Bree snatched Sasquatch up from the floor and turned the cat on his back, holding him like a baby. The cat’s purrs echoed off the parlor walls. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a normal girl.” To John, Bree didn’t feel like a girl at all. She kind of felt like a brother. Not as close as James, but maybe a cousin or something. “I know, but if there was somebody you liked, what would you want them to do for you for Valentine’s?”

Bree thought about it for a second and then smiled wickedly, “Give me a key to her apartment.” John reviled at her promiscuity. Bree laughed. “Thought you’d like that.” She carted the cat into her room and shut the door. Despite his distaste for her idea, he wrote it down in the spiral notebook.

Under it, he wrote The Stained Petticoats of Eliza Smith. In that book, Miss Saunders was treated to a bouquet of wildflowers and a bible. The gentleman farmer, Edward, had searched all the book sellers of Highbury to find the Saunders family bible, which had been sold in the estate sale to discharge debts. He found it and wrapped it up for her. That Valentine’s Day had been a turning point for Miss Saunders. John hoped to created just such a turning point for Kit Kat.

He only had two ideas and one of them required that he find a bible, Book of Mormon or triplet that belonged to the Townsend family. The thought of finding something like that was a daunting task. Was it any more difficult for Edward? John had as much time and resources as Edward, but the gentleman farmer KNEW that such a bible existed. For all John knew, all the family books went to one of Kit Kat’s siblings.

He wanted to create a Valentine’s Day that outshone anything she had ever written. She wrote romance novels. Her true life romance should be better than even her imagination. Unfortunately, John knew his limitations. He had never considered Valentine’s Day an important holiday. Of course, that just may be the reason he lost A.S.

The thought of his ex-wife haunted him. Despite all of Kit Kat’s allures, she still couldn’t hold a candle to A.S. For a brief moment, he considered that he should be trying to think of a romantic evening for A.S. instead of Kit Kat, but he brushed it aside. For the last four years, he had tried to convince her to come to her senses. Kit Kat would have to do. She might not be as pretty, but she was a good woman.

“James?” John called to his brother, but Bree answered. “He’s out in the back barn. I think he’s workin’ on a new machine.” John shivered. While James had been working on the Snow Eater, he had accidentally killed the barn cat. The Snow Eater was the whole reason they could live so comfortably, but there was always a period of frustration and swearing during this stage of invention. John just hoped Sasquatch would stay in the house where he belonged.

John threw on his coat and headed outside. He crunched through the dry snow. He loved the crusty feel of it beneath his boots. He could smell the frozen rot of the corn stalks in the field. It wasn’t a smell from his childhood. It had only been recently that they had adopted the no-till growing method and with it, new smells on the farm. As hopeful as the two of them had been for the additional funds from the carbon credits, they were still struggling.

John opened the door to the barn and closed it behind himself quickly. James was sitting on a stool next to the makeshift table he had made with two saw horses and the door that they found at the side of the road so many years ago. How old had they been when they stopped the pickup and threw it in the back? They had been driving the blue and white Ford F100 and they hadn’t worried about it falling through the rusted bed, so it must have been before John Jr. had been born. Well over ten years ago.

James was sitting on the stool, running his finger down a strip of mylar. John recognized it. The sound that came from James’ fingernails on the plastic said the words, “Happy Birthday!” When they were just kids, their mother had brought home a stack of these mylar strips from the discount crafts store, KD Novelty. They were supposed to be attached to helium balloons. James ran his fingernail along the strip again. “Happy Birthday!” it called out to him in a strange, raspy voice. James didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Whatcha doin’?” John asked. James rang his fingers along the strip again. “Happy Birthday!” He shook his head and did it again. “Happy Birthday!” John started to speak, but James held up his hand for quiet. He ran his fingernails along the strip another time, slowly. “Haaaapyyyyy Biirrrrthdaaaay!” James shook his head again.

“I’m just trying to figure out how this thing sounds like words. It’s just grooves along the plastic.” James rang his finger along it a few more times and John stood there, watching his brother obsess over the strange and unsuccessful party favor. This was worse than cleaning up the dead cat after the first Snow Eater incident. James just kept making the thin strip of mylar repeat over and over, “Happy Birthday!”

John ran his hand over his head, not knowing what to think. Finally, James said something, “What do you want?” “Happy Birthday!” John tried to think through the almost robotic voice. “Um… I was wonderin’ if you have any ideas on what I could do for Valentine’s Day for Kit Kat.”

“Happy Birthday!” James sat there and then placed the mylar strip on the table. He tried running a screwdriver over the plastic, but this time no voice came through. He tried running a toy car over the grooves and an ever so faint voice whispered, “Happy Birthday!”

The first thing John thought when he saw that toy car was, “Hey, that’s mine!” It HAD been his car, one of many Matchbox cars, that he had played with as a child. As the older brother, John eventually saw all his toys become his little brother’s. Even though he outgrew Matchbox cars, some injured part within him felt like snatching the toy out of his brother’s hand. He marveled at the fact that even into adulthood, he still felt bitter about losing his toys to James.

His brother paused running the car over the strip of plastic. “Shouldn’t be doin’ anything for her for Valentine’s Day. She ain’t divorced yet.” John shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave as James drove the toy car over the strip backwards and forwards, “Happy Birthday! Yadhtrib Yppah! Happy Birthday! Yadhtrib Yppah! Happy Birthday!”

Everyone in Merriton had been so very nice to her that she fully expected A.S. to invite her into the warm house. Instead, she stood on the porch, reevaluating her decision to come there. “I just thought I’d come by and have a talk with you.” A.S. shook her head. “I’m a little busy right now.”

The stench of a nursing home wafted out the door and Kit Kat realized that Tortimer was probably sicker than the town had been lead to believe. She nodded and tried to make it quick. “John has been taking me out on dates and I’m a full proponent of family harmony. I’ve always believed that when you are in a relationship with someone, you’re actually in a relationship with their whole family and you’re one of the people I haven’t really talked to since I started dating him.”

A.S. just stood there and looked at her. Kit Kat’s stomach was bloated with pain and she tried to find a way to stand to make it feel better. If she were at home, she would push on her stomach. Somehow, the pressure alleviated some of the spasms. The doctor she had seen Up North had given her a colonoscopy, which had come out clean. He basically told her it was all in her head and prescribed tiny, mint-flavored pills to put under her tongue when her stomach acted up. It acted up all the time, however, and the pills didn’t seem to do anything.

The silence from A.S. was palpable, so Kit Kat continued, nervously, “Of course, I haven’t met his children yet, either. I thought I’d start with you.” A.S. smiled. “You haven’t met MY kids because I told him I’d take away his visitation if he had you over all the time. I have FULL custody. I can do that.”

Suddenly, all those weekends and holidays made sense to Kit Kat. John was under duress. If he introduced her to the children, he would lose his right to see them. She sighed as it all fell into place, but she couldn’t fully relax. Her abdomen was grinding with pain. She let out a silent fart, hoping the snowy wind would whisk away the smell.

“That explains that. I was beginning to wonder what was going on.” She whispered to A.S., “He didn’t even call me on my birthday because he had the children that weekend.” A.S. laughed. “Get used to it, bitch. He isn’t going to EVER remember your birthday or even take the kids to the store and help them buy presents for Mother’s Day. He’s not very good at making the holidays special.”

A.S. was warning her about John, but all Kit Kat could focus on was the fact that she had called her a “bitch.” When was the last time anyone had called her a bitch? That panhandler who always stood outside of Dim Sum Go Go? Was it him? No, he had called her a cunt. Then Kit Kat remembered. The grumpy barista at the Dunkin Donuts. Kit Kat hadn’t noticed that her coffee was ready and the girl behind the counter had screamed, “Hey, bitch!” at her until she picked up her coffee.

A flash of nostalgia washed over her and she literally missed being called names by strangers. She and A.S. had always been enemies throughout high school as much as girls two years apart could be enemies. This aggressive anger that A.S. had for her somehow felt comforting to Kit Kat. Everyone had been so very nice to her in Merriton. It had felt so inviting, but at the same time, disconcerting. Kit Kat smiled at the animosity. For the briefest of moments, A.S. had made her feel like she was back in New York.

“And another thing you better get used to, he’s gonna go all Jesus Freak on you. If you’re not a Jesus Freak, then you’re in for a world of boredom. He’s probably trying to think about ways to get you to church right now.” A sickly sweet smile crossed her face; one that Kit Kat had become accustomed to in the wards of the LDS church. “Well, hello, Sister Townsend. It’s so nice to have you back with us.”

The syrupy voice made Kit Kat cringe. The intensely nice people who had made weekly visits to her seemed normal compared to that Relief Society president who had visited her when she first moved to Merriton. What was her name? She couldn’t even remember. In fact, Kit Kat only remembered her introducing herself as the Relief Society president as if she didn’t need to provide any other introductions.

“I don’t remember John being all that obsessed with religion when we were in high school. In fact, I remember a particular incident in that back room where they store the gymnastic mats that seemed to indicate otherwise.” A.S. blushed at Kit Kat’s words. She hadn’t been one of the gymnasts who had found the two of them in flagrante, but word had spread through the high school back then. Kit Kat watched as A.S. nodded and then put her hands on her hips.

“That’s EXACTLY what I’m talking about. He didn’t used to be like that.” She folded her arms again. “He doesn’t believe me when I tell him that.” The conversation with A.S. had been very helpful. John had been vindicated of neglecting her on the holidays and weekends, but at the same time, this disturbing feature of his personality had been revealed. If what A.S. said was true, John was more interested in her profession than her as a person. How would he feel when he found out that she was actually an atheist?

“By the way, you really need to do something about those farts. They smell like death.” Kit Kat flushed with embarrassment. Never mind the fact that A.S.’s house literally smelled like death, her gas had been bad enough to overpower even that. “I don’t really have control over it. It’s caused by stress, you raunch.”

A.S. shook her head. “Not farts like that. Correlation isn’t causation, you stupid bitch. Just because stress aggravates your…” she paused and gave a look of disgust, “…issue, doesn’t mean it caused it. Gluten and lactose are the two biggest food irritants, so try cutting wheat and dairy out of your diet for a few weeks. Maybe that will help.” A.S. walked back into the house and shut the door without another word.

Not even the doctor Up North had mentioned the concept of food causing the problem, but Kit Kat was in so much pain that she was willing to try anything to make it stop.

The phone was quiet on the other end and Dora worried that Kit Kat’s phone had cut out. “Are you there?” Kit Kat answered, “Yeah, it’s just that I haven’t showered for a couple days and I’m still in my PJs.” Dora felt the scolding rise in her, but she held it at bay. “Oh, that makes sense. I’ll see you in thirty minutes, then.”

She pulled the sauce pan off the red hot burner. It could wait thirty minutes, she told herself. She considered watching some television, but wandered into her painting studio instead. Over the years, her painting had become neglected in exchange for hours on her computer playing with Photoshop. She had become fairly adept at computer imaging, but had never produced anything she wanted to print out full-sized.

Ever since Kit Kat came home, however, Dora had been inspired to paint again. If Kit Kat could make a living writing stories, surely Dora could make a living painting. Even if she still taught school during the day, she could paint at night. And with the winter season being so busy for Roscoe this year, she had lots of quiet evenings to paint.

She imagined that she could have a booth at Onion Days for about a hundred bucks. She didn’t actually know how much the booths cost, and that uncertainty filled her with doubt. She floundered when she tried to decide how much to ask for each painting. If she didn’t count her time, they cost an average of forty dollars to make. Canvas, paint and varnish weren’t inexpensive media, so she would have to charge at least fifty dollars each and sell TEN paintings to make up the cost of a booth.

That seemed like an insurmountable goal to her, but the thought of charging more for each painting sounded pretentious to her. She had seen artists at Onion Days charging three and four hundred dollars each for paintings, but that seemed so outrageous to her. Why would anyone pay that much for a painting when they could paint their own for forty bucks? The art world was a crazy world to her, built up on ego and balls more than oil and canvas.

She looked at the paintings that she had completed in the last few months. She counted the ones that had gotten their coat of varnish and just needed to cure. FIVE. She needed at least five more. Three were drying, waiting for their own fate with varnish. And a four more weren’t quite finished. She looked at her most recent painting, a rendering of the Junco Lodge House. The golden lights that made the lodge glow weren’t right, she thought to herself.

She opened her sealable palette and looked at the hues she had used to create the illusion of light. The oranges and yellows looked like the right colors on the palette, but the painting didn’t fit her memory. That evening when she and Roscoe had gone night skiing at Junco a few years ago, the lodge had looked so warm and inviting. It beckoned. It called to them, frozen and tired from hours of skiing.

Inside, they had bought warm cardboard cups of pumpkin and spice flavored coffee, but Dora hadn’t known it was coffee and ended up unable to sleep that night. She could still smell the cinnamon and creamy warmth of it, but the lodge didn’t look right. Why didn’t it look as warm to her as it did that night?

She closed her eyes and tried to remember that evening. They had skied down Chip’s Run, so they ended up below the lodge. They removed their skis and hiked up to the lodge and it felt like it was so far away. After hours of skiing, that short hike felt like a major trek.

She opened her eyes and looked at her painting of the lodge. She had gotten the perspective right. It appeared to be high above the vantage point. From a technical standpoint, the lodge looked exactly as it did that evening, except it didn’t look warm and inviting. Dora crinkled her brow and puzzled at her inability to create that proper feeling.

She closed her eyes again and remembered that night. She looked at the lodge in her mind and then quickly opened her eyes. What was different? The lodge looked exactly the same to her, just not as warm. She even had recreated the ski jackets and tourists milling around and lounging on the armchairs. One bored man looked at her out the window. She had painted him to look like Randy McCain, even though it had been someone different in reality.

What was different? She closed her eyes again. Did it look warm because I was cold? Is it impossible to convey that feeling of warm without exposing the viewer to extreme temperatures? Dora didn’t believe that could be true. It MUST be possible to express the inviting warmth that the lodge exuded that day.

She opened her eyes again and finally saw it. It was a reflection of the warm light on the snow in front of her. It was missing in her painting. Dora took her palette knife and mixed a soft and warm yellow, cutting a roll of paint onto the knife. She ever so softly ran the knife over the snowy hills in front of the lodge, picking out a reflection of light onto the nighttime snow. Muted and subtle, she barely touched the canvas with her palette knife and suddenly, the lodge filled with a glowing warmth.

She stood away from the canvas and her heart filled to the brim with the memory of that night skiing. She had created that vision of the lodge so accurately that she could smell the sweat and dank snow. She wanted to jump within that painting and taste that pumpkin spice coffee again. She even remembered her thoughts on that evening, mistaking the coffee for a uniquely flavored hot chocolate. The jittery and caffeine-fueled shaking that had controlled her hands that night overtook her, and she felt the elation of it.

Perfect! That painting was perfect. She signed it and set it aside to dry and wait for its varnish. The excitement of finally conquering that one problem filled her with joy. She looked at her watch and she was shocked at how much time had gotten away from her.

She rushed back to the kitchen and turned the stove on medium. If she hurried, dinner would be ready by the time Kit Kat got here.

“I’d rather not. Your house makes me crazy.” He struggled to think of a way to make the visit last longer than a few sentences through the threshold of her doorway. “How about you take a walk with me to Mount Zen Cafe?” He watched her look at the laptop sitting on the chair in the parlor. The chair faced the window and he imagined her looking out the window when she couldn’t think of what to write.

He could tell that she wanted to get back to work. He had felt that feeling many times when he was coding. When the ideas came so freely, it was tempting to just stay at the keyboard with a box of Oreo cookies and work all through the night. He was surprised at how much he missed that feeling. He hadn’t worked on anything more than a few tweaks on the Tso Speed Tech for years. He tried to think of something fun he could cook up when he got home.

“I know you’re working, but I saw this movie once where Jack Nicholson spent all his time writing in a snowbound hotel and ended up hacking everybody up with an axe.” He smiled, hoping his joke would go over well. Kit Kat laughed and he immediately relaxed. She replied, “Oh, you’re mixing this place up with the Overlook Hotel. This house isn’t THAT haunted. Just a little bit.”

She held the door open for him to come inside, but he hesitated. She finally said, “If you want me to take a walk to Mount Zen Cafe, I’m going to have to get dressed.” He looked at her clothing and she was wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt for a 5K in New York. His eyes paused on her unbridled breasts and he finally stepped into the house. “I guess I can wait inside until you get some warmer clothes on.”

She ran toward the back of the house and a shiver went down his spine. She’s sleeping in the master bedroom. Oh, this was not good. He called out to her, “You know, some guy blew his brains out in that room.” He heard her voice call from the closed door. “Yeah, but that lady who lived here before me cut out and replaced the bloody dry wall and ground all the blood out of the hardwood floor with a power sander.” She opened the door and finished, “Didn’t you know that power sanders are better exorcists than priests?”

He laughed uncomfortably at her and she continued, “Yeah, it’s a proven fact. The Pope keeps a whole warehouse of Black and Deckers on hand just for exorcisms.” She had thrown on a thick and wooly sweater and a pair of jeans. Her boots looked substantial and warm, but suddenly, a cold chill passed over him. They were the same boots that Sierra had bought her first winter here. “Where’d you find those boots?” Kit Kat glanced at them and replied, “At the grocery store. None of my shoes were warm enough for a Merriton winter, even one as mild as this.”

As they stepped out of the house, Samson panicked. Was this a date? Should he pay for her meal at the cafe? Was he treading on John’s toes? He hadn’t actually expected her to accept his invitation and now that he had her beside him, traipsing to the only restaurant in town, he found he had nothing to say.

The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “So, I went to the Thunder Brothers Ranch for Christmas.” She was quiet and his verbal diarrhea took over. “I kinda expected to see you there, but you weren’t there.” She lifted her legs high to get through the snow. She looked unsteady on her feet and Samson remembered those first few winters here. It took him a while to learn to walk through deep snow without difficulty.

“I was at the Lancaster’s. I wasn’t going to do anything, but Christmas Eve, Vesta came to my door and insisted.” She looked focused on the walk in front of her. “John didn’t even ask what I did that night.” Samson was shamed into silence. Every bit of his being wanted to tell her that he had been looking for her that night, but it seemed the wrong thing to say at the moment.

“Was John’s ex-wife there?” The question surprised Samson and he answered quickly, “No. A.S. just lets John take the kids on the holidays. She wasn’t there. It was just me, James, John and Bree. Oh, and the kids. We played Rook. I hadn’t ever played that game before.” Kit Kat nodded. “Yeah, it’s popular here because it has its own cards. You know, because playing cards are evil.”

Samson was confused. He assumed this must be some Mormon thing that he had never experienced before. “Playing cards are evil?” Kit Kat laughed and he noticed that her laugh was so different than Mira’s laugh. Mira had always had this bell of a laugh that sounded like a fairy burping. Kit Kat’s laugh had a more cartoonish quality, deep and full. “Yeah, back in the Eighties, the LDS church officials warned that face cards are evil and that their double face nature have pagan origins.”

“I never heard that. Rook cards are okay, though?” Kit Kat laughed heartily and answered, “I think the official party line is that playing cards leads to gambling, but to be honest, you can gamble with Rook cards just as easily as a Bicycle deck.” Samson nodded. The more he heard about this local religion, the stranger it seemed. He made a mental note to talk to Roscoe about it.

“Oh, this was a good idea! Thanks for dragging me out of the house, Samson.” Kit Kat’s cheeks were red and she looked rosy and healthy all bundled up. He felt so warm in his ranger’s jacket and tried to look away. The smell of the pine trees surrounded him and he felt at home on the mountain. He was so glad that Random had forced him to come here after he got canned at Zerbitz.

“I have to warn you that all I’m going to have at the cafe is some coffee. I can’t eat right now because I’m going on a date with John this weekend and I don’t want my stomach to act up.” Samson felt a sudden chill and tried not to worry about her eating habits.

“Sure. I haven’t been Up North since I moved to Merriton. It will be nice to have a little variety for dinner.” Her food options had been vastly altered since the move and she honestly looked forward to trying a new restaurant. She fondly remembered the pho soup she and Dave used to eat when they were staying up late on the weekends. She smiled strangely at the thought that she missed the spicy soup and noodles more than she missed her estranged husband. Dave had faded out of her life during those last months together until it was barely noticeable when he disappeared altogether.

“Actually, it might be nice if we could hit a grocery store while we’re up there. I haven’t had a good bagel since I moved here and I’d like to stock up.” John nodded, “Sure thing. Look at us. All goin’ grocery shoppin’ together.” He smiled as his pickup slowed through Emigration.

Christmas had passed by without a comment from either of them. New Years Eve had been spent at the Thunder Brothers Ranch, watching the festivities on television. John hadn’t even tried to kiss her when the ball dropped, but Kit Kat had marked that up to embarrassment. James and that farmhand, Bree, were in the room with them. She didn’t want their first kiss to have an audience, anyway.

“I’m real excited ‘bout this restaurant. It’s supposed to be real good.” John tried to draw her into conversation and she replied, “What kind of food do they serve?” John laughed, “I been tryin’ to figure it out ‘cause everybody loves somethin’ different about ‘em. Samson said he liked the egg rolls, but then, he would, now wouldn’t he?”

Kit Kat didn’t know how to answer that question. She didn’t know enough about the man, but John continued without waiting for her. “Moe said that he likes their queso dip, which makes ‘em sound Mexican. Sounds like they just mix up all different kinds of food.”

Kit Kat’s stomach growled in protest. The thought of food made her nauseous, but she tried to uphold her end of the conversation. “Fusion cuisine. That’s what they used to call it in New York. It was a fad for a while. Who’s Moe?” John answered, “He’s Roscoe’s off-roading ranger. He empties the pit restrooms at the top of the mountains, like Moose Hill. He lives Up North, so he’d know whether this place was good or not.”

“I heard that Roscoe did all the off-roading work.” Kit Kat didn’t talk to Roscoe about his work, but when he got that promotion so many years ago, Dora had told her. She couldn’t really concentrate on it, however, because her focus was on the pain and bloating in her stomach. She had done everything right. She was practically living on BRAT foods in an effort to calm her diarrhea and nausea. 
“When Jeff retired, Roscoe took over the ranger station, so he doesn’t do as much off-roading as he used to do.” Kit Kat replied, “Oh,” but the word was more a comment of the stomach distress than to John’s explanation. They were about ten miles away from the first gas station on the outskirts of Up North. She tried to calculate whether she should ask him to stop or not.

“You’re mighty quiet.” Kit Kat nodded and did her best to talk through the pain, “I was working right up until the moment you picked me up, so I’m still lost in what I was writing.” It wasn’t a lie. When she wasn’t distressed about her stomach, she was thinking about the dowager of Langthrope. Her relationship with the worthy, but socially unattached, merchant was progressing nicely and she had to leave right in the middle of their witty repartee.

“Oh! Don’t tell me about it! I want to read it when it’s done, but I don’t want you to spoil it for me.” She nodded and pressed on her stomach. She had found that gentle pressure sometimes helped with the pain. “Okay. I’m just kind of trapped in Derbyshire right now.” She added with a hint of mischief, “With the unending desire to visit India.” The dowager’s biggest desire was to escape to India to have an adventure of her own, so her little joke was amusing to her, but unfathomable to John. “Well, I don’t want to get in the way of your book, so if you need to mull it over, it’s alright with me.”

After a few minutes of silence, they approached the first gas station, but Kit Kat was too embarrassed to ask him to stop. She knew how a visit to that restroom would end up. She would sit on the toilet for ten minutes, emit a few juicy farts and still have the pain with no relief. If she waited a bit longer, it might be better. Hopefully, she could wait that long.

“I have to say you look really good. I swear you lost some weight or somethin’.” John was trying to break the silence and she felt guilty for not being entertaining enough. “I HAVE lost weight. Almost twenty pounds since I got to Merriton.” John raved about how great it was that she lost weight, but she didn’t join him in his positive assessment.

Her weight loss was entirely due to the unceasing diarrhea and the lack of food variety in Merriton. She would write for days without eating and her diarrhea would abate, but the moment she started eating again, it would return. She would have let superstition get the better of her and blame the house on her stomach distress, but she had suffered with this problem in New York before she ever moved to the Bowen House.

The vision of the emaciated woman across the table from her, warning of the curse on the Bowen House gave Kit Kat a shiver. “You know, Sierra lost a lot of weight in that house. She got too skinny, though.” She wanted to change the topic of conversation. “You know, I heard that Sierra helped James with his Snow Eater thing. Is that true?”

John revealed how much the McCains had done for him and his brother when they lived in Merriton, but Kit Kat’s mind wandered. Perhaps the dowager could marry the merchant like LoWanda at Antioch House wanted. Her editor had received the preliminary chapters and wrote many emails warning her that if the dowager was going to choose the merchant that Kit Kat needed to write more passion into their encounters.

It was one such encounter that Kit Kat had been working on when John arrived at her door. She hadn’t even noticed that he was five minutes late because she had become so involved with her writing. The dowager couldn’t marry the merchant, however, because she did not love him. She merely enjoyed his stories of the Orient. LoWanda suggested that the dowager could travel with the merchant to Asia and India if she married him, but Kit Kat didn’t like that future for her character. No, the dowager was to travel to India alone and independent. She didn’t need a husband to go to India.

“…but we’re bleedin’ money from the farm, even with the subsidies and carbon credits.” The emotion in John’s voice snapped Kit Kat out of Derbyshire and back to reality. “I thought you said the Haunted Corn Maze made almost as much money as growing the corn,” she responded. John laughed and exited off the freeway. John laughed, “That’s true, but it says less about the success of the corn maze than about the failure of the corn business.”

His pickup slowed as they pulled into the mall parking lot. “It should be here somewhere. Moe said it was right by the mall.” After they circled toward the side of the mall that flanked the freeway, he found it. “There it is! Chili’s!” He pointed at the red and green sign of the Chili’s Restaurant ahead of them and Kit Kat’s heart sank.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the food at Chili’s, it’s just that she had eaten there so many times. It was the same Up North as it was in New York. Sure, she and Dave had to drive out the Staten Island to eat there, but there were only so many Southwest Egg Rolls and Baby Back Ribs she could eat before she was sick of the place. And poor John was so excited about it.

She tried to hide her disappointment and enjoy the night out anyway.

John dropped the suitcases inside the door, just as he had done for the last four years of their divorce. Their littlest was in kindergarten now and it made him close his eyes with the grief of only having a couple of weekends a month to watch them grow.

“How’s Tort doing?” Her father had been sick over the Christmas holiday and John could smell the stench of old waft out of the house. A.S. gave the particulars of Tortimer’s health, but avoided the big answer of how she was going to continue taking care of him in his declining days. “He’s sleeping now, but I’m sure he’ll wake up as soon as he hears the kids.” She glanced toward the room that had once been the nursery, conveniently located next to the master bedroom.

Once the kids were out of earshot, A.S. asked, “You didn’t let that Jesus Freak near them, did you?” John clenched his jaw and didn’t reply. She hissed in a whisper, “If you did, you KNOW I will hear about it.” John shook his head and answered, “No, Kit Kat wasn’t there.” He looked around to see if the children could hear them. “You know, we been divorced for goin’ on four years now. I can date whoever I want.”

A.S. folded her arms and shook her head. “I don’t want my kids around ANOTHER Jesus Freak. It’s bad enough they go to church with you every Sunday. I don’t want them thinking that women are inferior or that it’s alright to hate people just because they’re different.” John pulled on her arm and took her outside of the house into the chilly sunshine. He closed the door behind him and whispered, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Kit Kat.”

A.S. laughed, “Nothing wrong? She’s fat! I saw her in the grocery store last week and she’s at least two hundred pounds.” John cringed at her words. It had been the first thing he had thought about her when he first saw her. “Well, lovin’ a good lookin’ woman didn’t work out so well for me, did it? Maybe I like a woman who isn’t all worried about that stuff.”

His ex-wife poked him in the chest, “You didn’t lose me because I’m hot. You lost me because you got all obsessed with God. You know she’s not as religious as you think. She hasn’t been to church once. Not any of the churches. The Relief Society President visited her and she said she wasn’t gonna be comin’ to church.” A.S. whispered, “She practically told her to take her name off the register.”

John shook his head. He had wondered why she hadn’t been to church. At first he had just chalked it up to moving into her new house, but week after week had gone by without her presence in Sacrament. Hearing that she had rebuffed the Relief Society President felt like a jab of the knife. “You can’t call ‘er a Jesus Freak one minute and then be angry at ‘er for not goin’ to church the next.”

A.S. stomped her feet and the sound of it echoed through the porch. As she ranted, John lead her off the porch and by the car so the children couldn’t hear. “All I’m sayin’ is that she spent so much time in New York that she’s not one of us anymore. If she was, she woulda smiled and let the Relief Society President in and made some STUPID excuse about why she hadn’t been to church yet. Even I’m not so dumb as to ostracize the Relief Society President!”

“Keep your voice down.” John pointed at the window. Their oldest, John Jr., was looking out the window, his sad eyes surveying every movement of their fight. Every bone in his body wanted to take A.S. into his arms and cover her with kisses. That was how they had solved fights for their thirteen years of marriage, but now that A.S. had divorced him, he was powerless.

A.S. smiled at her weary eyed son and waved at him, but hissed at John, “All I’m sayin’ is that you’re a big hypocrite. According to your OWN religion, you’re still married to me. Dating her is a SIN, John.” Her words sliced through him and he held onto the car for support. “So, you’re sayin’ you want a temple divorce?”

She looked at him, broken, and dropped her hands dramatically. “You’re so stupid, John. I don’t care about that.” John felt as if the ground was unstable. “You just said you did.” She shook her head, “No, John. I said you’re a hypocrite. I keep thinking that this religious thing is just a phase you’re going through, but it just gets worse and worse every year.”

John held up his hands, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I was always Mormon. It was you who fell away from the faith.” His ex-wife shook her head and turned back toward the house, defeated, “No, I didn’t. I’m still the same. You just got so obsessed with God and church duties that you started neglecting us.”

John followed her toward the house, but she climbed the porch and closed the door before he could reply.

Vesta entered the house and walked through the parlor to the dining room and kitchen. Kit Kat watched the old woman glance toward the master bedroom and cringed at the site of her unmade bed and dirty laundry all over the floor. “I see you’re sleepin’ in that master bedroom.” Vesta said, which made Kit Kat cringe for a different reason.

“It’s not haunted, Mrs. Lancaster.” The old woman shook her head and placed the basket of muffins on the counter. The scent of their freshly baked goodness filled Kit Kat’s nostrils and her mouth started watering as she imagined eating them with lots of butter, melting into the fluffy bread. Without a word, Vesta took last week’s empty basket off the counter and placed it in the crook of her arm. The regular muffin deliveries were delicious and a welcome break to Kit Kat’s writing, but the constant reminders about the house were wearing thin.

“All I know is that a boy no older than you took a handgun to the left side of his head in that room.” The woman stood in the kitchen and clasped her hands together. “When we didn’t hear from him for a coupla days, my poor Elvis was the one who found ‘im.” She whispered to Kit Kat, “Had nightmares for months after.” She rewrapped her scarf around her neck. “Don’t want ‘im to ever hafta do that again, understand?”

Kit Kat held her sarcastic tongue. She felt like saying that if she felt suicidal that she would do them a favor and off herself somewhere else, but she couldn’t let herself be so rude to such a nice old woman. “Let me take your coat, Mrs. Lancaster. Come sit down.”

Vesta handed her coat to Kit Kat and continued, “Samson ever tell you the story of the day he moved Sierra and Randy here? He tell you what happened in that room?” Kit Kat smiled, “No, Samson has been pretty nervous every time I’ve talked to him. He never mentioned it.”

The old woman sat on Kit Kat’s comfy chair and suddenly the lack of furniture in the living room was apparent. Kit Kat held Vesta’s coat and leaned on the window sill. “Of course, the rumors around town are that you’re more interested in John Sebastian. How many dates have you two gone on? I heard three, but that seems more than should be in the short time you’ve been here.”

Kit Kat was surprised at the openness of this little woman. She replied, “Well, he showed up at Dora’s art show at the high school, but I don’t really count that as a date. Then we went to The Golden Wok in Emigration and watched that vampire movie that all the locals are so excited about.” Vesta nodded, “Yes, the author of those books lives Up North. We’re all so proud of ‘er.”

Kit Kat nodded. She had tried reading the first book because everyone there was so excited about it, but it was tripe. It was worse than the worst of her own books and even more formulaic. As ashamed as Kit Kat was about her religious historical romance novels, at least they weren’t vampirism as a metaphor for sexuality. She sighed with the mediocrity of it all.

“And then last Saturday, we went to The Olive Garden in Emigration and then went bowling.” Vesta nodded. “Oh yes, I heard about that. Dr. Chinsky was there. When she came to help Elvis with the goats, she told me that she saw you two at the bowling alley.” Kit Kat smiled. There was no such thing as a personal life in Merriton. She liked to imagine that the opposite was true in New York, but it hadn’t been. Gossip in the coffee shops and apartment buildings in New York had been just as rampant as in the churches and grocery stores in Merriton.

“I think it bothered him that I beat him so soundly. Dave and I used to go bowling at Bowlmor in New York a lot.” Kit Kat whispered like she was revealing a secret, “It’s the best place to go to see famous people. I saw Lady Gaga there bowling with Luc Carl there. They got into a FIGHT.” Vesta nodded and answered, “Is Lady Gaga that young girl who wears meat?” Kit Kat laughed, “Yeah, but that day she was just wearing jeans and a striped shirt.”

Vesta nodded. “So, three dates?” Kit Kat shook her head, “I only count two of those as dates, but whatever. Why does it matter?” Vesta looked at the empty basket in her hands as if she were surprised it was there and then placed it on the floor next to Kit Kat’s laptop. “I’m worried about Christmas, child. After only three dates, he wouldn’t be having you over for Christmas, would he?”

Kit Kat was taken aback. The two of them HAD talked about Christmas, but John had dismissed the idea. He told her that he had his kids that weekend and left it at that. Kit Kat wondered why he didn’t suggest that she spend the holiday with his children, but his sudden reticence made her quiet. “Um, no…”

Vesta looked concerned, “So, what are you doing for Christmas, dear? You goin’ to visit your sister? Your brother? What are your plans?” Kit Kat hadn’t thought of it. Last year at Christmas, Dave had slept until noon and then tossed a single present at her. She tried to remember what the present had been. A camera? A book? She became distracted by the memory.

“You’re welcome to join us for Christmas, Katherine. Since the kids left, me and Elvis have scaled back our celebrations, but it’s still festive.” She looked around the house and Kit Kat realized that the old woman was searching for a Christmas tree or maybe some Christmas cards. She scolded herself for not opening the stack of cards sitting on her kitchen counter.

“I don’t think so. Last Christmas was pretty unpleasant. I’m looking forward to just being alone with no one to scold me.” The truth of her words stung as she remembered every time Dave blamed her for his own depression. No matter what she did, she was never able to make him happy. She vowed to herself that the next man in her life wasn’t going to need her for his happiness.

She flashed through the memory of her two and a half dates with John. Had he been happy? Was he content with his life? Did he see her as a desperate attempt to add meaning to his life? She couldn’t answer those questions. All she could say was that he didn’t like the vampire movie, but was thoroughly disappointed that she didn’t like it either. They couldn’t even commiserate about the bad acting and poor dialogue together because he was so certain that she would have loved that movie.

“I can’t force ya to join us for Christmas, but if you get lonely over here, know that you can come to our house.” Vesta stood up and held out her hand for her fluffy, white coat. Kit Kat held it open for her and helped the old woman bundle up. She picked up the empty basket from the floor and handed it back to Vesta.

“Thank you for the muffins, Mrs. Lancaster. They’re delicious.” Vesta smiled and replied, “If you ever get a hankerin’ for somethin’ else, just tell me and I’ll cook it up for ya. It’s nice havin’ someone to cook for again.” The old lady left the house and Kit Kat could hear the snow crunching all the way back to the Lancaster house.

She closed her laptop and set it down on the floor. She was still in her pajamas, even though it was nearly noon. Did she shower yesterday? She couldn’t remember. She walked to the master bedroom. A hint of BO wafted past her nose as she removed her clothes and she started the shower in the master bath.

As she soaped up her hair, another idea assaulted her. The Dowager Langthrope might have been at the mercy of her confirmed bachelor of a son, but she would have had other options available. Her jewels, if sold discreetly, could provide her with a lifetime of independence. How could she sell her jewels without revealing her destitute state? Should she travel to France? Should she retire to the countryside to preserve her dwindling funds? Kit Kat hurriedly rushed through her shower in order to get back to the computer lying next to her chair.

She wrapped her hair in a towel and wrapped another towel around her body as she returned to the living room. She opened her outline, which had been stalled. This happened every time she wrote a book. It was time to make the dowager suffer and Kit Kat was reluctant to put the honorable lady in such circumstances. The jewels were a glimmer of hope for her main character, but they couldn’t be allowed to be a deus ex machina. If it was too easy, no one would care about the woman. Kit Kat HAD to make her suffer in order for the reader to love her.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Perhaps the indolent son could have confiscated her jewels. Why? Why would he do something like that? Just to make his mother suffer? He didn’t hate her. He just wanted her to stop bothering him about getting married when it was so very clear and entirely inappropriate to mention that he preferred the company of men.

She was stuck again and looked out the window. Suddenly, she remembered the whole reason she had gotten into the shower in the first place. She needed to check her mailbox before the damn thing overflowed. She walked back to the master bedroom and put on a pair of jeans and a bulky sweater. She ran her hand along the rough, thickness of it, enjoying the texture.

She remembered buying the sweater in a little shop manned by an angry Asian woman. It didn’t have a price on it, so when Kit Kat brought it to the counter to pay for it, asking the price, the woman assumed that she was trying to negotiate a better price. Kit Kat had no idea how much the sweater cost originally, but she bought it for “fifteen dollars and I can’t go any lower than that, you rich bitch.”

Sometimes she missed New York. No one had called her a bitch since she moved there, not even Elvis when she was so rude to him last week. Instead of the response she would have gotten in New York, she received a lovely basket of blueberry muffins. She felt a pang of guilt at her undeserved reward.

What if Dowager Langthrope is exiled to the country home by her son? She can live comfortably there, but not independently. She can’t sell her jewels because there is no one in Derbyshire who could even afford them. She would have to journey to London on her own in order to sell them and have enough funds to travel to India like she desires. THAT could work.

Kit Kat pulled on her socks and rushed back to the laptop, adding the elements to the outline and fleshing out the individual chapters. Her suffering could come at the hand of traveling from the countryside back to London without a male escort. Kit Kat happily clicked away at the storyline, but was stymied by another thought. If her bachelor son was so intent on getting his mother out of his eye, why would he not let her travel instead of exiling her to the countryside? If all he wanted was her to go away, India was as good as Derbyshire.

The mail! She had forgotten her intent again. She put down her laptop and pulled on her winter boots. Bundled up in her coat, she headed down the shared drive to check her mailbox. She turned her face to the sun and was surprised at how good it felt to feel it. The air was crisp and made the hairs in her nose feel like they were tiny ice daggers, but the sun made her feel so alive and happy.

Despite all her problems with the story, Kit Kat was happy to be writing. It had been a long time since she had been so immersed in writing. When she was in New York with Dave, he would always snap her out of her imaginary world she had built up. She would spend all day torturing Vicar Marr or rebuilding the marriage of Lady Anne and her war damaged husband. It was so easy to start living in those shires that she had created and Dave would jar her back into present time. At times, that transport back to reality was helpful to Kit Kat, but most of the time, it was just disruptive. It was so much easier to continue writing when there was no one to drag her back to post-millennial United States.

The pile in her box wasn’t nearly as large as she expected after a week of neglect. She rolled it up and headed back to the house. A flash of reality hit her as she crunched through the snow. What was she going to do about the religious elements. She hadn’t conceived of a character who had fallen away from the faith, only to come back with renewed vigor. In fact, she hadn’t thought about any of the religious elements. What was she going to do?

Perhaps her wayward son could see his lifestyle as sin and return to the faith and women, but that idea made her sick to her stomach. She didn’t want the confirmed bachelor to pretend to be heterosexual. It seemed so wrong to her. She decided firmly that the son would stay a bachelor.

Maybe the worthy merchant could be the one to return to the faith. His romantic pursuit of the dowager could include his tales of the heathen India where the savages worship many gods instead of the one true God. Kit Kat couldn’t continue on that line of thought. She had no quarrel with Hinduism. The merchant would have to remain stoically unreligious.

Perhaps the rogue Duke could be unabashedly unreligious and return to the faith when he realizes that he was not a man worthy of the dowager’s attentions. Of course, that would ruin her twist at the end. The one that made the whole interaction between the dowager and her son so delicious. No, it couldn’t be the Duke.

It would have to be a servant.

Kit Kat cringed at the thought of adding an entire storyline to her perfect outline. A lady’s maid? A footman? She couldn’t get herself to care about a servant who was having a crisis of faith. Despite the harsh words from Lowanda, her editor at Antioch House, regarding her first few chapters she had submitted, she just couldn’t bear to delve into this any further. The story would have to live without a return to faith this time. It’s a good enough story on its own, especially the twist of the ending. Once they read it through, they would forgive her the lack of a religious subplot.

She reached her house and leafed through her mail. She separated the junk from the important, tossing one in the recycle bin and stacking the other on the kitchen countertop. The red and green Christmas cards sent to her from her sister, brother and old friends would be sure to be filled with pictures of happy families and dogs in Santa hats. They were the last thing she wanted to see right now. She ran her fingers through her wet hair and realized that it had frozen slightly on her walk to the mailbox. She walked over to the thermostat and turned it up two degrees.

Perhaps the bachelor son believes India is not safe for his mother. He denies her travel because he loves her. That would be a good reason for the exile to Derbyshire.

Kit Kat returned to the comfy chair and picked up her laptop, feeling its warmth on the thighs of her legs.

Kit Kat stood at her door and folded her arms against the cold. “What?” Elvis expected her to take the makeshift leash out of his hands, but she just shivered against the cold. “This is Mary. She used to live in your barn when Sierra lived here. She keeps comin’ back, so I thought I’d just let you have ‘er so I don’t have to keep chasin’ ‘er down.” He held out the leash, but the girl didn’t move.

“I don’t want a stupid goat, Elvis. If I catch her in my barn, I’ll bring her back to you.” She moved to shut the door. Elvis tried to stop her, but ended up saying goodbye and walking the animal back to his corral. He put her with the other goats and wondered at his silly little flock. He didn’t milk them. He didn’t eat them. He just kept the flock healthy and alive on his property, partly in honor of his fallen friend, Artimus, and partly in honor of Sierra.

He walked back into his own house and Vesta was waiting for him there. “You look like you’ve swallowed a tablespoon of cod liver oil.” Elvis felt as if he had. Just the mention of the stuff made his nostrils tingle with the fishy smell of it. “Tried to give Mary to the girl in the Bowen House, but she wouldn’t have none of it.”

Vesta helped him off with his sheep skin lined denim jacket as he kicked the snow off his boots. He could smell the stench of snow on his clothes. “Time to wash this jacket. It’s gettin’ a little ripe.” Vesta shook it out, took another jacket out of the closet and hung it on Elvis’ hook. She folded his dirty jacket in half and walked toward the laundry room. “Funny how each person who lives in that house is different.”

Elvis laughed at her, “Ain’t funny at all! Everybody’s got their own quirks. The funny thing is how they all end up leavin’ so soon. Why can’t we git one farmer?” Vesta’s voice tinkled like laughter from the other room, “Sierra was a farmer. She just didn’t want to be. Fightin’ it with all ‘er might.”

He could hear his wife walking back into the kitchen and the two of them sat at the table. She continued, “I like havin’ Kit Kat livin’ next door. She’s quiet. She doesn’t barge into our house all angry like.” Elvis ran his hands through his course and gray hair. “That’s ‘cause she hasn’t gone crazy yet.” Vesta smiled to herself and Elvis could tell that she was holding back her words. He waited to see if she would let him in on the secret, but instead, she changed the subject.

“Samson says that Randy and Sierra are visiting after Christmas some time. I told him to have that girl come here and teach me how to make that goats’ milk lotion. ‘Bout time we did somethin’ with ‘er goats.” Elvis nodded. “We could try lookin’ on the Internet for it.” Vesta shook her head. “No, I want to know how she made that lotion that smelled like fresh cut grass. The Internet won’t tell me that. It was unique to her.”

He nodded. It wasn’t the recipe she wanted. Vesta just wanted to see Sierra again. “Funny how most the people who buy the Bowen House don’t come back.” Vesta shrugged. “Randy and Sierra used to come to ski every year.” Elvis laughed. “Yeah, so did most o’ them, but after stayin’ in the Bowen House for a coupla years, they don’t ever wanna come back. ‘Cept, of course, that Fitzgerald guy. He’s never goin’ home.”

Vesta looked at him with pity and it made his stomach turn. Elvis had been the one to find that poor Fitzgerald guy, with his brains all blown out in that back room. He wondered if Kit Kat was sleeping in that same room. The McCain girl had cleaned up the blood stains, but something like that happening in a room took more than a hardwood sander and varnish to strip away. “You don’t think she’s sleepin’ in that room, do ya?”

Vesta stood up and started pulling out some flour and sugar out of the kitchen cupboards. “If she won’t take your goat, maybe she’ll take my blueberry muffins. Go down into the cellar and pull out a bag of dehydrated blueberries. I’m gonna need ‘em.” Elvis smiled. “I’m bringin’ up two bags. I haven’t had a batch of muffins in a long time and it’s no fair you givin’ alluv ‘em away to ‘er.”

As he walked down the creaky stairs to the cellar, Elvis felt a slight lifting of relief. Vesta’s baking would solve the problem, he thought to himself. Her baking always solved his biggest problems.

Angie pointed at the computer. “We are a month and a half late for our estimated taxes and you want to spend money on ANOTHER business?” The tone of her voice made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t asking him a question. “Let’s just try to keep the business we have afloat.”

Curly ran his meaty hand over his bald head. He could feel the slight bristle of stubble. It was the end of the day and the stubble always came back by bedtime. He pointed at the election fund that Angie was hoarding for next year. “How about we open the gym instead of runnin’ for mayor?”

“This town needs me. We’ve been stagnating for too long under Tortimer.” Curly shrugged. “Tort’s not all that bad. Just old, that’s all.” Angie nodded. “Yeah, too old to do his job.” He pulled off his shirt and the smell of a hundred hamburgers and twenty-five Egg Things wafted past his nose. He tossed it into the overflowing laundry bin and then reconsidered, hefting it out of the room.

He turned the washer on hot and set the load for extra large. He used a full cup of detergent and filled the fabric softener cup to the top. No matter how much he cleaned or how much detergent he used, his clothes always smelled a little bit like Mt. Zen Cafe. For those rare times he wasn’t in the diner, he had separate clothes just so he wouldn’t smell like a grease pit all the time. Even then, he felt like it invaded his skin.

Angie called from the computer in their bedroom, “Plus, it’s not just $350 a month. You have to pay someone to man the place and you have to buy the equipment. Your worn out weight bench in the basement isn’t going to be good enough for a gym.” Curly nodded as he added the clothes into the washing machine. The hot water nipped at his wrist and fingers while he distributed the clothing evenly. When he emptied the laundry basket, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It always felt good to clean something when he was feeling this way.

“Random said he’d invest in the gym when I was ready.” Curly carried the empty basket back to the room. Angie sat transfixed at the computer screen. “Then we wouldn’t own it. We’d have this other guy in the mix. It’s hard enough to make a decision with two of us, much less three. It’s best to wait until we can afford to do it on our own.”

The printer started spitting out pages. “How much do we owe?” Four times a year, they had to send in the estimated taxes to the IRS and every time it was a struggle scraping together the money to pay them. Angie sighed and watched the paper come out of the printer. “Well, the good thing about making less money is that we owe less taxes.”

It didn’t sound so good to him. Their whole married lives, they had strived to make each year better than the year before, but the last few years had been hard on them. There were less tourists coming to Mt. Zen since the bottom fell out of the economy and the ones who did were usually foreign, unwilling or unable to venture away from the ski resort to eat. Curly’s mind started churning, trying to think of a way to attract all those Germans and Japanese ski jackets.

“It’s not that bad. We’re the last restaurant in town. All the others have folded, so they don’t have a choice but to come to us.” She pulled up the program on her computer again and pointed at a graph. “We should probably add some more Mexican food to the menu since The Lazy Burro closed.” Curly nodded, “Sure wish I got the recipe for that Chile Verde sauce they had. I kinda miss it.” The two of them chuckled. Angie smiled, “What, isn’t the green sauce from Sysco good enough for you?”

Curly smiled and unbuckled his belt, dropping his pants to the floor. “If I make it from scratch, it’s cheaper than Sysco AND tastes better.” Angie came up to him and patted him on the shoulder. “You have to make too many things from scratch. We’ll just have to stick with the burritos and hope it’s enough.”

Curly pulled up the gym shorts that he slept in, feeling their elastic band around his waist in a familiar comfort. “I still miss Tank. You’d think I’d be used to him bein’ gone by now, but this year’s worse than last year.” Angie arranged the papers and signed, handing them to Curly to sign as well. He noticed that she signed in the second spot, leaving the first one for him. It made him happy in the strangest of ways. He might not be able to open his gym this year, but they still worked on things together and she still thought he was number one.

Angie copied the amount they owed to the checkbook, signed it and ripped it out neatly. “He’ll be back for Christmas break. It’s better than when Andrew went away.” Curly shook his head. He hadn’t thought of Andrew for a long time. “Don’t know if that’s true or not. When I stopped hearin’ from Andrew, it was ‘cause he was dead. Kinda worse this way.”

Angie folded the papers into thirds and tucked the check in the middle of them. They all went into an envelope and she held the envelope in her hand for a bit raising it up and down to evaluate its weight. Curly watched her put two stamps on the envelope and finish addressing it. “Sometimes I feel like everyone else gets to escape Merriton except me. They all go to college and leave us behind.” She placed the envelope in her purse, ready to go for tomorrow morning. “Only a handful of people we went to school with are still here. All the rest left.”

Curly felt the same way, but at the same time, he was proud of the little business they had built together. “I just didn’t expect Tank to have the money to go to college. Randy payin’ for all of it is really nice.” Angie laughed. “I know. I should be happy for Tank because Randy is paying for his college, but I’m jealous at the same time. No one offered to put me through school.”

Curly lounged on the bed and opened his arms for his wife to join him. Angie curled into his arms, bringing her legs to her chest like a baby in a womb. “That’s okay, baby. We didn’t need college. We were smart enough on our own.”