by Ann McMan
“Give my love to Syd and Henry,” Celine called after her.
Maddie waved and held the door open for Dorothy and Django. The three of them left the house and made their way toward Maddie’s Jeep.
Maddie could see a smattering of stars beginning to peek through along the western horizon. It was going to be a clear night.
“Do you still watch the stars?” she asked Dorothy.
Dorothy seemed surprised by her question. “I mostly do,” she said. “How did you know about that?”
Maddie smiled at her. “Henry. He stares at the sky every night, waiting for the appearance of some mysterious horse he says you told him about.”
“Oh. That’s Pegasus. The constellation. I told him he would be able to see it in the fall.”
“That explains it. He wants to be sure not to miss it. At first, I thought it was a ruse to get to stay up later. But I get the impression he thinks it’s going to gallop across the sky like Maximus in Tangled.”
“I’m sorry. It was in a story I told him one day, when we were reading a book together.”
“Don’t be sorry about that. Henry loves his bookmobile dates with you.”
“I like them, too. It’s really nice that Syd brings him over here so we can go together.”
“That’s right,” Maddie recalled. “Roma Jean does a stop out here now, doesn’t she?”
Dorothy nodded. “Just for the summer, until school starts.”
“I bet you like that.”
“Yeah. It’s a lot easier than . . . than it used to be.”
Maddie fought an impulse to wrap an arm around the girl and pull her closer.
“Mom likes having you here,” she said.
Dorothy looked up at her with a hopeful expression. “Do you think so?”
“No. I know so. You’re great company for her—and she loves having a captive audience.”
“A captive audience for what?”
Maddie bent down to whisper. “Piano lessons.”
That made Dorothy laugh.
Maddie felt irrationally proud of herself for making Dorothy laugh—a rare occurrence of late.
She smiled smugly.
I cannot wait to tell Syd . . .
◊ ◊ ◊
Henry was busy flipping through a glossy magazine that Uncle David had just dropped off. It was very fat and full of shiny pages. Most showed big photos of pretty, smiling women with fussy hairdos. They were all dressed in floofy white gowns. The pictures showed them walking through arches covered with flowers, or standing outside in gardens beside long tables that were loaded with fancy fountains and towers of shiny glasses.
He could tell by their outfits that the women were all brides. Many of them stood with tall, handsome men wearing fancy black or gray suits. Some of the men even wore hats.
He looked and looked, but no matter how many pages he turned, he didn’t see any pictures of brides with other brides—just brides with men.
Grooms, he reminded himself.
But he supposed that was okay because Maddie wouldn’t want to wear any of these fussy dresses, either.
He couldn’t imagine that.
Maddie said she wanted him to be her best man. He wasn’t sure what kind of job that was, but he knew it was important. He wanted to do it right.
He just hoped it didn’t mean he’d have to wear one of those hats. They looked really silly. He liked his green “Murderous Quakers” hat—the one Maddie gave him when he first came to live here. She said it had been her hat in college. Henry wore it all the time—but Syd always made him take it off inside the house.
“Are you ready to go, Henry?” It was Syd. They were meeting Maddie for dinner at the café.
He looked up at her. “Is Uncle David coming, too?”
“No can do, bucko.” Uncle David looked at his watch. “I have a meeting in town and I gotta boogie.” He waved goodbye. “Save me some sprinkles.” He gave Syd a kiss on the cheek. “Let me know what you think about those bowl food ideas and grazing tables. Both approaches are pretty hot right now.”
“I will.” Syd held the door open for him. “The only thing I’m sure about is that we’ll have to include some vegan options, whatever we decide.”
David held up a hand. “I do not have the bandwidth to even think about that. Considerations of wholly tasteless, cardboard canapés demands more time than we have right now—and will require at least two bottles of the good hooch Maddie keeps hidden in the barn.”
Syd looked confused. “Is she still doing that?”
“It’s in the old refrigerator,” Henry piped up. “Behind the workbench.”
“The workbench?” Syd sounded confused. “That fridge hasn’t worked since I moved out here.”
“She fixed it,” Henry added. “But she told me it was entre nous.”
Syd shook her head and looked at Uncle David. “How did you know about this?”
“You’re kidding me, right? That woman is about as opaque as cellophane.”
“True,” Syd agreed.
“I gotta scoot.” David waved at Henry. “See you on taco night.”
“Bye.” Henry watched him leave. After Syd closed the door, he lifted up the heavy magazine. “How come there aren’t any pictures of brides with brides?”
“What?” Syd walked over to the table.
“In here,” Henry explained. “There are only pictures of brides with grooms.”
“Oh.” Syd smiled at him and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I guess that’s because many of these magazines are more concerned with selling things than taking care to show all kinds of families.”
That confused Henry. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t really get it either, sweetheart. But our family is just as important as any of these, and we can’t forget that.”
“Do I have to wear one of those big hats?” Henry had moved on.
Syd laughed. “No, honey. Nobody is going to ask you to wear a hat.”
“Will Maddie have to wear one?”
Syd took a moment to consider her answer. “Unlikely. In fact, we’ll be lucky if we can get her to toss the wingtips and wear girl shoes.”
“What are ‘girl’ shoes?”
“They’re . . .” Syd reconsidered. “Let’s talk about it on the way to the café. Maddie will be there waiting on us.”
“Okay.” Henry closed the magazine. They left the house and walked together toward the barn, where Syd’s new Volvo was parked. Henry was fastening his seatbelt when something else occurred to him. “Will Uncle David let us have fairy sprinkles at the wedding?”
Syd chuckled as she started the car.
“I’m pretty sure there’ll be fairy sprinkles a-plenty.”
◊ ◊ ◊
“Want me to top off your coffee?”
Coralee Minor had appeared next to Lizzy’s table, brandishing a fat pot with a bright orange rim. Decaf. It was full, too. It looked like Coralee had brewed a fresh pot just for her, because there were next to no other patrons at Waffle House. Small wonder. It was nearly 8 p.m.
Tom was running late. As usual.
“Sure.” Lizzy held up her mug. “Why not?”
Coralee promptly filled her cup. “Do you wanna order something to nibble on while you wait on Mr. Murphy?”
Lizzy smiled at her. “No. Thanks, Coralee. He should be along any minute now.”
“Okay. Just holler at me if you change your mind.” Coralee headed back toward the service area.
Lizzy returned her gaze to the article she was reading in the latest issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. It was depressing the hell out of her.
“The Ongoing Ebola Epidemic in the Democratic Republic of Congo, 2018–2019.”
Zoonotic diseases. They kept cropping up—faster and faster now. She remembered a conversation she’d had a few weeks ago with their Upjohn rep.
“This crap is going to get a lot worse,” he had said. “It’s as if Mother Nature’s pissed with us and
the ways we keep jacking up the planet. ‘You refuse to do right and clean up your acts? Fine. I’ll find a way to get your attention.’ That’s what’s happening with all these viruses that jump species.” He shook his head. “Mark my words, sooner or later one of these will take us all out.”
God help them if he ended up being right.
Lizzy sipped her hot coffee and kept reading.
Scientists do not know where Ebola virus comes from. However, based on the nature of similar viruses, they believe the virus is animal-borne, with bats or nonhuman primates (chimpanzees, apes, monkeys, etc.) being the most likely source.
In frustration, she closed the journal and pushed it away. This wasn’t the kind of dire prognostication she needed, front-loading another sleepless night. She already had enough incentives to lie awake.
Car headlights flashed across the front windows of the tiny restaurant. She saw a man get out and head for the door. His blond hair was unmistakable. Tom. Finally.
He looked around the interior and waved when he spotted her. He smiled as he slid into the booth.
“Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
Lizzy looked at her watch. “Nearly an hour. I got here a few minutes after seven—as we agreed.”
“Don’t start, okay?” He held up a palm. “I got snagged on a call and didn’t get out of Blacksburg until nearly six-thirty.”
“Why didn’t you text me to say you were running late?”
He shrugged. “I had to make some calls during the drive.” He continued before Lizzy could react. “They were important, okay? Don’t be pissed.”
Lizzy gave up on bothering to chastise him. It was pointless. She sank back against the booth.
“Are you going to tell me about these important calls?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and twisted around to catch Coralee’s eye. “As soon as we order some food. I’m starving.”
After Coralee had taken their orders and brought Tom his iced tea, he stretched his arms out along the back of the booth and yawned.
“Tired?” Lizzy asked.
“Damn straight. I’ve been busting my hump all week. It sucks that I have to drive back after we eat.”
That surprised Lizzy. Normally, Tom stayed over at her place whenever they connected on weeknights.
“You’re going back to Blacksburg?” she asked. “Tonight?”
“Have to. I’ve got to get some paperwork in order. And I have to meet with the Dean tomorrow morning.”
“What’s going on, Tom? You normally lay a patch whenever you have the chance to get out of Blacksburg.”
He dropped his arms and leaned over their narrow table.
“I’ve got great news, Babe.”
“You do?”
“Yep. That’s why I’m late tonight.”
Lizzy thought about pointing out that Tom was nearly always late, but didn’t want to rain on his parade. It was clear he was excited about something.
“Are you going to share it with me?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded smugly. “I got a job. A great job.”
“A job?” Lizzy was flummoxed. “I didn’t know you were interviewing anyplace.”
“Of course, I’ve been interviewing. I graduate in less than nine weeks.”
“But you didn’t say anything to me about this—this job prospect.”
“Nope. I wasn’t sure it would pan out, and I wanted to surprise you.”
Pan out? Something had “panned out”—already? Before they’d even discussed any possibilities?
“Well?” Tom sounded impatient. “Aren’t you gonna ask me about it?”
“Yes. Sure.” She did her best to sound upbeat. “What is it?”
“Brace yourself. It’s a sweet gig—a clinical pathology residency with Zoetis labs.”
Lizzy was confused. “You’re applying for a lab residency? I thought you wanted to practice.”
“I was never more than 50/50 on the whole vet clinic track. You know that. Research is where the big bucks are. I put in my two years with Zoetis, and I can pretty much write my own ticket.” He reached for her hand. “This is the brass ring, Babe. We can live anywhere we want.”
“Two years?” Lizzy’s head was spinning. “Where is this residency?”
“That’s the best part: Denver. Great skiing. Hospitals every twenty feet. You’ll have no trouble finding a job.”
Denver?
“Wait a minute, Tom. You expect me to move to Denver with you?”
Tom’s face fell. “Sure. I mean, why wouldn’t you?”
Lizzy withdrew her hand from his. “For starters, you haven’t asked me to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course, I want you to go with me. It’s a no-brainer.”
“Tom? This might surprise you, but assuming I’ll jump at the chance to move across the country with you isn’t the same as asking for my opinion on the matter.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“This.” He waved his hands at her. “Get the way you get whenever we don’t talk something to death.”
“Tom, we haven’t talked about this at all—much less to death.”
Coralee showed up and timidly deposited their two plates of food.
“Y’all let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
She retreated before either of them could reply.
Tom picked up his fork and angrily speared a hunk of hash brown.
“I don’t see what the big damn deal is. This is a fantastic opportunity for me. I thought you’d be jumping for joy.”
Lizzy gave him one of what she knew he called “those” looks.
“Okay. Whatever.” He chewed a forkful of food. “You never jump for joy about anything. I don’t know why I thought this would be different.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
Lizzy dropped her eyes and stared at her mushroom omelet. It was ironic: she’d nearly ordered a Denver omelet, but decided the combination of onions and green pepper would give her trouble later on. How prescient that decision was turning out to be . . . .
“Tom, I don’t see how it could surprise you that I might have opinions—strong opinions—about relocating. Especially to a place more than halfway across the country.”
Tom seemed nonplussed by her comment. “Why would you want to stay here?”
Lizzy hadn’t had much of an appetite when she’d arrived. Now it was completely gone. She pushed her plate away. “The fact that you even ask me that question tells me you’d never understand my answer.”
Tom gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “You act like you’re some kind of missionary.”
Lizzy was too tired to argue with him. It was clear that his mind was made up.
“I need some time to think about all of this,” she said. “And you said you need to get back to Blacksburg tonight.” She looked at her watch. “If you leave now, you can get there before ten.” She collected her journal and dug a ten-dollar bill out of her purse. “This should cover my dinner.”
“You’re leaving?”
Lizzy noticed that he didn’t offer to pay for her meal.
“Yes, Tom. I’m going home.”
He blinked. “Can I at least call you later?”
Can I stop you? she thought. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said instead. “I’m kind of tired. Goodnight.”
She waved at Coralee on her way out. Coralee jerked her head toward Tom’s back and made what looked to Lizzy like a rude gesture.
Even as deflated as she felt, Lizzy had to fight an impulse to laugh.
◊ ◊ ◊
Roma Jean looked at her watch for about the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. She’d only been sitting on Charlie’s side porch for half an hour, but it felt like longer.
Of course, she didn’t have to wait outside—Charlie had given her a key two weeks ago. But Roma Jean still felt like letting herself into the small house when Charlie wasn’t at home wa
s . . . inappropriate. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing “nice” girls did. And one thing Roma Jean got plenty of was reminders about how “nice” girls behaved. Her mother was famous for randomly tossing those helpful hints off whenever the two of them were busy doing just about any mundane task around the house—like sorting dirty clothes or emptying the dishwasher. It drove Roma Jean nuts. But even with all that, she knew it could be a lot worse. All things considered, her parents had handled things with Charlie pretty well. But “things with Charlie” was still kind of a moving target in the Freemantle family.
“Moving target” made her think about Grandma Azalea. The old woman had more or less adopted Charlie at the 4th of July picnic after Roma Jean had lied and said Charlie was related to Jefferson Davis. Now Charlie had regular dates with Azalea to visit the county shooting range. Charlie said it was so she could teach Grandma Azalea about gun safety—but Roma Jean knew it really was because they both shared a passion for target shooting. Charlie said she’d never seen anybody empty a chamber as fast as Azalea—and into such a tight grouping, dead center on the target.
As nice as that strange relationship was, Roma Jean still knew that where information she shared with her parents was concerned, less was more.
And her parents weren’t the only ones ready to dispense unsolicited behavioral advice. Last Sunday after church, Grandma Azalea had pulled her aside and shaken a crooked finger in her face, reminding her that “the law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners.” After that, she reminded Roma Jean to be sure and reserve her a leg quarter and some broccoli slaw if she got to the Riverside Café first.
Like they’d ever run out of chicken legs on a Sunday . . .
Roma Jean thought Grandma Azalea’s admonition was pretty ironic since it came from the same person who spent most of her waking hours beta testing Grand Theft Auto, Cayo Perico, which came with about twenty-five warnings for extreme violence and graphic nudity. Not to mention her own budding, second-amendment-based friendship with Charlie.
A beat-up car passed the house . . . slowly. It sounded like it was running low on power steering fluid. Her Caprice made that same noise last month—a loud screech whenever she turned the wheel. She didn’t recognize the car, but she could tell the person driving was taking a good look at Charlie’s house—and at Roma Jean’s car, parked big as life, in the driveway. She grimaced, thinking again about the big new dent on its hood.