I’d only ever been truly happy there.

Only there.

Only there.

On this thought, I numbly moved through the house to the kitchen and, once there, dropped the bags on the butcher block, shoved my sunglasses back on my head and took in the huge expanse.

The Aga stove that stayed warm all the time and produced sublime food. The slate floors. The deep-bowled farm sink. The plethora of cream-painted glass-fronted cabinets. The grooved doors of the cupboards below. The greenhouse leading off it where herbs grew in pots on shelves in the windows. The massive butcher block that ran the length of the middle of the room, worn, cut and warped.

I shrugged my purse from my shoulder and set it beside the bags. I then moved back out to my rental car, getting the last bag, slamming the trunk and taking it into the house.

I put the groceries away and I did it not feeling numb anymore.

Not even close.

My brain felt heated, even fevered.

I no longer felt uneasy.

I felt unwell.

Something wasn’t right.

No, everything wasn’t right.

Then again, there was no right to a world without Lydia Josephine Malone in it.

And I only knew one way to make it right.

I folded the bags and tucked them in the pantry then moved directly to the phone.

Gran kept her address book there.

I opened it and flipped through the pages, finding the M’s. There were sheets of M’s and sheets of names written amongst the pages.

But I wasn’t there.

I moved back to J.

My brain cooled when I saw it in her looping script.

Josie.

She didn’t write in the lines. She scrawled all over the page however she wanted to do it and I felt my lips tip up slightly even as I felt the backs of my eyes tingle.

On the page was my mobile number, several before it crossed out when I’d changed them over the decades. Henry’s mobile number(s). Henry’s address in LA with a big looped Pool House scribbled beside it—this meager information taking up the entire page.

I drew in a calming breath and closed my eyes.

I opened them and flipped close to the back of the book. I found the number and grabbed the old phone from its cradle on the wall. So old, it had long twirly cord. A cord, I knew, that was long enough that you could talk on it and get to the sink, the butcher block, but not the stove. I knew this because I’d seen Gran talking on it as she moved about the room.

I punched in the number from Gran’s book in the keypad and put it to my ear.

It rang three times before I heard a man answer, “Hello?”

“Mr. Weaver?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Josephine Malone.”

A pause then, “Josephine. My dear. How lovely it is to hear from you.”

I swallowed and said softly, “And it’s lovely to speak to you, Mr. Weaver. But, just to say, I’m calling because Ms. Baginski shared about Mrs. Weaver.”

Another pause before, “Of course. Yes, I should have called and explained. That was why we weren’t at the funeral.”

“That’s entirely understandable,” I murmured then went on to say, “But I’m phoning to share I was distressed to hear this news.”

“Yes, dear, it’s distressing,” he agreed in a kindly way, pointing out the obvious without making me feel foolish that I’d done the same.

Even mucking this up, I still carried on.

“Is Mrs. Weaver well enough to receive visitors?” I asked quietly.

This was met with yet another pause before, softly, “I think she’d like that, Josephine. She always enjoyed seeing you. She’s best in the mornings, however. Could you come by tomorrow, say about ten?”

I didn’t want to go by the Weavers tomorrow at about ten. I didn’t want to visit a kind woman in the throes of a grave illness or spend time with a kind man who was in the throes of possibly watching his wife die.

But Gran would go.

And I would detest knowing what I knew about Eliza Weaver and not taking the time to visit at about ten tomorrow to find some way to communicate that I thought she was kind and she’d touched my life in a way I appreciated.

“I would…yes. I could. Absolutely,” I accepted.

“She can’t have flowers or—”

“I’ll just bring me,” I assured him.

“Eliza will look forward to that, as will I.”

“Lovely,” I replied. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“See you then, Josephine.”

“Take care, Mr. Weaver.”

“You as well, my dear. Good-bye.”

I gave him my farewell and put the phone back in its receiver. Then I moved back to Gran’s book and flipped the pages until I found it. I grabbed the phone and punched in the digits.

There were five rings before I heard, “You’ve reached the Fletcher residence. We’re unable to get to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”

I waited for the beep then said, “Reverend Fletcher? This is Josephine Malone. It seems I’ll be in Magdalene for some time and…well, you mentioned dinner. And I would enjoy having dinner with you and Mrs. Fletcher. Or you can come to Lavender House and I can cook for you to express my gratitude for all the thoughtful things you did for Gran. Whenever you have time, I’d be happy to hear from you. You can call me at the house or use my mobile.”

I gave him my number, said my good-byes and I hung up.

Once I did, I took in another, deeper breath and flipped to the S’s.

There was no listing and I found that unsurprising.

Then it occurred to me and I flipped back to the J’s.

One page from mine, there it was. Jake and a number.

I stared at the number for some time before I made my decision.

I moved to the butcher block to get my phone from my purse. I went back to the address book and programmed his number into my phone.

But I didn’t use it.

What had to be said, and done, needed to be face-to-face.

Therefore, I moved to the drawer where Gran kept the phonebook.

I flipped through the pages at the back that were printed on thin yellow paper, not knowing what I was looking for.

Then I found what I was looking for.

One listing with the bold heading Exotic Dancers.

It had a phone number and address.

I ripped the page out of the book, replaced the book in the drawer, folded the page and tucked it in the back pocket of my jeans.

That done, I moved to the spiral staircase to go to the light room so I could find Gran’s safety deposit box key.

* * * * *

I sat in the dark parking lot staring at the building.

There were no windows in the building. However, the parking lot was well-lit.

And almost completely full.

The sign out front said the establishment was called “The Circus.” This sign was surprisingly quite tasteful, black with blue scrolled letters. No flashing lights or neon and there was only one on the front of the building, not even one on a big stand protruding out into the street.

The building was a lone building in the middle of nowhere, the parking lot large. But there were no weeds growing through cracks. The black paint with gray trim of the building was clean, looking fresh, and expertly done. No graffiti or markings.

The door to enter was padded with buttoned black leather. There was a large man standing beside it wearing a blue windbreaker and black trousers. And there were a goodly number of cameras mounted under the eaves. Those, as well as the lighting, making the outside feel safe.

I got out of my car, closed the door and hit the button on the key fob, hearing the beep. I did this wondering if I should have changed clothes.

I’d never been to a strip club. I had no idea what to wear.

I’d decided not to change from what I’d worn that day to the market, and while stripping Gran’s bed, doing Gran’s laundry, unpacking my suitcase and emailing Daniel on my phone a variety of reminders of how to take care of Henry.

I was wearing my dark blue bootcut jeans, my well-fashioned eggplant-colored top that had an intricately draping neckline, and my navy blue patent leather Manolo Blahnik pumps. Before leaving, I’d simply refreshed my makeup and perfume, pulled on a well-tailored black Italian leather jacket, and made my way to the address on the phone listing.

At that point, it would have to do.

I walked through the lot and approached the door. When I got close, I noted the man beside it had a twisted wire leading up to his ear.

As I approached, he dipped his chin, murmured, “Ma’am,” and moved, opening the door for me.

He gave no sign he was surprised a woman was entering such a club and I found this interesting, as I found his good manners the same.

I gave him a small smile, walked in and stopped.

This was partly to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was also partly to allow my ears to adjust to the music. But mostly it was in shock.

Like the outside, the inside was clean and well maintained, but more.

There was a large circular stage in the middle on which there were five women dancing. There were shiny silver poles that were not smooth but had spirals formed in them. Off the stage, there were two runways that led back to a wall and across the length of it, these with more poles and dancers.

It was not a surprise that they were not clothed. They had on G-strings and nothing else.

What was a surprise was that they were all very attractive with lovely, toned bodies, a variety of interesting and not-unfashionable (but all very high-heeled) shoes and sandals and all but one had very becoming hair (the one who didn’t had her hair dyed a rather brash red that did nothing for her coloring).