She waded through the shredded wallpaper.

“Give me your hand,” she said with a tinge of frustration. “Thought I told you to rest.”

She pulled me to my feet.

“Sorry.” I brushed off little wads of sticky flowers stuck to my clothing. With all Dorothy’s nagging, I could almost believe I was still living with my grandmother.

“Come get something to drink,” she said.

I followed her into the kitchen, feeling like a visitor in my own home.

Dorothy turned the knob on the water dispenser, filling a glass with the refrigerated liquid. She passed it to me.

I took a long swallow. I hadn’t realized a nap could be so draining. Refreshed, I set the glass on the counter.

“Better?” Dorothy asked, her pale face almost phosphorescent in the waning afternoon light.

“Much,” I replied, smiling.

An awkward moment passed. I scrambled to figure out ways to be hospitable without furniture to offer.

“Thank you for all you’ve done today,” I groped.

She nodded. “Glad you’re not too laid up.”

Guilt oozed in her tone.

I fidgeted with the short ends of my new cut. “You know how it is. I have to stay busy or I’d go nuts.”

Dorothy grabbed a paper bag from under the kitchen sink and started toward the parlor. I hobbled after her.

She scooped up handfuls of debris and loaded them into the sack. I gave my best shot at pitching in, but fell short of her capable efforts. Her navy stretch polyester slacks rose to flood level as she bent over to pluck the last tiny speck from the shag.

“Got an old love seat for you,” Dorothy said, straightening. “Need something to sit on while your foot’s healing up.”

I pictured a tattered, dust-mite-scented sofa. “No, thank you. Really. I’ve still got to pull the carpet from this room. It won’t be ready for furniture until Christmas, at least.”

“Never heard of anything so foolish. ’Bout as comfortable as a prison cell.” Dorothy’s look said volumes.

My throat tightened as my wall of defense went up. Apparently Brad had spread the news of my past. From the look of judgment on Dorothy’s face, the unethical Officer Walters had filled her in with all the details.

I could only hope the news hadn’t traveled to David. All I wanted Friday was a night of pleasant conversation. Fluffy, even.

I checked my stick-on nails. Nine were still intact. I might as well make the rest last until the special night. Then they could pop off in unison for all I cared. David had a one-night shot at seeing me at my girly best. After that, like it or not, I would be back to my normal, frumpy renovator self.

Dorothy headed for the front door.

“Bring you some soup tomorrow,” she said.

I noticed she walked with a slight limp of her own and wondered if it was arthritis or the legacy of some injury from her mid-thirties. At the thought, a lightning bolt of pain shot up my leg, along with a heavy dose of self-pity.

It was bad enough that I was living my life alone. I could hardly handle the thought of becoming old and run-down. Still, at least Dorothy had a grown child to keep her company. I might never have one to call my own.

I watched Dorothy cross the street.

Not that I wanted a child, of course. From what I could tell, kids meant heartbreak. You could never get them to do what you wanted. And if they ever did do as you asked, sometimes the outcome was worse than if they had disobeyed.

No, it was better to be alone. My children were the homes I resurrected.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the parlor window and sighed. If only someone could revive me in the same manner I revived houses.

I tapped a snappy rhythm on the window, quite certain that David was that someone.

I’d find out for sure this Friday night.

16

Friday morning showed up ahead of schedule. I hadn’t even picked out what to wear and it was already the day of my big date.

Shower. Blow dry. Get dressed. I worked through my morning routine, furious with myself for putting off what I should have done a week ago. Sure, my parlor looked pristine. But tonight, sitting across from David wearing heaven-knew-what, would I care that I’d gotten the entire room done in two short days on one working leg?

I slipped into my best jeans, the ones without paint splotches or holes. With a painful tug, a nail tip dropped to the floor.

Great. Only seven remained after the one I’d shed yesterday into a can of paint.

Now, not only did I have to track down the perfect outfit before seven o’clock, but I also had to stop in to see Tammy at the Beauty Boutique for a repair job.

First, however, I’d pick up a roll and coffee at the Whistle Stop. Two days of seclusion made me thirsty for human interaction. And while the girl behind the counter was no conversationalist, at least I could look forward to the possibility that she’d added a new nose ring to her collection or an old movie to her repertoire.

I threw on my pink crochet hat and insulated coat to ward against the blustery November wind, then limped my way toward the shop. Leaves crunched in an uneven pattern beneath my feet. Limp, step. Limp, step. The pungent smell of late autumn filled the air.

I crossed the tracks, hardly glancing up, lost in analyzing the coffee girl’s facial jewelry fixation. If she was willing to offer such a countenance to the community, her thinking dipped even below my own cloudy level. At least I kept my societal blemishes hidden. But I supposed there was a place for the coffee girls of the world. Somebody had to make the rest of us feel better. Compared to her, I had my life together.

The door jangled as it opened. Warm, java-scented air rushed past into the street, and I scurried to put the plate-glass door between me and the frosty morning.

The nose-ring attendant was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup off the stack and filled it with raspberry coffee. I added some chocolate creamer and stirred.

Mmmm.

The sweet steam loosened up my sinuses. A drip of condensation formed on the tip of my nose. I dabbed at it with a napkin from the counter as I waited to pay.

After a minute, I decided the coffee girl must not have heard me come in.

“Hello?” I called.

The sound of shuffling came from the back room.

I waited. Good service in a small town was optional.

A minute later, a young blonde with a blotchy red-and-white face made an appearance.

“Sorry about that. Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her cheeks with the back of one wrist.

“Uh, sure.” I set my cup on the counter and poked around in my coat for a few dollars. “Coffee and that sticky bun back there, please.” I pointed at a supersized caramel roll sprinkled with nuts.

She plucked a piece of waxed paper from a box and reached for the breakfast treat. I studied her profile, a tad envious of the gold and diamonds that dangled from her ears and neck. First impressions said she was around eighteen, smart in school, and from a highfalutin middle-class family. No facial jewelry allowed in that household.

Curiosity got the best of me. “I guess I was expecting someone else this morning. Are you new here?”

She swallowed, obviously holding back tears. “I’m filling in for the owner’s daughter.”

In my mind, Coffee Girl made the jump from High School Flunky to Indulged Only Child. I felt like snorting. If this were my shop, would I let my daughter wait on people with her face full of sterling silver?

I tried not to snoop, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Is she on vacation?”

The attendant’s lip quivered and a tear chugged down one cheek. “Casey died yesterday. I’m helping out ’til her mom gets things together.”

A chill swept through my body. My legs tried buckling beneath me. I grabbed the smooth wood countertop and steadied myself.

The coffee girl had a name. Casey. I’d never even introduced myself.

Every unkind thought I’d had toward the girl swirled through my mind, and I knew that she would have been ten times harder on herself.

Please don’t let it be suicide.

I blinked hard and took a deep breath. “I am so sorry. Was there an accident?”

A million ways to die flashed through my mind. Quick and painless, long and agonizing, smooth and peaceful, abrupt and shocking. None seemed appropriate for a young woman of eighteen.

But then, death had no manners.

The attendant toyed with my sticky bun on the counter. “They don’t know what happened. Her little girl tried to wake her up, but she couldn’t. They’re doing an autopsy.”

My heart lurched. Casey had a little girl? And now Casey was dead, and the child an orphan. At least the poor thing had her grandmother. They’d make it through.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, devoid of further words of comfort. I grabbed my sticky bun and coffee and hustled out the door, rushing to get away from death before it could latch on to me.

I walked home without seeing anything but my feet on concrete, then blacktop, then dying brown grass. I went inside. I wanted to push the world away. To crawl into my cot and make everything disappear. To plug my ears and block out the droning automobiles, rumbling trains, and barking dogs that proved life went on even without the dearly departed.

Instead, I leaned against the kitchen counter and ate my sticky bun and drank my coffee. A final swallow, then I tossed my cup and napkin in the trash.

I propped my elbows on the sink to take the pressure off my bad foot, and looked out the kitchen window at the catalpa tree. Its twisted, gnarled branches were like skeleton fingers reaching for me . . . Help me end the pain, Tish. The voice echoed in my mind like a remembered dream.