Page 112 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“Really?” I asked. “That would drive me nuts.”

“I’ve got a radio blasting, sun in the sky, and the land all around me,” Kathleen said. “It’s being free and in control at the same time. Harvesting wheat I planted on land we own? There’s no greater satisfaction.”

“I thought Michael did most of the planting?”

She looked at her fork and plopped the meat in her mouth.

Whenever I brought up Michael, she changed the subject or gave me some kind of generalization.

“Was there something wrong between you and Michael?” I asked gently.

“You mean other than being married too long and his illness?”

I nodded.

“Nope. Nothing to speak about. Just the normal stuff.” She turned to Liz. “This coleslaw is so good. What do you think they put in it?”

“I’m not sure.” Liz dug her fork into the slaw and chewed, her brows pulling close together as she concentrated. “Almost tastes like pickles. You know, instead of vinegar. What do you think?”

“Me?” I asked. “I’ve got no sense of taste. You guys know that. If you blindfold me, I can’t even tell a white wine from a red one.”

“That’s no big deal. It’s only those wine snobs from California who care,” Kathleen commented.

I laughed. “You’re right. There’s always one person trying to prove their chops by announcing the varietal, region it came from, and the year. It’s nice to be back among mere mortals.”

“We have both kinds,” Liz said with a grin. “Red and white.”

“I’d rather have a beer,” Kathleen announced. “There’s a few microbreweries in Butte that Michael and I tried before …”

And we were back to that topic. I opened my mouth, but Liz shook her head. She knew something I didn’t.

“Well, if we’re going to put up with hoity-toity art museums,” Kathleen said. “I’m going to drag us to some honky-tonk bars in Texas. I can’t wait.”

I let the topic of Michael go and joined the lively discussion of music.

My sisters were great human beings. I’d be fine.

~ ~ ~

As we reached our RV, I noticed there were some papers and an envelope jammed into the gap by the door.

“Probably just our bill,” Kathleen said, grabbing the stack before unlocking the door and climbing up the steps.

She tossed the papers on the counter and kicked off her shoes.

After ditching mine, I grabbed a glass in the kitchen and poured some water.

“This is for you,” Liz said and handed me a thick envelope.

I stared the neatly printed address and Montana return address. I knew that handwriting.

“Are you going to open it?” Kathleen asked.

“Not now,” I said and put the envelope on the desk.

We agreed on a new comedy to stream, and I got it going while Liz made some tea. Soon we were settled down, watching Jane Fonda, Candice Bergen, and Diane Keaton do and say everything we wanted to but didn’t have the courage to pull off.

All the while, the envelope on the desk beat like the telltale heart of Poe’s dark fiction. And just like the organ in the story, it seemed to grow louder and louder as time went on.

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