poor Meg like that, Shelly’s money woes. She pulled the necklace out and swung it around the table, as if it were a thurible, closing her eyes and silently saying as much of the prayer for travelers (which she’d found on the internet the day before) as she could remember, which was not much. Something about angels flying with them, protecting them.
‘For luck,’ she said, when she opened her eyes and found Meg and Shelly staring at her.
She poked the necklace back into the pocket, and placed the album sideways in the middle of the table so they could all see. She opened the cover slowly, her heart opening in its own way, right along with it. Meg and Shelly both turned, as did she, the better to see the pictures. The first page contained an old four-inch-by-four-inch black and white photo with scalloped white edges, pulled from her mother’s old photo album. C.C. thought that in black and white the house looked even more stately than in the later, color pictures. Or maybe it was just that the photo was old, taken in a time when the house had been maintained. She flipped the page to one that showed the expansive front lawn, in which three dogwoods, each heavily laden with blossoms, stood evenly spaced. She remembered planting those with Aunt Georgie, the weekend after the funerals. One each for her mother, her father and her sister. The dogwood had been her mother’s favorite flower. Aunt Georgie had referred to the house as Dogs’ Wood ever after, even having stationery made with that name in the address.
The picture was too small to see them clearly, but C.C. knew that between two of the trees stood a small dark metal statue of a dog with a ring in its mouth, and between the other two, a stone birdbath. An old Thunderbird four-seater was parked on the dirt street in front. C.C. touched the edge of the picture. The car had been her mother’s, and, like everything else, including C.C. herself, had been bequeathed to Georgie. Her mother had told some wild stories about her escapades with Georgie in that car. Both C.C. and her sister, Theresa, had loved her mother’s stories, especially while poring over the old photo albums with her, leaning against her on the big settee, like bookends, C.C.’s knees covered demurely by her skirt, her bobby-socked feet tucked neatly under her, Theresa’s knees worn through her dirty jeans, her bare feet on the coffee table, till Momma swatted them off. And they each had their favorite stories. ‘Tell us the story about your wedding dress!’ C.C. would beg. ‘No! Tell us about when you made Aunt Georgie climb a tree to get the bowl of butter and sugar!’ Their mother had often said about her two girls that they were like two acorns falling from an oak: if they had landed in the same place they’d grow up in each other’s shade, neither one becoming all she was meant to be. ‘Nature knows what she’s doing,’ she’d said, ‘and that’s why you’re so different!’ ‘Like you and Aunt Georgie,’ Theresa would point out, and Momma would smile and nod.
And different they were, and it made for a good balance. Occasionally the girls would argue, but mostly they adored each other, each accepting her sister’s different interests. Theresa would protect C.C. any time a bully threatened. C.C. did Theresa’s makeup for her when she finally relented and said she’d go to the formal dance with Jerry Happ. That had been Theresa’s last date. It was no wonder that C.C. had married Billy so young–too young and too quick–longing to recreate the family she’d lost. C.C. flipped the page.
As the pages turned, the decades flew by, the pictures changing to color. Some of the recent ones had been sent digitally by the estate attorney in Fleurville. Toward the end of the book a grainy and too-yellow color print she’d made when her color cartridge was low, showed the house from the front again. The graceful veranda, with its white slatted railing, had always made the young C.C. think of a toothy smile, the dormers on the roof, shining eyes. Now the smile was missing a few teeth, and the eyes were shut by blinds. Strips of the blue paint peeled in several places, and the white trim seemed dirty and worn. Weeds were marching in on every side of the porch, as if ready to climb on up and enter the house itself.
‘It’s got great bones, C.C.,’ Shelly said again, as she had said months ago on first seeing the pictures. ‘It’ll be an absolute gem. We’ll get a good price for it, once we spiff it up. You’ll see.’
‘I am so looking forward to seeing this place in person,’ said Meg. ‘After all the stories I’ve heard about it over the years. Especially about you and Theresa.’ C.C. reached across the table and took her hand. Dear Meg. Meg was like her sister, in many ways. In fact, C.C. had first met Meg on Theresa’s birthday, an omen to be sure. It was when she worked for Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee. C.C. smiled, remembering. She’d loved the job, greeting new arrivals to town, giving them maps, and samples and coupons from local businesses. And her boss had been very accommodating about giving her only homes on the bus route. But Meg’s driveway was so long, and carrying that big basket of goodies had her pretty much winded by the time she knocked on the door. Meg opened it just a crack at first, looking fearful. (Meg later told her it was because she was afraid that C.C. was a Jehovah’s Witness or something.) When C.C. introduced herself as the Welcome Wagon of Wisataukee woman, Meg looked amused and relieved. Her first words to C.C. were, ‘Nice alliteration. Come on in.’ They liked to say it was ‘friends at first sight’.
But Meg had actually met Shelly first. She’d been their real-estate agent–hers and Grant’s. Meg had invited both C.C. and Shelly to brunch not long after meeting C.C., and brunch had lasted all day, with a walk in the woods, and then drinks on the patio, then dinner. The Trio, as they’d christened themselves, was born.
C.C. flipped the last page of the album. To the only picture not of Dogs’ Wood. She’d stuck this one in mere hours ago, a sudden inspiration, just before they’d picked her up from her house. Meg and Shelly hadn’t seen it yet. At least not in a long time. She twisted it fully toward them.
‘Ohhh…’ said Meg, her eyes filling immediately.
Even Shelly’s face softened. ‘Damn. Look how young we were,’ she said. She covered her pile of shredded napkin protectively with her cupped palm.
‘Cept I look beat from that damn hike you two dragged me on!’ said C.C., forcing a smile. No one spoke.
‘Grant took this picture of us,’ Meg said finally, her voice barely audible.
In the photo, their beaming, sunburned faces nearly matched the Bloody Marys in their raised glasses. Their free arms rested over another’s shoulders, an ease and comfort and comraderie already evident. Each face was animated, lips forming words in unison. It had been the first of many times they’d raised their glasses and lustily toasted, ‘To friendship!’
Purdy arrived at their table and set the tray down with the new round, just as the bell on the restaurant door jingled again. He seemed to grit his teeth, but continued quickly handing out new napkins, followed by their drinks on top.
‘Again,’ said C.C., ‘I’m so sorry about the mug. Please let me reimburse—’
He lowered his eyes, shook his head, said softly, ‘Ma’am–C.C. It’s okay. Really.’
‘Well, thank you. And thank you for that delicious cornbread! That was about the best I’ve ever had. And that’s saying something, from a southerner!’ Without even thinking about it, she touched his forearm lightly with her fingertips as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you ever share that secret ingredient?’ When he finally looked at her, she smiled. And he did. His eyes stayed on hers, just a few seconds, but some considerable something passed between them. He hadn’t answered her about the ingredient, but his eyes spoke to her somehow.
As he walked away, C.C. was taken hold by a sudden, unbidden memory, but it came very clearly. It was a day bus tour she and Lenny had taken, just a few years ago. To see fall colors. It was late afternoon and they were headed home, when the bus passed a terrible accident, just as emergency personnel were arriving. Had they been moments earlier, the bus would have been involved. As they were directed slowly past the smoking wreckage, C.C. had quickly turned her head away from the window. When she did, she saw a man across the aisle looking past her, out the window. Then he too looked away, and their eyes met, very briefly. At the terminal, they’d all silently disembarked, and she and Lenny flowed into the mass migration into the station. Later, as they headed out of the terminal, the man from the bus walked past them, the opposite