were. While the house was lit and warmed by electricity, the cook stove and hot-water heater used propane gas; plus, we had a lovely large fireplace designed in the old-fashioned way to cook a pot of beans or stew like the early pioneers would do it. There was also another fireplace upstairs in the master bedroom.
“I’m a step ahead of you. That’s why I also invited Sybil,” Maggie replied. “Since she lives only two streets over from me, she’s bound to lose power, too. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I told her, glad she’d already thought of that. After changes in their lives, they’d moved into such a nice, new development; however, the city hadn’t yet done the major upgrades in utilities to support the growing residential area. “The more the merrier. We’ll have such a good time, we’ll put adult slumber parties on everyone’s bucket list.”
After a slight pause, Maggie said, “Well, you might not say that when I tell you the rest.”
My mind went on full alert, and my insides did an unnatural something that left me feeling queasy—an all-too-familiar reaction whenever Maggie allowed any pause in a conversation. I just knew she was about to drop a bombshell.
“Oh, Maggie, what have you done now?”
“Dana Bennett and Carly Kirkland are coming, too,” she blurted out.
“You can’t be serious?” My abrupt reaction had me instantly cringing. “Well, Dana, of course. The poor thing is nearly eight months pregnant. But Carly? You can’t stand her.”
“Things just sort of . . . evolved.” Maggie sounded part apologetic and part disgusted. “With all of us being in the same neighborhood now, there’s no way Sybil would leave Dana behind. If you ask me, she’s still dealing with empty-nest syndrome—like she doesn’t get her fill of kids at school. Problem is, in the last few months our sweet mother-to-be has befriended that blond alley cat, and Dana said she’s not coming unless we invite Carly, as well. Thank goodness Dana agreed to extend the offer herself. I would have needed a shot of tequila to pull off sounding believable if I’d been forced to call Carly at eight o’clock in the morning.”
Although I wasn’t the least bit thrilled with this development, and had no time to figure out how it was supposed to work, I took a deep breath and said as agreeably as I could, “Then we’ll have to make the best of it for Dana’s sake. The question is, can you play nice for the duration of this storm?”
Between widowhood and aging, I was becoming too frank for my own good. On the other hand, Maggie had a lethal ability to turn simple conversation into a martial art. Under those circumstances, I would be concerned for the welfare of any guest under my roof, whether I’d intended to invite them or not.
“Why, Loretta Brown Cole—you know perfectly well that I can be the Southern version of Miss Manners if the situation seriously calls for it.”
Even though she managed to sound convincingly wounded, I let my silence speak for itself.
“Whatever. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
I was still shaking my head when I replaced the receiver onto the phone’s cradle. The five of us would make an unlikely group. Granted, we were all widows, part of that grimly singular club no one wants to join; however, we were from vastly divergent backgrounds, and our ages were equally different, ranging from the enviable thirties to the sixty-somethings. Maggie and I fall into that latter, depressing category. I don’t care what aging actresses claim in magazine interviews, as publishers insist on air-brushed photos to suggest sixty is the new forty. And forget that fine-wine metaphor about how we’re getting better every day. I say we’re more like a couple of mature grapes that are moments away from withering on the vine.
Yes, we go back a long way, and she still refers to me by my maiden name, especially when making a pointed remark. I suspect Brown suits my appearance and personality at times. I’m simply not the peacock she is. While my dark-blond hair hasn’t thinned, as it has for some my age, I do well to remember to use mascara and lipstick, if I’m expecting company or going somewhere. Then again, maybe Maggie is the one with the problem. She’s been married so many times, she’s finally admitting to occasionally having trouble remembering her latest surname. It could be my maiden name acts as some kind of psychological tether to keep connected to her inner core.
Maggie had been my matron of honor when I married Charlie. My given name is Loretta, but Charlie started calling me Retta in kindergarten. It was years before he shared that he’d done that because of a chipped upper tooth that cut his tongue whenever he tried to say my full name. Charlie was a character, and the hardest working man, but about as romantic as Valentine’s candy on February 15. And so, repetition being the source of as many burdens as benefits, the nickname stuck, and that’s how most who know me address me to this day.
Charlie and I had a good life here where we raised a son and daughter, along with several thousand beef cattle, and ten times that in hay bales. Hay and a few head of cattle are what I mostly limit myself to these days, since the kids are grown and have moved away to raise their families, and pursue careers and interests of their own.
Anyone involved with farming or ranching understands it’s not an eight, or even ten hour-a-day job. We are the people who arrive late to weddings because of a calf’s breech birth, and miss funerals for some other animal infirmity. Charlie and I had been looking forward to downsizing for a second time, and maybe taking a trip or two. Having never ventured more than a few hundred miles from Martin’s Mill, I had always dreamed of going to Cape Cod. But before we could set our plans in motion, he died in a horrible accident.
He’d been hauling large, round bales of hay up an incline in a draw, when the tractor suddenly rolled over, killing him instantly. I don’t know what possessed him to attempt the shortcut—he knew better than to gamble with an unwieldy load even on flat land. It triggered countless sleepless nights as I struggled with the “why?” of his abrupt loss, as so many had before me. What I’ve ultimately come to understand is how, in questioning the command in “Selah” we surrender to a demonic mockery of “amen.”
Maggie had been great to lend emotional support, having been through sudden loss more than once. It was only last year when I found myself reciprocating again when her fourth husband, Hollis Lamar, died after an unusually short battle with prostate cancer. But then Hollis had been as stubborn about going to the doctor as Maggie was proactive. His death hit her hard, since their sixteen-year marriage had been her longest and happiest relationship.
At fifty, Sybil Sides is a little farther behind us in age. Three years ago, she and Elvin had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary when he passed from complications associated with emphysema. Charlie had met Elvin years ago following recommendations that Elvin was something of a shaman with anything mechanical. Upon learning that, Charlie had used his services routinely when finding himself out of his depth for one repair or another. I met Sybil one Sunday afternoon when Elvin brought her along, responding to Charlie’s phone call for an emergency. While the men wrestled with the broken piece of equipment, Sybil and I got acquainted over one of our great, mutual loves—cooking—and we’ve been friends ever since.
The saddest story of all is that of forty-year-old Dana Bennett, who had replaced me as the pianist at our Methodist church. Her husband, Jesse, had committed suicide seven months ago upon learning the bank was about to foreclose on their restaurant. There were other complications—Jesse had been a veteran—but most important was that Dana had discovered she was pregnant only hours before his death. She’d been waiting to share the news until evening when they would be alone.
As for Carly Kirkland, I was fast concluding that her presence might well prove more threatening than the storm. At thirty-two, she was the youngest and most recent widow among us. Her husband, Walter, had died only three months ago. Walter and his first wife, Doris, had been lifelong friends with the Lamars and us. Doris was killed in a car accident early last year, which left Walter inconsolable. Or so we thought. What a shock we all experienced when, a mere six months later, he announced that he had married a woman more than thirty years his junior! There was another lesson in how life was nothing