . . . the way he sat in the bottom of the boat. The way I lay against him. The music . . .”

            Trisha gave a half smile.

            “I thought I’d end the relationship after he took me home. You know, while we were sitting in the car, but before he walked me to the door. Instead, while we were in the boat and the orchestra was playing Schubert, he says, ‘Jeannie, I’m going away for a while.’ I remember I turned to look at him and when I did, he said, ‘If you want to come with me—’”

            “Where was he going?”

            I had to think a moment before answering. “Somewhere with Pop.”

            “Pop?”

            It was now my turn to give the half smile. “Pop Summers. An older gentleman who was like a father to Truck. He was always at the races, but I don’t remember now what he did or why.”

            “But he—Truck—asked you if you wanted to go? Obviously, you didn’t.” She ducked her head a little. “Go with him, I mean.”

            “No.” I twisted my tea glass clockwise. “He told me—I remember this so well—that he wanted me to, he really wanted me to. For him. But what he really wanted for me was to go to school and be the best teacher the world has ever known.” I continued in my glass twisting, focusing on the watermark left behind. “And then I made some comment about how we had wasted time and . . .” I looked up to Trisha’s waiting expression. “ . . . and he said, ‘Nothing is ever wasted, Teach. And don’t you forget it. Nothing that ever happened between you and me was wasted.’” I shrugged. “And then he took me home and he told me not to cry—” I chuckled. “Because, you know me. I was crying.”

            “Of course you were.”

            “And then he gave me his guardian angel from the rearview mirror—”

            “The same one I pointed out when you picked me up earlier?”

            “One in the same.”

            “And you’ve kept it all these years?”

            “Absolutely.”

            She leaned closer. “Even after you met and married Jason?”

            “For whatever that says about me, yes.”

            “And until a few weeks ago, you’d no idea what had happened to Truck.”

            “Not a clue.”

            Trisha sat back in her chair. “Wow.” She blinked several times. “No wonder you’re nervous about his vibe.”

            His vibe. I had to bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. “He gave me the most romantic date ever, but we both knew we couldn’t keep going. Why shouldn’t I be a little nervous?”

            Trisha took a few moments to ponder the question before answering. “What if he’s just a little scared that this time he’s all in but you’ll leave? He heard what Jason said—you’re sure of that, right?”

            “Unless he’s deaf—”

            “Well, imagine that in reverse. Imagine his ex—what’s her name?”

            “Catherine.”

            “Imagine hearing Catherine saying those things to him. They have a child. Grandchildren. And Truck knows the same about you and Jason. There are children. Grandchildren. What if he doesn’t want to be the one who comes between you and your family?”

            I picked up my fork and took another stab at my potato salad. I needed to think. Because, crazy as it seemed, Trisha may have been on to something.

Chapter Forty-seven

As soon as I turned into the driveway leading to what I now called “my adorable little cottage,” I spied a strange car. Not that the car itself was strange. It’s just that I didn’t recognize it. Silver. Sleek. Sporty. And parked in my usual spot, forcing me to pull up alongside it.

            As soon as I got out, the car’s driver-side door opened. In a slow, deliberate manner, Truck’s ex-wife—Joey’s mother—stepped out. She closed the door as casually as if I had invited her over for coffee.

            I crossed my arms, determined not to allow her to scare me. Truth be told, though, I was nearly spitless. But I’d stood my ground against rowdy fifth graders enough years to earn a medal. Surely, I could handle one ex-wife. I forced my eyes to hers, which looked steely and cold. “Can I help you?”

            She didn’t move but her eyes narrowed. “Do you remember me?”

            “You’re Catherine.”

            “Catherine Hardy.”

            I said nothing.

            “Hardy, as in Mrs. Hardy.”

            “The ex-Mrs. Hardy, I believe.”

            “Is that what you think? Is that what he told you? That we’re divorced?”

            For a moment, I struggled to recall exactly what Truck had said, then I remembered. She had divorced him the first time, he had divorced her the second. Even Joey had shown no indication that her parents were still legally married. “You’re divorced,” I said as though I were a judge declaring the final order.

            “Did he tell you that we’re trying to work things out? That we talk every single night? That he tells me he loves me before we hang up the phone?”

            Well . . . no. He never said anything about that. Of course, she was lying. Probably. But what if she weren’t? What if Truck hadn’t fully ended his relationship with Catherine fully? Or . . . what if she had some kind of hold over him? “What do you want . . . Catherine?”

            She took several steps until she stood in front of her car. “I want you to leave us in peace. Because I know who you are. Exactly who you are.” She produced a wicked laugh, the kind of chuckle one might expect to hear in an old B-rated movie. “You’re the one he could never get out of his head.” She scoffed again. “Oh, he could introduce you as a friend from high school in the restaurant, but I knew. I knew the minute I saw you with him.”

            Okay. Now I was sure of two things: one, she’d known who I was the night we met and, two, Truck really hadn’t ever forgotten about me. Just as he’d said. “And if I don’t?”

            Catherine crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “Oh, you have no idea how miserable I can make you. What do you expect is going to happen here? You think he’s going to marry you? That your old high school crush who dumped you senior year will now make things okay? That your pitiful life has finally come full circle?”

            I didn’t budge. Not a muscle, not even the flicker of an eyelash. Because, truth was, I didn’t know exactly what would happen next. Would Truck and I reunite to the point of marriage? Or would we, after a few months, decide—as we had in high school—that the cost of loving each other was simply too high?

            Catherine smirked, then dropped her arms and turned back toward her car’s driver’s side. “Fine. You asked for it.”

            “There are laws, you know.” I wasn’t sure what they were, but I was quite certain they existed. Laws against stalking. Harassing. Showing up uninvited at a person’s home. I briefly wondered if I’d need to go to the courthouse and get one of those pieces of paper that prevented people from bothering other people. What were they called . . .

            “Oh, I’m not going to do anything illegal.” She opened her car door. “Close, but not really. Not enough that you can do anything about it.” She started to step inside, then stopped. “And trust me, I know all the laws.” She pretended to smile, but it came off more like a smirk. “Do yourself a favor, Jeannette, and go back to wherever you lived before this. Orlando, I think it was. Go back and be happy.” She raised a single brow. “Then leave me and my family alone.”

            With that, she got in the car, backed away from the house, and then drove away.

***

“Maybe I should cancel tonight,” I told Trisha a few minutes later. I’d gone inside and, after several long sips of water, managed to steady my hands enough to place a call.

            “Don’t you dare. And don’t you dare let this woman freak you out.”

            “I’m not freaked out.”

            “Sure you’re not.”

            “Okay, I am. But, maybe she’s right, Trisha. Maybe there’s too much in the way now. He has a family. I have a family. Even if they don’t—Truck and Catherine, I mean—even if they don’t get back together, maybe the stars just aren’t aligned for Truck and me.”

            “Jeannie . . .”

            I slumped against the back of the sofa. “I dunno.”

            “Yes, you do.”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “You love Truck. He loves you. Besides, you said you were going to give this a few months.”

            I nodded as though she could see me, then said, “I did. Yes, I did.”

            “Will you talk with Truck about it?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe.”

            “Why wouldn’t you?”

            Good question. A very good question. A question I didn’t really have an answer to. A partial answer, yes, but nothing concrete. “Perhaps because . . . maybe because . . . I’m scared of his answer. Let’s face it, Trisha. He’s hardly spoken to me since I got here. I haven’t seen him. I kinda thought . . .”

            “What?”

            “I dunno. I just had thoughts.” I chuckled to get out of my own mind and its never-ending swarm of ideas and dreams. “I’ll see how I feel tonight after our date.”

            “Jeannie, I think you should talk to Truck.”

            “Once upon a time, you thought I should have nothing to do with him.”

            “That was then,” she said. “This is now.”

***

By the time I drove to Truck’s, I’d made up my mind to tell him everything about my visit from Catherine. But after he gathered me in his arms in his home’s foyer and kissed me so soundly my knees went numb, I decided against it. Why bother trouble, as the old saying went. Instead, I raised a smile and said, “Well, that was worth the wait.”

            Truck tweaked my chin. “You like barbecue chicken?”

            “I adore it.”

            “I’ve got some on the grill.” He tugged me into the house. “Come on outside. Kick off those sandals and join me on the patio. Tonight’s a barefoot kind of night.”

            I looked past his black tee, the faded jeans, and straight to his unshod feet. “Look at you.”

            He wiggled his toes as I slipped out of my shoes. “Just put those over there.” He pointed to a corner, then started toward the kitchen, me not far behind him. “Hey, I’ve got beer, I’ve got wine, I’ve got water, and I’ve got store-bought raspberry tea.”

            I rounded into the kitchen where he stood looking into the open fridge. “Raspberry tea?”

            “Joey’s favorite.”

            I looked around as I expected to see her. “Is she here? The kids?”

            Truck’s shoulders fell as he gave me a faux look of exasperation. “Answer the question, woman. All the cold air is rushing out of the icebox.”

            I grinned. “The icebox? Okay, country boy. I’ll have some of Joey’s raspberry tea.”

            Truck jerked the gallon jug from the top shelf as he shook his head. “Some things you never outgrow. Iceboxes. Jukeboxes. Race cars.” He shut the fridge and set the jug on the island. “Grab yourself a glass over there.” He pointed. “And wait till I tell you what I bought today.”

            I followed the direction of Truck’s finger, found the glass, and returned to the island to pour a drink for myself. “What did you buy today?”

            “A 1957 Chevy.”

            My head shot up. I’m not even sure I blinked. I may have. “Like Tortoise?”

            He grinned and his eyes lit up and for a moment I thought we were back in high school, standing in someone’s kitchen—had to have been mine because two people could barely turn around in his. Nearly fifty years fell from his face. The old mischievous expression of someone barely cutting into manhood yet wise beyond his years replaced that of the man of sixty-seven. “They could be twins.” He reached to his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

            I stopped pouring my drink and moved to where he stood. “I gotta see this.” He tapped an icon, then scrolled left a couple of times and— “Ohmygoodness.” I looked up at him and smiled. “It’s a ’57, black and white Chevy. I feel like I’m looking back in time.”

            He stared at me for a moment, his eyes soft and smoky, then leaned over and kissed me sweetly. “Me too.”

            I reached up and kissed him with a little more intention. “I’ll take that any way I want to.”

            He kissed my temple. “You were meant to.” He stepped away as he slid his phone back into his pocket. “I gotta get back to the grill. Join me?”

            “Always.”

            No. I wouldn’t say a word about Catherine and her cattiness that night. Maybe not ever. Tonight was about Truck, me, and a car that looked just like Tortoise. The three of us, together again.

Chapter Forty-eight

After we ate all the barbecued chicken, corn-on-the-cob, and baked beans we could possibly consume, Truck and I cleaned the kitchen, then went into the family room to watch a little baseball. Between commercials and innings, he entertained me with stories of how he intended to race “Tortoise II.” Not he, himself, he assured me. “I’m too old for that now.” But he had a driver, a young man of twenty-one who knew cars and racing as well as Truck ever had. “Maybe even better than me.”

            I rubbed the sleeve of Truck’s tee between my fingers and said, “I can hardly imagine that.” Then I smiled at him. “I didn’t realize you were still part of the racing world.”

            “Really?” he asked as though I had just told him I didn’t know he still breathed on a regular basis. “You think I’d ever give that up?”

            I shrugged. “You just hadn’t said.”

            He stretched his legs, resting the heels of his feet on the coffee table. “I reckon I didn’t.” Then he grinned over at me as he laid his head back on the sofa. “But yeah. I’m still involved. I just don’t drive the cars anymore.”

            “When’s the next race?”

            “Couple of weeks.” He glanced at the television—the sixth inning had begun—then back to me. “Wanna go?”

            “Of course I want to go.”

            By the time we hit the seventh inning stretch we’d made tentative plans, which he finished off with, “Oh. I gotta go pick up Tortoise II in a couple of days. Do you think you can do without me for a minute?”

            I furrowed my brow. “Define a minute.”

            “Leave on Wednesday. Back on Thursday.”

            “Oh.” Disappointment at not being asked to tag along draped over me like a weighted blanket.

            Truck chuckled as he muted the TV. “Oh, man. I can still read you like a book.”

            I straightened. “You think so, do you?”

            “I know so.” He took a deep breath, then let it out as he linked his fingers together and rested them across his stomach. “Look, Jeannie. That driver I told you about—Taylor—he’s going with me. We’re probably gonna stay in some dive with two queen beds and eat gross truck stop food. Not the kind of good time I intend to show you.”

            I had to chew on my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

            “What’s so funny?”

            I poked his shoulder. “You.”

            The flesh at the corner of his eyes crinkled. “What about me?”

            “You sounded just then like you did in high school when you said that. Remember our first date? We started out at the drive-in and ended up at Ross Road.”

            His brow furrowed as if he had to pull the memory from a Rolodex file stuck somewhere in the corner of his brain. “Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah, yeah . . . and then you thought you’d walk home.”

            “I tried.”

            “And then I had to go get your crazy self. Miss my race.”

            I pretended to be aghast as I pressed my hand against my chest. “I saved you from going to jail that night.”

            He sat up. “How do you reckon that?”

            “Remember the nest of police officers we ran into? That patrolman you spoke oh-so-sweetly to so we didn’t both end up behind bars? ‘My girl and I were driving around and we got lost,’ you said. Said it like some boy scout, too.”

            He grinned at me. “He let us go, didn’t he?”

            “And then you drove me home, sweat pouring down your face. And then you told me you were sorry, and then you invited me to go fishing the next day.”

            He returned to his previous reclined position. “Oh, man . . . if I’d had a bit of sense, I would have taken you home and moved on with my pitiful life.” With that, his eyes closed and he sniggered. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

            Something about his words, the cadence in his voice, swept me back to 1971. To being seventeen to his nineteen. To being completely undone by him. The look of him, the touch of him, the way he spoke to me—tender and bossy all at once.

Just as I was about to fling myself over him and hug him with all the energy I had, his phone, which he had placed on the end table next to the sofa, rang. One glance and I easily read the caller’s name: Catherine.

Did he tell you we talk every night?

Truck growled, then sat up to answer the phone. “Yeah.”

I sat away from him and pretended to watch the silent game.

Truck sighed. “Hel-lo?”

He hung up the phone, then turned it off. “Butt call, I guess.”

I licked my lips and tried to make my next words seem nonchalant. “Does she call you often?”

He leaned back, propped his feet on the coffee table again, and then unmuted the television. “Jealous?”

I readjusted my position on the sofa, sitting straight back, crossing one leg over the other. “Should I be?”

Before I could blink, he sat up, scooped an arm around me and pulled me to him, burying his face into the hollow of my neck, nibbling as his fingers dug into my side. I started to laugh, then squealed his name, kicking like a child being tickled. Just as breath nearly left me, he stopped, then looked down at me. His kiss came gentle at first, then more intense as my arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling us closer to each other.

Yep, just as in 1971, I had come completely undone.

It wouldn’t dawn on me until the next day that he’d not answered the question, that he had turned off the phone and pounced.

That’s also the day the trouble really started.

***

Not too long into Tuesday I began to wonder if the “butt call” from the night before had been accidental. In fact, by mid-afternoon, my thoughts drove in two directions. To the left, they told me that Catherine had intended to call Truck and that Truck had played it cool, pretending the call was accidental. To the right, they said she knew I had gone to Truck’s and had purposefully made the call to irritate me. She had clearly said she knew legal ways to cause trouble. Making a phone call—one phone call—wasn’t illegal. But I wondered exactly how many times she could call before they became illegal.

            “Not that I can prove it’s her,” I told Earl and Trisha over dinner at their house. “The calls are coming from different numbers.”

            Earl used his knife to slice into a T-bone. “How’d she get your number in the first place?”

            Trisha pointed at her husband with her fork. “That’s easy enough. The internet has everything these days. I mean, I can probably look up any person anywhere and get all the information on them I want. Address. Phone number. Republican. Democrat. How much they’re worth.”

            Earl’s eyes grew large and I’m sure mine matched their size. “Really?” we said simultaneously.

            Trisha used the same fork she’d used to point at Earl to stab the lettuce in her salad bowl. “You two really are naïve.”

            I reached for the red wine glass that I’d hardly touched all evening, slipping my hand under its globe. “So how’d you get so smart?”

            She shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I just picked up on the whole world wide web.”

            I laughed. “I haven’t heard it called that in a long, long time.”

            “Well, it is a web. Like I said, I can tell you all that with a few clicks and even know who you’re associated with. The names of your spouse, your kids . . . I’ll bet that your name and Ben’s are connected.”

            I was mid-swallow and nearly choked. “Are you serious?”

            “Finish eating.” She looked from me to Earl and then back again. “I’ll show you on my laptop.”

            A half hour later, Earl and I stood behind Trisha as she pulled up information on me. “See . . .” She scrolled down. “There’re the last three places you lived, there’s Jason . . . the boys, their wives . . . Ben and Sherrie. Phone numbers. And see here? Your voting record. Your net worth. Now watch this.” A few more clicks and she had pulled up the house in Orlando, showed that it was on the market, complete with photos. When had the realtor gone in and done that? “And right here is when you and Jason bought the house and for how much. What it’s worth now.”

            My breath caught in my throat. “Go back to the previous page.”

            Trisha hit the back arrow. There was Jason’s name linked with mine. Patrick. Seth. “Click on Patrick’s name.”

            “And there you have it. His name, his connections, phone number, address . . .”

            I must have swayed because the next thing I knew, Earl was helping me to sit again. “Jeannie? You okay?”

            I stared up at a face with concern etched along the forehead. “Am I?”

            But a more important question knocked at my brain: if Trisha could so easily find this information on me—on my children—then so could Catherine Hardy.

            Do yourself a favor, Jeannette, and go back to wherever you lived before this. Orlando, I think it was. Go back and be happy.

            Why hadn’t it dawned on me before? Catherine knew more than that I’d come from Orlando. She also knew my given name.

Chapter Forty-nine

The pizza arrived at six o’clock on Wednesday evening.

            I stood, bent over at the waist sorting laundry in the bathroom, when I heard the tap at the door. I looked up sharply, wondering who could have stopped by. Trisha perhaps. Certainly not Truck.

            The knock came again, this time with more persistence against the wood frame of the door. When I opened it, I blinked several times at a young man standing on my threshold, dressed in black pants and a red, logoed shirt, a pizza box balanced in his hands.

            “Oh.”

            “Your order, ma’am.”

            “Oh. No . . . I bet you want the house . . .” I pointed toward the old Johnson home.

            He glanced at the order taped to the box top. “No, ma’am. Says here—apartment in back.”

            “But I didn’t order a pizza.”

            His eyes grew wide as he shook his head. Tendrils of wayward curls danced along his forehead. “Hey, lady. I just deliver them.”

            “Has it been paid for?”

            Again, he checked the order. “No.”

            “Oh. Okay. Well . . .” I hadn’t even planned what I’d eat for supper. Perhaps this was providence. Or perhaps Truck had ordered it for me and would tell me when he called as planned that evening. “Let me get my purse.” I pointed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the area just big enough for a two-top table. “You can place it there.”

            I paid the bill, included a tip, then thanked the young man as he sprinted back to a car that had seen better days. Before I could close the door, my phone rang, Truck’s name and picture displayed on the face. “Hey,” I answered with exuberance. “Did you get it?”

            “Not yet. There’s been a slight hiccup.”

            I walked back into the bathroom, to the three piles of clothes on the floor. “What happened?”

            “We can’t pick it up until tomorrow. Maybe not even until Friday morning.”

            I walked over to the closed-lid toilet, using it as a chair. “How come?”

            He chuckled. “Do you really want to know?”

            “Of course,” I said, crossing one leg over the other.

            “I wanted newer brake pads. The guy selling it said would be taken care of before I got here but it’s not. It will be. It’s just not now. For what I’m paying for her, she’s got to be in tiptop shape.” He paused but only for a second. “Hey. I miss you.”

            I grinned. “I miss you. And I can’t wait to see you . . . and Tortoise II.”

            “Well at least I know which one of us comes first.”

            The aroma of the pizza reached me, only I didn’t find it as pleasant as I’d hoped. “By the way, thank you for the pizza.”

            “What pizza?”

            “Truck—”

            “Teach, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What pizza?”

            I walked toward what was slowly becoming less of an aroma and more of an odor. “You didn’t order a pizza for me?”

            “No, ma’am.”

            I reached the kitchen counter where I sliced through the sticker keeping the box top shut. “Well, someone did—” I inhaled deeply. “Oh.” I slammed the box shut.

            “What is it?”

            I tore the order from the box and glared at it. “Anchovies and onions.”

            “What? Jeannie . . .”

            “Someone sent me an anchovy and onion pizza . . . which I had to pay for, by the way.”

            “Cat.”

            “What?” If I hadn’t been so upset, I would have laughed. Instead, I bit my lip against our sounding like parrots.

“Cat. Catherine.”

I straightened, grabbed the box, and headed out to the large trashcan next to the cottage house. I should have known. Of course, Truck hadn’t sent the pizza. Truck would have paid for the pizza.

            “I’ll handle this,” he said, his voice tense. “Don’t worry.”

            “Truck—” I returned inside. “There’s something you need to know.”

            Truck’s anger seeped across the miles as I explained Catherine’s visit.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            By this point I had made it back into the cottage. “Honestly?”

            “No. Lie to me, Jeannie.”

            I pressed my lips together. “I don’t deserve that.”

            His exhale met my ear, so strong it nearly tickled it. “No. You don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just—I told you—she’s done this before. Successfully.”

            “Well, she won’t be successful this time. And I didn’t tell you because I thought she was being hyperbolic. I never dreamed—”

            “There you go again, Teach. Just like in high school. Million-dollar words.”

            I plopped onto the sofa. “I thought she was being overly dramatic.”

            “Then just say that.”

            “Truck. You don’t have to take this out on me.” I took a breath and tried on a smile that didn’t quite fit. “After all, I’m the one with the anchovy and onion pizza sitting in the outside trashcan.”

            “Sorry.” The word didn’t quite match his tone. “Is there anything else I should know?”

            “Probably.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s been calling me. Calling and then hanging up. At least I think it’s her. The number is different every time.”

“Calling you. . .”

“Just like she called you the other night.”

            “And I bet you thought she was calling me because we—how did you put it—talk every night.”

            I admitted as much.

            Again, he exhaled loudly. “Com’on, Jeannie. If you can’t trust me—”

            “When did I say I didn’t trust you?” My voice rose on the aggravation I now felt in every fiber of my being. I had not come back for this. Not this. Not. This.

            “If I tell you that it must have been a butt call, then that’s exactly what it was. Or what I thought it was. Do you wanna know the last time I talked to Cat? On the phone?”

            “No,” I said because I didn’t. Then, “Yeah. Sure. I mean . . . if it will make you feel better.”

            He growled. “Jeannie. Okay. Okay, I’ll tell you. She called, I dunno, maybe a week and a half ago—while you were in Orlando—to talk about our granddaughter’s birthday which was, by the way, while you were gone. She wanted to make sure we weren’t getting her the same gift. And that’s it. That was the start and finish of our conversation.”

            I fell over onto my side and curled into the fetal position. “Truck,” I breathed out. “I’m sorry. I just . . .” But “I just what” I didn’t know.

            He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Sweetheart. Listen to me. I’m frustrated about this car. I’m frustrated about this . . . this pizza business. And I’m about as ticked off as I have been in a long time because I don’t want what happened between me and Rachel to happen between me and you.”

            My brow furrowed. There seemed to be so much about Truck I didn’t know. Maybe even didn’t want to know. Still— “Rachel? Who’s Rachel?”

            “I told you about her.”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Yes, I did. Remember? I told you. She was a nice gal, but Catherine was bent on making her life miserable. And she did. She’s going to do the same here, Teach. Marks my words.”

            I sat up. “Truck. Listen to me. I don’t know Rachel, but I do know me. Maybe she wasn’t as strong of a woman as I am.”

            His chuckle held weariness.

            “No, Truck. Listen. Seriously, I’m strong. I’ve had to be. How would you like to live in a town where everyone you know—and that’s a lot of people when you think about my years teaching—knows that your husband has left you for a younger woman? And I’m not talking about a little younger. I’m talking about a lot younger. Then you find out she’s pregnant. And you realize that your sons, your daughters-in-law, and your grandchildren are now going to be related to this baby your husband and his child bride are going to have. In all of this, I’ve had to learn how to raise my chin just to walk out of my house, get in my car, and go to the grocery store. I don’t know Rachel—or anything about her—but like I just said, I do know me. I know you. And I know that I love you and you love me.”

            “Okay, Jeannie.”

            I pulled my knees up and wrapped an arm around my legs. “That’s it?”

            “For now. Yeah. That’s it.”

Chapter Fifty

Patrick called mid-morning on Thursday.

            I answered entirely too enthusiastically.

            “Are you okay?” he asked without his usual “hey, Mom.”

             “I’m great, why?” Liar, thy name is Jeannie.

            “First of all, you sound way too happy and secondly, you . . . sound way too happy.”

            “But I am happy, Patrick.” I stood in the kitchenette, stirring raw sugar into a second cup of coffee. I’d hardly slept the night before. One cup alone wasn’t going to do me any good today.

            “Let me take another route on this one—Mom, who is Catherine Hardy?”

            My stirring spoon slipped from my fingers and flung around in the wide-rimmed mug. “How do you—did she call you?”

            “And Seth.”

            I grabbed the spoon and laid it in the nearby sink. “Oh no . . .”

            “Is she really his wife? Are you having an affair?”

            I walked out of the kitchen, leaving my coffee behind, then turned and retrieved it. “No. She was his wife. But they’re divorced.” I sat on the sofa and tucked my feet up under me. “What did she say to you? What did she say to Seth?”

            “Pretty much the same as what she said to me. She says they’re still married . . . but separated. That he has a wandering eye. That you are not the first to think he has, you know, good intentions. She told us all about some woman named Rachel . . . another named Aimee. She even spelled it in case we wanted to call the woman. Aimee—A-I-M-E-E Westfield. I have her number. And there was a woman named Hope . . . I can’t remember her last name, but I can hardly forget the name. Seriously, Mom, she rattled off enough names to fill an Excel spreadsheet.”

            As Patrick rattled on, I took several sips of coffee, each one laying like lava in the pit of my stomach. I needed to think but I couldn’t with my son continuing his questions. When he finally took a breath, I asked, “What about Seth?”

            “We voted on which one of us would call you. I lost.”

            “You lost . . .”

            My oldest sighed but not so deeply as to warrant anger. “Seth really doesn’t want to talk to you right now, Mom. If you think he was crazy before you left—”

            “What about your father?”

            “What about him?
            I took a long swallow of coffee and closed my eyes. “When I left—”

            “He’s gonna marry her, Mom. I’m sure of it.”

            “But they haven’t yet.”

            “No. But Dad—he’ll do the right thing by Tiffany. By the baby.”

            “Just not the right thing by me.” I took another sip of coffee. Was it too early for wine? I glanced over my shoulder at the stovetop clock. Yep. Ten-fifty-nine—not even eleven o’clock. “I wonder if Tiffany knows how he came to the house before I left, begging me—”

            “Hold on. We’re not talking about Dad. And we’re not talking about Seth. We’re talking about this guy—”

            “Truck.”

            “Whatever. Look, Mom, he seems like a nice guy, but nice guys can be deceptive. You haven’t seen him for all these years. He could have a prison record—”

            “He doesn’t.”

            “How do you know?”

            I wasn’t about to tell him I’d done all the research possible on my trusty laptop. “He’s a respected businessman, Patrick. Yes, he’s made some mistakes. We’ve all made mistakes. And yes, he was a troubled kid. But I believe in the man he is now.” Even as I said the words, my stomach tightened. Truck had told me he’d had affairs during his first marriage to Catherine. But in the second marriage— “Did Catherine tell you about her affair?”

            “Umm . . . No.”

            “Hmm. So, I guess she got your number off the internet. Yours and Seth’s.”

            “She didn’t say.”

            Movement from beyond the window caused me to look up and out. Jennifer Vanderson walked around the backyard, her hands on her hips and her nose up in the air as if she were trying to find the source of something rotten. The pizza. “You didn’t ask?”

            “I did but she didn’t answer. She just jumped into a tirade of accusations.”

            “Against Truck.”

            “And you.”

            “Me?”

            “She insisted you knew they were still married and that you are forcing him to get a divorce. I mean—Mom, she said some pretty bad stuff about you. Things sons don’t need to hear about their mothers.”

            I stood and set my mug on the coffee table. Jennifer had moved closer to the cottage. “They are divorced, Paddy.”

            “How do you know?”

            Truth be told, I didn’t. I assumed. “Patrick, I have to go. My landlord is walking up to my door.”

            He sighed again. “Call me back?”

            “I will.” I ended the call, headed for the door, slipped my feet into a pair of flipflops beside it, and then walked outside. “Hi,” I called to Jennifer as pleasantly as I could.

            Her nose crinkled against the odor which was decidedly stronger than the night before. “What is that smell? Do you smell it? It’s awful. I came outside to sit out by the pool and—” She looked toward the right side of the cottage. “Is it coming from your trash?”

            “I’m so sorry.” I moved closer to her. “It really is awful, isn’t it? Someone sent me an anchovy and onion pizza last night.”

            She cupped her hand over her mouth. “As a joke?”

            I shrugged. The less she knew, the better. “Who knows. I’m assuming.” Then I chuckled. “I haven’t been here long enough to gain any enemies.”

            “I told my mom you were living here.” She took a step back, her hand still over her mouth. “Wanna go back toward my house?”

            “Sure.” We walked side by side, through the back gate leading to the pool to the farthest corner. Only then did she drop her hand.

            “This is better,” she said. “I won’t be sitting out here, but it’s better. Trash comes tomorrow.”

            I glanced up at the sky. The sun bore down on us in fury. “I think I’d best take it somewhere else. Maybe to a dumpster.”

            Jennifer nodded. “Good idea.” Then she smiled. “My mom said she remembered you from high school. She said y’all dated the same guy.”

            I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I thought—something you said when I met you. I thought your parents were deceased.” Saying “dead” didn’t seem right.

            Her hands went to her hips and she tossed her head. “Gracious, no. My grandparents raised me because Mama—well, she was a mess. And I don’t have a clue who my daddy was . . . or is . . . or anything.”

            Remembering Kate as I did, this seemed par for the course. “I’m sorry.”

            “Mama’s still a mess, but we manage to get along as long as she stays in her corner of the world, and I stay in mine. So, did you really date the same guy?”

            I furrowed my brow as though trying to remember. Not that I had to work too hard at it. “Yeah, I think maybe we did.” Then I laughed lightly. “But you know high school romances. They come and go . . .” I pointed toward the cottage. “I’m gonna gather up the trash and head to a dumpster somewhere. That way you can enjoy your afternoon by the pool.”

            “That’s so sweet of you.” She practically bounced on the balls of her feet. “Why don’t you put on your bathing suit and join me when you get back? I’ll make a big pitcher of iced tea and we can enjoy the sunshine and water.”

            I took a couple of steps back and nodded. “That sounds nice,” I said, because it did. “I’ll see you back here in an hour or so.”

***

I called Trisha on the way to the only dumpster I could think to go to—one next to a 7-Eleven—and filled her in on everything, right down to Jennifer talking to Kate and that she recalled that both she and I had dated Truck. The pizza in question was double-bagged and in the trunk of my car.

            “I feel like I’ve dropped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.”

            “Why don’t you drop off the stinky pizza and then come over. We’ll have a cup of coffee and talk about it.”

            “No.” I turned into the 7-Eleven parking lot and pulled right in front of the dumpster. “I told Jennifer I would come back and sit by the pool with her.”

            “Really?”

            “Hold on . . . I’m at the dumpster . . .” I put the car in park, jumped out, grabbed the offending box of anchovies and onions and then rushed it to the dumpster. Once inside the car, I continued our conversation via Bluetooth. “Yes, really. I think I could use some sunshine and some time to not think about this. I’m bothered that Catherine called my sons. My sons! I just—”

            “Does Truck know?”

            “Know what?”

            “That she called the boys?”

            “No. He’s got a lot going on with the car. I decided to wait before calling him.”

            “Wait for what?”

            I neared the cottage, turned into the long driveway and headed up and around. “I’ll wait until he calls me. This may really send him over the edge.” I didn’t bother to tell her how things had been left between the two of us the night before. We’d only said “goodbye.” No “I love you” and not even a “see ya later.”

            Just “goodbye.”

Chapter Fifty-one

Truck called later that night. I sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing moisturizing cream into a tender sunburn, a little reminder that I wasn’t used to sitting out in the sun for hours on end. Even living in Orlando.

Instead of “hello,” I answered with, “Tell me you got the brake pads.”

            “We did.”

            “You sound tired.” I capped the tube of cream, then stood, stretching.

            “I am. Trying to get this car . . . take care of business from here . . .”

            I started for the kitchen and a cold bottle of water from the fridge. “I’m sorry. But it will all be worth it once you get home. You’ll have Tortoise II, and you can get back to the office. By this time next week, you’ll be caught up. When do you start racing her?”

            “Jeannie—” he said in answer. “Catherine has blown my phone up today. Joey too.”

            I leaned against the counter. Twisted the cap off the bottle. Took a swallow. “Joey . . .”

            “She’s upset with her mother right now.”

            I sighed as I laid the sweating plastic against my now-throbbing forehead. “It’s not right for our kids to be involved in this.”

            “Our kids. Has something happened with your sons?”

            I lightly stamped my foot. I hadn’t intended to say anything. I should have remembered how quickly this man’s brain worked. “She called them.”

            “Catherine?”

            “Yes. She made some accusations against me . . . told them that the two of you were still married, which makes me the other woman. And an adulterer.”

            “Jeannie . . .”

            “I talked with Patrick. Told him the truth. You are divorced and I am not a home wrecker.” I paused, waiting. When he said nothing, I laughed lightly. “You are divorced, aren’t you?”

            “I told you I was.”

            I took another swallow of water. “I know. I’m just trying to make light of this. Add a little humor.”

            He chuckled. “You are such a bad liar.”

            I walked back into the bedroom. “Look. Truck. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I just want you to get home and I want to see you . . . to hold you. To have you hold me.”

            “I’ll be home sometime tomorrow, but I’ll need to head straight to work.”

            “Okay . . .?”

            “Let’s plan to get together Saturday night. How does that sound?”

            I eased myself onto the edge of the bed where I’d been when Truck’s call came in. “Sounds like too far away. But I’ll wait.”

            “Call you when I get home,” he said. Then again, he said, “Goodbye” and ended the call. No words of love or adoration. No words of comfort.

***

The following day I drove to the grocery store for a few items. I parked as far away from the door as seemed logical, a habit I’d formed a few years back both to keep anyone from banging their door into mine and to add some steps to my daily count. As I stepped out of my car, I noticed a dark four-door sedan easing by, the driver’s face turned toward me. Large, dark shades covered the woman’s eyes, her blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her face angular.

            I smiled. Perhaps she was someone I had gone to school with, someone who thought she recognized me.

            The smile was not reciprocated; at least not that I could tell. So, okay. Maybe it was my out-of-state tag that had the woman riled.

            “Oh, well.” I gave the world a sigh, dropped my keys into my purse, and walked toward the store.

            Inside, I grabbed a basket—no need for a cart—and began with Aisle 1. This store was unfamiliar to me and with nothing but time on my hands, I took each aisle, one at a time, determined to learn it. To store its layout for future trips. By Aisle 3, I became more than a little aware that the blonde from the dark four-door kept to my pattern of shopping. I also couldn’t help but note that she pushed a cart, empty except for the large black leather tote.

            I went from Aisle 3 to Aisle 5, an unfortunate choice seeing as these shelves stocked boxes of tempting baked goods. Not to mention sugars and baking chocolates—white, milk, bitter, and dark. I snatched a box of banana bread mix and threw it in my basket, then stole a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, Blondie stood several feet away, pretending to look at pancake syrup, her cart still empty.

            Now, more than a little suspicious and growing a tad nervous, I hurried through checkout, then headed straight for my car after paying for the bread mix. I couldn’t get to my car fast enough. As expected, the blonde darted out of the store, no purchase in hand, and toward where she’d parked. I dug into my purse until I found my phone and immediately dialed Trisha’s number.

            “Are you home?” I asked as soon as she answered. No need for pleasantries.

            “I am . . . what’s wrong?”

            “I just need to come over.” I started my car. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

            As soon as I hung up, I backed out of the parking spot, drove toward the exit, then looked into the rearview mirror.

Sure enough, the dark sedan glided behind to a stop behind me.

***

Trisha stood at the front door as I pulled into her driveway. I sat in my car for the ten seconds it took for the dark sedan—blue? Black? I couldn’t tell—to drive past, then slow to a stop about three houses down.

            I got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked with purpose toward Trisha. “Get inside.”

            “What?”

            “Get inside, get inside, get inside.” I sprinted up the front porch steps as Trisha turned to go in, then followed her, closing the door and leaning against it. “Did you see that dark car drive past here? Park a few driveways away?”

            “I—I guess so.”

            I nodded. “I’m being followed.”

            Trisha pushed past me to peer out one set of sidelights. “It’s just sitting there.” She stepped back. “Who is it?”

            “No idea. But she followed me through the grocery store, out the parking lot, and all the way here.”

            “Who?”

            “No idea. But I’m sure Catherine is behind this.”

            Trisha grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the kitchen. “Come on. This calls for strong cups of coffee. I want to hear all the details, and I do mean all the details.”

            We were on our second cups before I finished the whole ugly story.

            “So you think she now has someone following you?”

            I nodded. “Truck is going to be livid.”

            “Yeah, well, I’m none too happy myself. And Earl—”

            “Where is Earl?”

            “Golf.”

            “Hold on.” I jumped from my place at the table and returned to the foyer to see if my stalker still stalked. Sure enough, the car remained put. “Whose house is she in front of?” I asked as I reentered the kitchen.

            “It looked to me like she parked between Robin’s and Jane’s. But she’s on the easement, so there’s really nothing you can do about it. I mean, I’d call the cops, but . . .”

            I plopped back into my chair. “This is ridiculous. First she shows up at my place, then the pizza, she calls my sons, now I’m being followed.”

            “Don’t forget to mention that she’s been blowing up your phones.”

            I shook my head. “Truck said Joey’s upset with her mother. The last thing I would want is for Joey to be upset with her mother.”

            Trisha sat back, crossed one leg over the other and began to swing it furiously. “That’s her doings, not yours.”

            “I know, but—”

            “Have you spoken with Joey?”

            I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to call her. We’re not friends. I don’t even know her last name.”

            After draining her coffee, Trisha placed the mug on the table with a decided thud. “Well, one thing is for sure. You have to tell Truck.” She tapped the table with her finger. “You should call him now. This second.”

            I shook my head. “I can’t. This is the last thing he needs right now. He’s trying to get Tortoise II back here, he’s behind on work, and he’s already angry enough with Catherine.” I took a breath and let it go slowly. “The thing is, Trisha, is that he and Joey and Catherine are always going to be a family. Just like Jason and the boys and me.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Maybe this is just too much. Catherine doesn’t want me here. Seth doesn’t want me here. I’m not absolutely, one-hundred-percently sure Truck wants me here.”

            Trisha’s eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”

            Again, I shrugged. “I dunno. His demeanor over the past few days has been . . . I dunno. For a minute I thought maybe it was because he overheard what Jason said to me when we went upstairs. But I can’t be sure.”

            “Have you asked?”

            “Asked what? If he heard?”

            “Or how he feels about what he heard if he did, in fact, hear?”

            “No.”

            “Don’t you think you should?” She stood, looped her fingers into the handles of our mugs, and walked them to the sink. “I know for absolute sure, one-hundred-percent that I would ask Earl.”

            I frowned. “I won’t see him until tomorrow night.”

            Trisha pursed her lips as though trying to take it all in. Or maybe, like me, she was thinking I should just get back to Florida while the leaving was good. No trauma. No drama. Just here, then gone. “What are you going to do until then?”

            I folded my arms over the table before dropping my head onto them. “I have no idea.” I shook my head dramatically. “None whatsoever.”

Chapter Fifty-two

I hid in my new place the rest of the day. That evening, I kept the lights off in the front room, choosing to huddle under the covers of my bed and the low light from the beside table lamp. I only answered the phone once—no matter how many times unknown numbers popped up.

            Although I hoped Truck would call, the sole call came from Trisha who was “just checking in.”

            “I’m fine,” I told her.

            I wasn’t, but the lie sounded good.

            Truck called the following morning. “I hope you’re up to coming here.” His voice sounded exuberant. “Because Tortoise II—I swear to you, Jeannie, if cars could procreate, this is Tortoise’s daughter.”

            For the first time in days, my heart soared. “I’ll be wherever and whenever you want me.”

            “I’m working until six. I really should work until midnight to get caught up—Mary Lynn is practically foaming at the mouth—but I’m coming home at six. Meet me here about six-thirty. Seven.”

            “I can’t wait,” I said, meaning every bit of the three words.

            But I had to wait. And I had to lay low. The thought of ruining Truck’s good mood after getting T-II back home weighed heavy on me. But Trisha was right; I had to tell him I had been followed the day before. By some point, anyway.

            I snuck out of the cottage a little after six, but only made it a few feet toward my car before the sight of Jennifer, her arms crossed, her shoulder leaning against the back corner of the house, her face peering around it, stopped me. Sensing me, she turned, then hurried over to where I now stood beside my car, wishing I could just get in and go about my un-merry way.

            I unlocked the door and opened it. “What’s going on?”

            “There’s been this car parked on the other side of the street nearly all day. A woman is just sitting in it.”

            Air left my lungs. “What kind of car?”

            “I dunno one car from the next. Dark blue I think.”

            “Four-door?”

            She shrugged one shoulder. “I think so.”

            “Hmmm.”

            “I was going to call the police, but my husband said that she’s not doing anything illegal just parked there.”

            I nodded, then licked my lips; the sweet flavor of my lip gloss tickled my tongue. “Your husband’s right.”

            Jennifer smiled then. “Are you leaving to go out?” Her eyes brightened. “You look amazing.”

            I returned the smile. “Thank you. Yes, I have a date.”

            Her brow shot up. “He’s not picking you up? My mama always said a true gentleman will pick you up.”

            I laughed lightly. “No. I’m going to his place . . . he just got a new car, and he wants me to see it.”

            Jennifer grinned. “Have fun then.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll continue to keep watch on that one across the street.”

            I didn’t bother to tell her that when I left, the dark car with the woman inside would follow mine.

            And, sure enough, it did.

            The blonde with the large, dark shades driving the four-door sedan tailed me all the way to Truck’s. But as I turned into the drive, she kept going. I got out of my car, clicked the door shut, and then stood and watched as she drove to the far end of the street to make a three-point turn.

            I wanted to wait until she returned, to face her, to stare her down. Instead, as the garage door rattled open, I jerked and turned toward it. I hurried toward where Truck stood next to—he wasn’t kidding—the exact replica to Tortoise, her nose pointed outward. “Hey,” I said, a little breathless—I admit.

            If I hoped for a kiss, I was to be disappointed. Then again, with the sound of my stalker easing up the street, the best thing to do, I figured, was to give Truck’s new car the praise he expected. He didn’t have to hope for much. The resemblance was enough to knock me back a few decades. “Good grief,” I said.

            “Can you believe it? This little baby is sweet as sugar.” He popped open the driver’s door and I peered inside. Took a deep breath.

            “Smell that. It’s just like Tortoise I. A little leather, a little oil…” I peered over my shoulder and grinned. “But without the odor of Lucky Stikes.”

            His arms slipped around my waist as he leaned over to inhale, then plant little kisses into the hollow of my neck, sending shivers along my arms and legs. “Want to slip into the backseat and see if it feels the same as once-upon-a-time?” His voice came low and enticing. I giggled. “No, sir.” I straightened. “I’m too old for backseat romance.”

            Truck turned me to kiss me as soundly as he ever had, causing my knees to buckle. I had to lean against the doorframe to keep from crumbling to the floor . . . or falling for his tricks. Still my arms slid around his shoulders, more to draw him closer than to hold on.

            A car’s engine shut off and I stiffened.

            Truck’s lips trailed from mine to my temple. “What’s wrong.”

            I swallowed. “Truck,” I whispered. “There’s a car . . .”

            His chuckle came from a deep place—the deepest. “I know. And she has a backseat . . .”

            “No.” I placed my hands flat against his chest. “A car on the street. It’s been following me for the last couple of days.”

            Truck straightened, his eyes on mine as he lifted my chin with the crook of his index finger. His brow furrowed. “Following you?”

            I could only nod, fearful that if I said too much, I’d blubber like the seventeen-year-old he’d left behind. “Truck,” I whispered. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

            He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. “What does it look like?”

            “Dark blue. Four-door sedan.” I swallowed again. “The driver is a woman. A blonde. Large, dark glasses.”

            He kissed my forehead, then ushered me toward the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. “Get inside.”

            “Truck.”

            “Jeannie. Do what I tell you to do. Go inside. I’ll handle this.”

            Inside the house, the aroma of dinner simmering on the stove greeted me. I turned the heat to Lo, then went to the front of the house to peer out a window. Sure enough, Truck stood at the driver’s side of the sedan, his hands planted on the roof, his face at the window. His imposing nature shot through every fiber of my being. Were I Blondie, I would start my car and leave. No doubt about it.

            When Truck stood back, feet planted a foot apart, arms crossed, the driver’s window came up before the car rolled forward. Truck stood at the easement and watched as the woman pulled into the driveway next door, backed up, then drove away.

            We met in the kitchen, his arms coming around me before he shut the door. His comfort broke all that I’d bottled inside to freedom. I wept as though I’d lost a loved one.

            Perhaps I had. I simply wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

            Two hours later, after we’d finished a nearly silent meal and after we’d settled on the sofa to watch a little television, Truck’s phone vibrated from where he’d left it on the kitchen counter. Our eyes met and his brow rose as he exhaled deeply. “Wanna bet who that is?”

            I didn’t have to bet but I wanted desperately to ease the discomfort we’d both felt, so I smiled. “Which side of the bet am I on?”

            Truck groaned as he stood. He walked over to the phone, yanked it from its place, and said, “Yep” to me before “Hello.” He followed this one word greeting by leaning against the counter, crossing one leg over the other. I could only watch as he crewed his lip for a moment, then said, “Are you done? . . . Then you listen to me. This is going to stop, Cat. Right now. You are not going to bring this woman down to your level, do you hear me? She’s done nothing to you. Absolutely nothing. And if I need to get the law involved— . . . You’re funny, you know that? A real riot . . . I’m not playing games, Catherine. I’m not—” He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at the face before looking at me. “She hung up.”

            When he joined me back on the sofa, I took his hand—warm and strong—in mine, which had grown cold. “I have a question, Truck. Just one.”

            Again, his eyes met mine. “What’s that?”

            “We couldn’t survive life’s circumstances after senior year.”

            His head tilted slightly and his brow furrowed. “That’s not a question, Teach.”

            I swallowed. “Do you think we can survive life’s circumstances now?”

Chapter Fifty-three

Truck suggested we take a few days to think things over, to evaluate, to reevaluate if necessary. Reluctantly, I agreed. If I could have looked into the future and seen brighter days, if I could have envisioned all of us—Truck, Joey and her children, my sons and their families, and me—enjoying life together, I would have fought him on the spot. But, in all honesty, I couldn’t. What I’d been so sure of only a short time ago, I now struggled with.

            Life would have been much simpler had I just stayed in Orlando, sold my house, bought a condo at the beach, and lived my life in quiet solitude. Did I really need a man in my life? Did I need all the drama that coincides with familial units? Wouldn’t I have done better sleeping in, taking long walks on the beach, collecting shells, possibly volunteering at a nearby school?

            Or . . . what if Jason and I really could put our family together again?

            No. Absolutely not.

            By the time I’d made it back to the cottage, I’d settled on one truth and one alone: I’d thrown it all away back in 1971 and I’d lived to regret it. Losing Truck had been my one regret in life, no matter how much better my life had turned out.

            “But,” Ben said to me after I’d called him and given him the full report, “you didn’t throw him away, Shena. He threw you away, if I remember correctly. And, as it turns out, I do.”

            That much was also true. “But I didn’t fight—”

            “Yes, you did. Don’t you remember any of this? I mean, like not with your heart but with your head? You watched for him to send you a card or a letter or something to let you know where he was or what he was doing for the entire summer. Every day, Jeannie. You walked into the kitchen and looked at the refrigerator to see if Mom had put some correspondence from him up there, hoping to see it stand out like a sore thumb.”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “And then you begged me—begged me—to take you to that Texaco station where he’d worked. Or was it a Sinclair—”

            “Texaco.” Great memory, that Ben.

            “You asked that attendant if he’d gone off to the Marines and the kid laughed at you. Told you he was working at a station in another county. He hadn’t done a single thing you thought he’d do.”

            “Until later,” I breathed out.

            A moment of silence stretched between us before my big brother muttered, “Man, I miss gas station attendants.”

            I grinned, but the hilarity only lasted a moment. “So what are you saying?”

            “I’m saying, Sheena, quit putting all the blame on yourself about what happened forty-something years ago. He did the right thing by you then and he’ll do the right thing by you now.”

            “You think so?”

            “Which part?”

            “Both.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

            But if that was true, it sure didn’t feel like it a few days later when Truck came to his own conclusion, just as he had before.

            He arrived unexpectedly at the front door of the cottage. I was about to head out to Trisha and Earl’s; they’d invited me over for steaks and baked potatoes. Earl was grilling, Trisha said. With my nose pointed toward the opened purse I carried, I didn’t hear his knock right away. I’m not even sure he did. I only know that when I opened the door, he stood there, fist poised, and a serious look on his face. “Hey,” he said, sounding beat.

            I’m sure I blinked a few times. “Hey yourself. Were we—”

            “No. I just figured . . . are you going out?”

            I stepped back. “Trisha’s. Come on in.” My body tingled with numbness. The same feelings that had taken over my whole being on the night he’d ended things with me in ’71 washed over me again. Their familiarity had been lost for so long, but now they were back. Sadly, back. And I recognized them easily.

            Truck made his way to the sofa, but he didn’t sit. I, on the other hand, stayed planted by the door.

            “Can I get you something to drink?” I closed the door with a gentle click.

            “No—no.” He crossed his arms, looked down at feet braced six inches apart, and sighed again. “Look, Jeannie—”

            “Truck—” I took a step toward him, but he held up his hand for me to stop.

            “Jeannie, remember that night?”

            “Which one?”

            His eyes traveled across the room to focus on something other than me and my pitiful self standing before him, just as I’d sat across the canoe from him all those years ago. “You know which one.”

            “I know.”

            “I told you that you should become a teacher—the best kind of teacher—and you listened to me, and you became a teacher. The best kind of teacher.”

            How he knew such a thing was beyond me, but I wasn’t about to argue with him as to my career abilities. Not then. So I just stared at him. Stared and waited.

            “Anyway.” His eyes came back to me. “I want you to know something, Jeannie. I loved you enough back then to let you go.” His arms squeezed, then relaxed. “I know you think maybe it was a coward’s way out, but it wasn’t. I wanted you with me. I even told you how I’d dreamed about you dressed in a pair of jeans and one of my shirts, knocking around here and there. One race after the other. But you—you living your life in a camper or a fifth wheel didn’t compute.”

            “Truck—”

            “Hear me out. I’ve been rehearsing this for hours and if you interrupt me, I’ll screw it up.”

            I took another step toward him. “Well,” I said around a knot forming in my throat, “I wouldn’t want you to screw it up.”

            “I’ve talked to Joey. She likes you a lot. A whole lot. And she understands how I’m feeling right now.”

            “About?”

            “You. You and this situation we’re in.”

            “What situation is that?”

            He scrubbed his face with his hands, then rested them on his hips. “You’re messing with my speech again.”

            I blinked back tears. “Sorry.”

            “Look, Jeannie, I love you. I do. And I know you love me. But I also know that you have a son in Florida who would bury me up to my neck in sand if he could and an ex-husband you just may be able to work things out with—”

            I shook my head.

            “—and I’ve got an ex-wife who is never going to leave me be, a woman who will destroy you and me and Joey and my grandkids and never think twice about what she’s doing and why. And I know you, Teach. You’ll put on a brave face, and you’ll give it everything you’ve got, but in the end, she’ll win.”

            “Truck—”

            “She will win, Jeannie, and you’ll lose and I’ll lose, and everyone involved in this whole scenario will lose. Except her.” He sighed again, looked back to his feet again, and hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

            Tears slipped down my cheeks, hot from anger and regret and pure sadness. “For?” The question came out in a squeak.

            He looked up. “That.” One hand rose, then fell. “That right there. Making you cry. The last thing I wanted—”

            As much as I wanted to argue with him right then, I couldn’t. He’d been right—one hundred percent right—nearly a half century ago. He was right now. I took a step back, nodded at him, then walked past him to the bedroom where I slipped inside and closed the door. I waited, practically holding my breath, until he shut the front door behind him. He revved the engine of his car a few times, just as he had that summer’s night in 1971, then drove away.

***

“The only difference,” I told Trisha and Earl later as we sat outside under the night’s heavy air sipping on chilled glasses of white zinfandel, “is that the last time, he kissed me before he drove away.”

            Earl shifted and laid his head back against the painted-blue Adirondack chair he sat in. “I’m feeling really uncomfortable right now.”

            “Earl,” Trisha admonished from her matching chair, the one that matched mine and three others that perched around an unused firepit.

            He sat up straight. “Well, I do.” He extended his half-filled glass toward me. “She left me for this guy, in case anyone cares to remember, and he broke her heart and now he’s done it all over again.”

            I turned fully toward him. “But aren’t you glad I left you for him?”

            Earl smiled at Trisha. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

            Trisha shot another warning look his way. “You’d better know so.”

            He rose enough to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Yes, I do.” After sitting back in his chair, he took a long swallow of wine.

            I did the same, finished off the glass, then reached for the bottle standing on the wide rim of the firepit.

            “Go easy, girl,” Trisha said.

            I raised the bottle in mock salute. “I’m planning to stay here tonight.”

            Earl scooted forward. “Didn’t I see a chocolate cake in the kitchen earlier?”

            Trisha nearly glowed as she smiled at him. “You did. Go get three slices for us.”

            He stood, set his glass on the brick flooring beside his chair, and then walked away.

            “And forks,” Trisha called over her shoulder before turning to me. “Good. Now we can talk for a minute. What’s your plan?”

            “To drink this wine until I’m numb—more numb than I am already from this blow—and then I’m going to crawl to bed with a stomach full of cake and steak and potato and wine and . . .”

            “And?”

            Tears welled up in my eyes—darn that wine—and slipped down my cheeks as they had earlier. “And then I’m going to sleep and maybe tomorrow I’m going to wake up and maybe I’m going to stay in bed all day and maybe I’m going to—” I looked at her fully. “Trisha, what am I going to do?”

            “What do you want to do?” She gave me a kind half-smile. “Besides drink too much and eat cake and all the rest.”

            “I don’t—”

            “Say it quickly, Jeannie. What do you want? Really want? Right now? What do you want?”

            “I want Truck.”

            “Are you willing to fight for him? No matter what or who gets in the way?” She shifted toward me. “I’ve been married a long time, Jeannie, and I’m here to tell you that you have to fight sometimes. Fight hard sometimes. Because, in the end, it’s worth it.”

            My head swam. “What is?”

            “Being with the one you love.”

            “I didn’t fight hard enough back then.”

            “You were seventeen, Jeannie. Give yourself a break. And Truck was right. The two of you could have never made it. Not then. Not given all the circumstances in front of you.”

            “I didn’t fight for Jason.” I sipped my wine and narrowed my eyes. “Maybe I didn’t really love him. Maybe I never really loved him.”

            Trisha had the good sense to remain quiet because she knew as well as I that I had loved Jason. Loved him most wonderfully. A person can love more than one person in life, after all. 

Earl returned with three plates topped by slices of chocolate cake slathered in chocolate icing. He placed one on the arm of his chair, handed the second to his wife, and then extended the third to me, snatching it back as I reached for it. “Quick, Jeannie,” he said. “Do you love him?”

            “Wha—”

            “Don’t think. Just answer. Do you love him? Truck?”

            “Yes.”

            He handed me the cake and I took it. “Then what are you going to do about it? Sit here and cry in your wine and dessert or fight for once in your life?”

            I smiled up at him, this old flame of mine who, for some reason, still thought enough of me to be honest, brutally honest. “For once in my life,” I said, “I’m going to fight.” Then I took the fork in my hand and said, “But first, cake.”

Chapter Fifty-four

After a couple of Tylenol and a hot shower the next morning, I redressed in the clothes I’d worn to Trisha and Earl’s the night before, sauntered into the kitchen, enjoyed a hot cup of coffee with my old friend, and then left for the cottage. There I slipped into a pair of white jeans, a loose-fitting black and white polka dot blouse, brushed my hair and teeth, applied a little makeup and then hurried to my car. By new habit, as I drove to the antique mall, I checked my rearview mirror for signs of a follower. There was none.

            During the trip to Florence, I considered what I would say when I saw him, but nothing came to mind. I got as far as “now you’re going to listen to me,” but no further. By the time I pulled into the parking lot, my hands shook so hard I could hardly steer the car into a vacant spot. I pulled the visor down, checked myself in the mirror, then slammed it back up.

            After gathering what little bit of courage existed inside me, I left my car and walked on noodle-like legs to the entrance just as Mary Lynn came out the main doors. She stopped when she saw me, then trotted down the wide cement steps and straight to me. “Well, thank the good Lord.”

            I crossed my arms over my middle to steady myself. “Is he here?”

            “The good Lord? No. That hard-headed brother of mine? Yes. And miserable. Snapping at everyone.”

            “Because of me? Because of us?”

            “Because he’s an idiot and he knows it. Please tell me you’re here to straighten him out.”

            “That’s the plan.”

            She grinned. “Do you know what you’re planning to say?”

            “Not really.”

            “Then while I’m running this long list of errands that he has me running, I’ll pray for you.”

            The sun beat down on my back, toasting me. At least I thought it was the sun. “Pray for me . . .”

            “Best thing I know to do.” She started to walk around me, then stopped and slipped her fingers around my wrist. “I believe with all my heart that God brought you back home now for a reason. And that you found my brother now for a reason. Before now it may not have been the right time, but now— I believe now is the right time. And you are the right woman for him. The exact kind of woman he needs in his life.” Her fingers slipped away from my wrist, she turned and walked away.

            I continued into the mall. An employee welcomed me. I turned toward her—fresh-faced and young. In fact, she reminded me a lot of me a few decades back. After a nod, I said, “I’m here to see Mr. Hardy.”

            “Is he expecting you?”

            “Yes,” I said. “You don’t have to call him. I know where to go.”

            I headed straight up the staircase, opened the door and strolled toward his office. The harshness of his voice as he dealt with a dealer met me like a sock to the stomach. I waited in the semi-darkened hallway until the call ended, then rounded the corner and rested against the doorframe, my arms crossed, this time in determination.

            Sensing me, he looked up from his desk, a scowl on his face, papers and pens strewn before him. “Jeannie.” He stood.

            “Stay right there,” I told him and, remarkably, he did. “Forty-eight years ago, you ended our relationship because you said it was the best thing for me. And yes, you were right about that. And then last night you did the same thing again. Only this time, I don’t think you’re so right. Last time—forty-eight years ago when we were dating—you told me you’d take me fly fishing and then, that awful night when you ended things, you said, ‘Shoot, we never went fly fishing.’ And I said that we never did a lot of things. I said that we’d wasted so much time. Or maybe I said plans. That we’d wasted so many plans. I don’t remember the exact words this second, but I do recall the sentiment. And then you told me, quite emphatically I might add, that nothing was ever wasted. You told me not to forget that. And I never forgot it. In fact, I never forgot you. I never really got over you.

“Back then, I didn’t fight for you because I knew there was no sense in it and I didn’t fight for the college of my choice because what was the point? I also didn’t fight for Jason when he up and left me because I knew there was no sense in that either.”

            Truck took a step away from his desk and I raised my hand. “No. Don’t interrupt me. I know exactly what I’m going to say, and I don’t want you to mess that up.”

            He grinned and I continued. “Do you know what else I remember about that night? The way you guided that canoe across the water, paddling us upstream—upstream—thinking how good a man you were. How strong. Thinking that you’d make some woman a good husband one day. The right woman. And I thought that woman could have been me . . . if I could just be that woman. But the truth was, I wasn’t a woman. Not yet anyway. I was seventeen and so in love with this greaser nineteen-year-old who drove too fast and smoked too much and didn’t see his potential. And, quite frankly, after that night, she was crushed nearly beyond repair.” I took a breath and stood straight. “But something else happened that night. I realized it takes a lot more in life than seventeen years has to offer to make a girl into a woman. Even making love to a young man who she loves and who loves her wouldn’t do it.” I took another step. “Do you know what I think does?”

            “No. What?”

            “Standing up and standing strong for what you want when it’s right. Right for you. Right for me. Standing up for what is good and true. Not just for the here and now but for all eternity.” I took another breath then closed the gap between us. I slid my arms around his shoulders—still strong and muscular—as his went around my waist. For a moment I didn’t see a sixty-six-year-old. I saw the nineteen-year-old. And, for a moment, I became seventeen again—long blond hair, a smooth, unwrinkled complexion and, as he had once said, “tough-looking legs.”

“Bubba?”

            “Teach.”

            “I’m not leaving. And you’re not leaving. And if we have to fight hell to gain heaven, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll deal with Seth—he’ll come around, trust me. You’ll deal with Catherine and, every minute of every day, we’ll have each other.”

“At least that much.”

“At most that much. Mr. Hardy, I lost you for nearly half a century. I’m not about to lose you again. Now . . . if you ask sweetly, I’ll tell you why I’m so willing to fight this time.”

            He shook his head as laughter grew in his eyes. “Why?”

            “Because I don’t have another half century to waste.”

            “Nothing is ever wasted, Teach.”

            I smiled before pressing my lips against his. Briefly. Sweetly. “Do you believe God directs our steps?” I asked, knowing full-well the answer. He’d given it to me before. Shocked me with it, really.

            “All the way.”

            “Then walk with me.”

            He grinned, then kissed me. Fully. Completely. Turning my legs into noodles again. “Where do you want to go?” he asked when he broke the kiss.

            “Anywhere and everywhere. As long as it’s with you.”

            Truck pulled me so close we nearly became one. In fact, at that moment, we may have become one. “I have an idea,” he murmured against my ear, his breath warm.

            I pressed my forehead against his chest, felt his heartbeat, strong and sure. “I’m listening.”

            “There’s a race tonight.”

            I closed my eyes and smiled. “Tortoise II entered?”

            “You bet she is. She’ll win for sure.”

            “And then?”

            He stepped back and lifted my chin with the crook of his finger. “Then . . . I say, let’s go home.”

THE END