Page 18 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

It was my wedding anniversary today.

I hated the memories that one word—anniversary—evoked. Hated the state of being married but not. Most of all, hated that Phillip still crept into my thoughts.

Did he miss me even a little? Did he have any regrets about how low he’d sunk to cut me out of his life? And on this awful day, I had to admit that I missed the man he’d pretended to be.

However, I didn’t miss the woman I’d been—the one who embraced that shell of a life we’d shared. I would hold on to that knowledge as I scraped out a new, braver life for myself.

Libby plucked an azalea bloom off a bush as we passed the gas station. “Did you know that one of the men who broke up that fight is Annette’s grandson?”

I chewed my lip, because yes, I had asked around about Russell Davis after meeting him, discovering that he’d just returned from Vietnam, where he’d driven a supply truck. Now, he drove a truck for the paper mill. His connection to Annette made any draw to him all the more complicated. “I think I may have heard something.”

“I wonder why Annette didn’t mention having a grandson who worked with the mill.”

“Why would she?”

“She told us about the gas station she and her husband own.” Libby tucked the flower behind one ear, her brown hair still up in a bun for work.

“That wasn’t personal. She just let us know so we could get discounts. Which would be nice if either of us owned a car.”

“Thank heavens we don’t live in Maine or somewhere else snowy.” Libby strolled a few more steps, but I could tell she wasn’t done talking. She rarely said anything impulsive, instead waiting and choosing herwords for fear of saying the wrong thing. “I just wondered if Annette told him about us.”

“Does it matter?” I asked, sidestepping a buckled patch in the concrete. “I can’t imagine Annette would do anything to risk our safety.”

“Russell gave Keith an old Matchbox truck last time we stopped by the gas station for a Tootsie Roll.” Libby pressed a chapped hand to her chest. “Wasn’t that the sweetest thing?”

She couldn’t possibly mean . . .

“Are you interested in Russell Davis?” Now wouldn’t be the right time to admit I’d begun scanning magazines at the library for articles aboutThe Mod Squad. “This seems rather fast, considering you, uh, just arrived in Bent Oak.”

“I’m not interested romantically in him or any man in this town.” Libby shook her head vehemently. “I’m only getting my bearings by learning as much as I can about everyone.”

Her pitiful expression made me feel like I’d kicked a puppy. There was no sense inflicting my bad mood on her.

“How about after we pick up Keith, we come back here to the park and feed the fish?” I motioned toward the little oasis smack dab in the middle of Main Street, complete with brick fish pond, benches, and lush landscaping, compliments of the garden club currently gathered at the large gazebo. All those pastel pantsuits and dresses made them look like a big polyester bouquet, which brought on another of those anniversary memories. One of me at my mother’s garden club, where they’d hosted my bridal shower.

My wedding had been a bona fide circus. Ten bridesmaids, with groomsmen plus ushers. Plus two flower girls and ring bearers. A string quartet played in the cathedral. The reception, held at our country club, featured a full sit-down dinner with prime rib and shrimp. It probably cost more than I made in a year now.

Libby pressed her hand to her chest again, breathless. “Do you think we could stop and sit for a moment? We’re running ahead of schedule to get Keith.”

I didn’t want to hang out near the memory generators, but Libby did look pale. The shifts at the mill seemed to hit her harder than they did me. I assumed it was because she had a child to look after as well.

How tragically ironic all those miscarriages had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It would have been so much tougher to leave with a baby. “Sure. Are you all right?”

“I was just up late mending one of Keith’s shirts he ripped in a playground tussle.” Libby sagged down onto a wooden bench, dedication plate in memory of some Watson relative.

Lord, I hoped there weren’t a bunch of honorarium benches back in Mobile with my name on them, since I was very much alive. Not that my husband would have bothered. But maybe the old garden club would have purchased one.

Or perhaps I’d left no imprint at all on my previous life.

I stretched my legs out in front of me toward the low brick wall encircling the little pond, only to realize it was empty. “What happened to the fish?”

“Yoo-hoo,” a voice called from the gazebo—a woman in lemon yellow. “Someone put dish soap in the water fountain.” She glanced sharply over at another lady in lilac. “It’s not funny. It killed off the koi. Thank heavens I was able to scoop them out before morning. Can you imagine if a child came by to feed them and saw them all floating with bloated bellies?”

An older woman with a silver-blond bouffant sniffed. “There’s no need to be so graphic.”

There was so much polyester and hair spray over there, a single spark would send them and the gazebo up in smoke.

Lilac Lady called out, “Would you two like to join us?”

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