by Jodi Thomas
The woman smiled, pulled off her gloves, and slowly began to eat.
Reagan moved to the counter and started cleaning as she kept an eye on her one customer. There was something about this town, she decided, that made her feel . . . that made her care. People here wore their hearts on their sleeves. If the woman had a suitcase, she must have come in on the late bus. Since no one met her, she’d have to walk a ways in the cold to find a hotel.
When she refilled the woman’s water, she said, “We’ll be closing soon. I could give you a ride somewhere if you like. Not much of anywhere is out of my way in this town.”
“Thanks. The bus driver said he thought there was a hotel about four blocks over near the cemetery. I could walk, but I won’t turn down a ride on a night like this.”
Reagan collected her empty dishes and turned off the lights. The woman was waiting by her pickup when she locked up. They didn’t talk on the drive to the hotel, but when Reagan pulled into the hotel lot, she said, “If you’re planning to stay, I think the diner might need a waitress, at least part time.”
“Thanks, but I’m not looking for work.” The woman stepped out. “Good night, dear.”
Reagan watched her go into the tiny office of the run-down hotel. The lady would have no trouble getting a room; only one car was parked in the lot. Reagan couldn’t help wondering what the woman’s story might be. Her clothes looked well made but wrinkled from days of wear.
“I got to stop covering for Edith,” she said aloud. Every time she did, she found another character. People, their lives and dreams, were starting to fascinate her. When she first came, she would have walked right past everyone on the street without caring, but now, Reagan wanted to reach out and help.
On her way home she drove around the old downtown square. In a window on the second floor of one of the buildings was a sign that read ELIZABETH MATHESON, ATTORNEY AT LAW. She circled again and read the smaller print. CIVIL LITIGATION PRACTICE—WHEN YOU NEED SOMEONE ON YOUR SIDE.
Reagan stared at the sign for several minutes. Maybe she should go to college. If she became a lawyer, she could help people. She could take classes online or drive over to Bailee’s community college for night classes, and then she could still watch over Uncle Jeremiah.
She shoved the pickup into reverse and swung back on the road heading home. What a crazy dream. She was barely passing English. You probably had to be able to spell to be a lawyer. Plus, nobody liked lawyers. She’d already spent enough of her life with no one caring about her.
As she drove along Lone Oak Road in the dark, Reagan tried to think of another dream she might follow, but none came to mind. Wishing for something was new to her. She hadn’t even thought a town like Harmony existed until she met Miss Beverly one day while cleaning rooms at a nursing home. Miss Beverly told her all about Harmony, and Reagan’s first wish ever was to be from such a place. She’d never been from anywhere. When she finally hitchhiked into Harmony, she felt like she’d found home.
Her cell rang as she turned down the dirt road to the house.
“Rea.” Noah sounded excited.
“What’s up, Preacher?” She smiled, thinking of how announcers always called him Preacher when he rode bulls because every time he climbed on more than a thousand pounds of meanness, Noah McAllen got religion.
“I had to tell you all the news, Rea. I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t tell someone. Dad says he’ll take me to the finals at Oklahoma City next month. Not a high school rodeo, but the big time. He thinks I may be ready soon to go pro.”
“That’s great,” Reagan lied, wishing she could be happy for him, but every time she watched him ride, she remembered the night in the hospital after a bull had tried to stomp him to death.
“And another thing.” He lowered his voice as if hesitating. “Stephanie Summer agreed to go to the prom with me. She must have had a dozen other offers and she picked me. Can you believe that?”
“Terrific.” Reagan fought back tears. She’d told him she didn’t want to date. She’d even coached him on how to ask girls out and what to say, but deep down she’d hoped he wouldn’t go out with anyone. She wanted them to be best friends forever, but she guessed for a guy of eighteen, forever’s not as long as she hoped it might be.
“You all right with it, Rea?”
“Sure,” she answered.
“You planning on going? I’ve heard lots of kids say they’re going without dates.”
“Sure.” She pulled to a stop. “I wouldn’t miss seeing you try to dance with Stephanie Summer.”
He said good night as she walked into the house. Reagan made it to the kitchen and held it together while she said good night to her uncle and climbed the stairs. Alone in her bedroom, she fought back a scream. Not because she wanted to go to the prom with Noah, but because she didn’t want him to go with anyone else.
When her muscles finally relaxed, she hiccupped a laugh, wondering if they let crazy people be lawyers. How could she give others advice if she couldn’t even understand herself?
Chapter 5
JANUARY 17, 2008
HARMONY FIRE STATION
HANK MATHESON FINISHED UP HIS PAPERWORK AT THE fire station and glared at the clock. He still had an hour to wait until Alex McAllen could leave work. The need to see her ate at his gut. He’d loved her for as long as he could remember. They’d been engaged for almost two years and he couldn’t get her to decide on where to eat, much less a date to marry. She ran the county sheriff’s office with great proficiency. He had no doubt she loved him, wanted him, needed him.
Why didn’t she want to be married to him? Hank asked himself for the thousandth time.
All he had to do was walk out of the fire station and cross the street to the county sheriff’s office. Since her Jeep was in her parking spot, she’d be in her office. He could just ask her flat out. Alex liked directness.
Only, Hank wasn’t sure his heart could take the answer. If she said no . . . if she said good-bye . . . He was a logical man—part of his job was to plan for emergencies—but he had no backup plan if Alex said good-bye. So, they played a game. He didn’t push, and she never planned.
He walked to the window and stared out at the traffic that moved down the street between them. If he went to her now, people would talk and they’d both had enough of being the topic of conversations in town. He’d even heard that Buffalo’s Bar had a pot going on whether they’d ever get married.
Leaning against the window frame, Hank tried to think of something to kill the time. He could call his little sister and see how she was doing, but Liz had made it plain she wanted the family to leave her alone. He was proud of her for stepping out on her own, but that didn’t keep the big brother in him from wondering how she was doing. She was the youngest and they’d all babied her. He’d seen her practically go into cardiac arrest over a broken fingernail or no ice cream left in the freezer. How could she possibly handle living alone?
His little sister reminded him of a girl he’d dated in college ten years ago. Priscilla Prescote. She’d been so needy, she could have had her own box to check on the United Way form. If Liz was growing up, maybe Priscilla had too.
Hank laughed, remembering how Priscilla had talked him into getting engaged, not because she loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but because she thought it would be fun to tell everyone. Now all these years later he was engaged again and still seemingly no closer to getting married.
Hank thought about driving home, but this was his day in town and every woman at the ranch, including his six-year-old niece, would want to know what was wrong. That’s my problem, Hank decided, I’m too predictable. I come to town Tuesdays and Thursdays. Take Saralynn to breakfast and then to school, work at the office, then take Alex to dinner. The rest of the days of the week he worked on his ranch and didn’t see Alex until he stopped by her place after dark.
Last week he drove into town to surprise her for lunch. The moment she looked up and saw h
im, she said, “It must be Wednesday.” He realized for the past four Wednesdays he’d surprised her.
He grabbed his coat and headed out with no real mission in mind. If anyone needed him, he had his cell strapped to his belt. Otherwise, Hank Matheson planned to do something different for a change. When even his spontaneity was getting predictable, he figured he was moving from predictable to boring.
He backed out into the street before his cell went off.
“Matheson here,” he answered as he pulled to the curb.
“Hank, it’s Tyler Wright. I got a problem out here at the cemetery and I don’t know who else to call.”
“A fire?” Hank found that hard to believe. Two years ago they’d had enough grass fires to last a lifetime, and he and Tyler had had their hands full. Somehow, the heat of that spring had shown him the solid steel in this man he knew he could always depend on.
Tyler Wright was over forty, his good friend, and the town’s funeral director. Hank suspected he hadn’t told a joke in this lifetime.
“No, no fire.” Tyler sounded frustrated. “Just a woman. She’s sitting on one of the benches and when I walked over, she didn’t even act like she noticed me standing in front of her.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t know what to do. She’s not doing anything illegal or acting crazy, she’s just sitting.”
“Is she ill?” Hank threw the truck into drive and headed the few blocks to the cemetery.
“No, I don’t think so.” Tyler’s normally calm voice sounded nervous. “If she stays out here much longer, she’ll be sick. Between the drizzle and the sun setting, it’s got to be close to freezing. I told her she’d have to leave, but I don’t think she even heard me and I can’t drag her out.”
“You ever see her before?”
“No. She was just sitting out there when I came by this morning to check the location of a grave, and when I circled back a few minutes ago, she was still there. I don’t think she’s moved from that bench all day.”
Hank swung into the front gate of the beautiful old cemetery. The headstones beneath barren branches made the air seem ten degrees colder. He parked next to Tyler’s funeral-black Cadillac and walked toward the woman sitting in the oldest section of the graves where huge elms stood guard, the shadows of their bare limbs crossing the dead grass like spiderweb lace.
Tyler met him a few feet before he reached the bench. The plump funeral director never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings, but as always he seemed to sense heartache. Hank saw the worry in his friend’s face.
Hank knelt in front of the woman. She was gray headed, thin, and wrapped in a tailored wool coat. “Hello.” Hank extended his hand. “I’m Hank Matheson. If you’re looking for a grave, we could help you find it. Most of my ancestors are scattered around this place, and Mr. Wright’s family started this cemetery.”
She stared straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Do you need any help?” Hank asked.
“It’s getting late.” Tyler stood beside Hank, looking anxious. “You don’t want to be here in a few hours. This rain will turn to sleet.”
Still no answer from the woman.
Hank placed his hand on her gloved fingers laced together. “Are you all right?” When she just stared ahead, he looked at the stones around the bench and picked the name carved on most of them. “Can we help you, Mrs. Biggs?”
Slowly she turned her head. “No one’s called me that in years.”
She stared at the grave in front of her with the name BRICE ANDREW BIGGS carved on its small stone. Birth 1968. Died 1998. Hank figured the dates were off to be her husband, but it could have been her son. He looked around at several other Biggs graves and saw a few with birth years in the forties. One of them could have been her husband.
Hank smiled. “Would you like me to call you something else?”
“No. I think I’d like to be called Mrs. Biggs again.”
Tyler moved forward. “I’ve got hot cocoa in my car. Would you like a cup, Mrs. Biggs?”
She nodded, and he hurried off to his Cadillac.
Hank sat down on the bench close enough to touch her side lightly, hoping to offer some warmth. He put his arm on the back bar, wanting to cut some of the wind blowing her hair. They didn’t talk. He wasn’t even sure she noticed him so close.
Tyler brought the thermos and two mugs and sat on the other side of her. He poured her a cup, offered Hank one, and then, using the lid, he poured himself some. They sat in silence for a long while, drinking the cocoa and watching the sun lower.
Hank wondered what people passing by thought, but he didn’t much care. He and Tyler just didn’t want Mrs. Biggs, or whoever she was, to be alone. He’d watched Tyler and his father before around the grieving. Since Tyler was from generations of funeral directors, you’d think he’d know just what to say, but the thing Hank noticed most was that Tyler didn’t say anything at all. He was just there when needed.
Hank glanced over at his friend. Tyler had never been popular in school, never dated much, never played a sport. He hadn’t gone off to the big city to make a fortune or become famous, but Hank realized he respected this quiet man more than just about anyone. Tyler Wright had never harmed anyone, and in this world that was a gift. If Alex did ever set a date, Hank decided he’d ask Tyler to stand up as his best man.
Finally, Mrs. Biggs handed her cup back to Tyler. “Thank you. That was lovely.”
“You’re welcome. It’s about time for me to lock the cemetery up for the night. If you like, I could drive you home.”
“Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
Hank stood and offered his hand to help her up, then tucked her fingers at his elbow as he walked her across the grass to where his truck and Tyler’s car waited.
Tyler hurried ahead and started his car, then climbed back out to lock the gate. Hank waited for him outside after Mrs. Biggs was seated and the heater turned up. “Any idea who she is?” he asked with his back to the woman in the front seat.
“No. Far as I know, all the Biggses are dead. We haven’t dug a grave there in ten years or more. No one has ever left flowers.”
“Well”—Hank shrugged—“she doesn’t want to talk and I don’t think she’s crazy or ill, so what do we do?”
“I’ll bring more cocoa for tomorrow,” Tyler said simply.
“I can probably find a blanket and an umbrella. If she wants to sit out here, we might as well try to make her comfortable.” Hank climbed into his truck. It was past five; Alex would be waiting for him.
As he drove to the county offices, he wondered what it would be like to be the last in a family. Since the Mathesons settled here over a hundred years ago, they’d been procreating. He had more cousins than he could count. Alex and her family, the McAllens, were the same way. There wasn’t a business in town that didn’t have at least one McAllen or Matheson working at it. Alex didn’t have to go out looking for crime; she had relatives calling it in. When he and Alex finally did marry, they’d have to have the wedding at the biggest church in town just to hold the family.
Hank realized he didn’t have to ask Mrs. Biggs if she had any relatives left. If she had, she wouldn’t have been sitting in the cemetery.
Chapter 6
JANUARY 17, 2008
WRIGHT FUNERAL HOME
TYLER WRIGHT CLOSED HIS OFFICE DOOR AND FLIPPED on his computer. Every night he logged the day. A routine he never broke. Only he didn’t keep the logs, he mailed them to an e-mail address that hadn’t answered a message in two years.
Dear Kate,
Today the wind seemed to blow in winter on frosted breath. I met a woman in her sixties who is probably the last of her family. She asked me if she could come sit in the cemetery every day. I don’t think she has anything else to do.
When we were talking, Kate, I never got around to asking if you had family. I hope you do.
Good night. Sleep well,
Ty
By now, he knew she
wouldn’t answer him, but as long as the messages didn’t come back, he figured there was hope. In a time when all the world had secrets, Tyler had no affairs, no addictions he kept quiet, no strange obsessions. He simply wrote a woman each night to tell her he was still waiting.
Chapter 7
JANUARY 18, 2008
OFFICE ON THE SQUARE
AS THE DAYS PASSED, MAIL FOR G. L. SMITH BEGAN TO collect on Liz Matheson’s wicker chair. Jerry the mailman stopped trying the door after a few days and just plopped Smith’s letters down before he yelled, “No mail for you again today, Miss Matheson.”
He’d listen for a while, then leave if she didn’t answer. He always had time to talk, so Liz developed a habit of always looking busy.
Late Friday afternoon Liz decided that was now her job . . . looking busy. She’d been open a week and the only people who came in, besides the mailman, were curious folks with usually hypothetical questions. The bookstore owner downstairs wanted to know if killing a barking dog was a crime. When she said yes, he frowned, took back the 20-percent-off coupon he’d laid on her desk, and left. Two high school kids dropped by to ask her if she’d ever represented a serial killer. When she said no, they picked up their skateboards and ran out.
So, Liz was left with what she did best, looking busy. Tonight she was busy watching the sunset behind the trees of the old homes and wishing she had somewhere to go. It was Friday night. When she’d been in college she’d had dates lined up on the weekends. Those were the days. She smiled as she tossed her pen toward the invisible receptionist’s desk.
A shadow moved in the hallway, making Liz jerk back. She hadn’t heard anyone come up the rickety stairs. The floor just beyond her office creaked, and she became very much aware of how alone she was.
