Blackberry Winter. Cheryl Reavis

people were around to hear it, stating his innocence and politely reminding her of all the other times she’d thought he was guilty of something when he wasn’t. He especially enjoyed pointing out the time she’d accused him of throwing rocks at the church windows when he’d gone on a school trip and wasn’t even in the county.

      Estelle had understood immediately that there had been a big change in their relationship, and that, for all intents and purposes, they were at war. And still were, as far as he knew. Nelda had been right about one thing. Estelle Garth didn’t change. Not too long ago, he’d overheard some of the women in Poppy’s store talking about how she still marked on her kitchen calendar exactly when every wedding took place. Evidently, she didn’t do it to avoid scheduling conflicts. She did it so she’d know in nine months if the marriage was a case of “have to.” Mostly legitimate wasn’t good enough for her. She was the self-appointed gatekeeper to eternal salvation, and she took the job seriously. Nothing deterred her, not even finding out that her late husband, Emlin, hadn’t walked the chalk line she had so carefully laid down for him. It had to have been a terrible shock to find out that the meek and mild Emlin had been on a first-name basis with every waitress in the county. Meyer smiled slightly at the memory of all of them coming to his wake and telling Estelle what a generous tipper her Emlin had been. Big bad Emlin had also taken money Estelle didn’t know he had and slipped off to Cherokee gambling with his fellow veterans from the American Legion Post.

      But, worst of all, he hadn’t disowned his and Estelle’s only son the way Estelle told him to. She’d had to take to her bed after the will was read—a will she’d forced Emlin to hire a lawyer to write because she wanted to make absolutely sure it couldn’t be contested. Emlin and his lawyer had certainly gotten that part of it right.

      Even so, it seemed to Meyer that the more Emlin’s sins came to light, the more high-and-mighty Estelle got, and, as much as he enjoyed it, he just wasn’t in the mood to aggravate her today. He owed her a little something, he supposed. She was the reason he’d thought army drill sergeants were rational.

      “Come on, Bobby Ray,” he said aloud, stomping his feet to get the circulation going. All he knew about his being here was that Bobby Ray Isley wanted to talk to him.

      Now.

      And, because he’d known poor old Bobby Ray for as long as he could remember and because Bobby Ray was like a big overgrown and easily disappointed child, here he was.

      He couldn’t even begin to guess what was happening with the man. Bobby Ray was scared to death of Estelle, and that alone made this location not the best choice for a meeting place. Besides that, he was scared of being struck by lightning whenever he used the telephone, storm or no storm, regardless of the season, and he had actually called Meyer at Lilac Hill—a huge indicator of how serious Bobby Ray thought the situation was. Needless to say, the conversation had been quick. Bobby Ray hadn’t given him a chance to ask anything. About all Meyer had gotten out of it was how distressed the old boy was.

      But, there was a definite limit to how accommodating Meyer intended to be, and Bobby Ray drove his truck into the circle drive in front of the church just about the time Meyer reached it. Meyer stepped out into the cold wind to meet him, waiting impatiently while Bobby Ray struggled to get the driver’s side window down.

      “Did she say her name, Meyer?” Bobby Ray asked when he finally got the glass to move an inch or so. “Did she?”

      “Who, Bobby Ray?”

      Bobby Ray’s train of thought constantly derailed, leaving big gaps in his conversations. He never could seem to tell the difference between what he thought to himself and what he’d actually said out loud.

      “That woman. The one that went—to stay—up—at the house where you work,” he said, still struggling to roll the wobbly window in his truck the rest of the way down. “Did you find out what her name is?”

      “No, I didn’t,” Meyer said, hunched against the wind. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

      Bobby Ray quit fiddling with the window. “How come she wouldn’t tell you, Meyer?”

      “Because I didn’t ask her. I’m the hired help, Bobby Ray. If the guests don’t come right out and say who they are, I don’t go asking things like that for no reason.”

      “You got a reason.”

      “No, I don’t.”

      “Yeah, you do. I’m wanting to know, Meyer.”

      “‘Bobby Ray Isley wants to know’ isn’t what most people would call a reason. Why do you want to know her name anyway?”

      “I just do,” Bobby Ray said, his big hands opening and closing on the steering wheel. “She’s driving that little gray car and she bought gas at Poppy’s. And I want to know what her name is. Didn’t you even see her up there?”

      “Yeah, I saw her.”

      “Did you talk to her?”

      “A little bit—”

      “Didn’t you find out nothing?”

      “Not much, no. I think her granddaddy might be from the mountains, here or somewhere,” Meyer said. “She said he used to make things—cedar boxes and pencil holders—stuff like that. Things to sell to tourists.”

      “Oh, no,” Bobby Ray said. He gave a sharp sigh.

      Meyer tried not to smile at Bobby Ray’s growing alarm. Ordinarily, Bobby Ray was not the kind of man to let himself be troubled by anything. He might get his feelings hurt if Poppy forgot his birthday, but basically he lived in his own little world of simple and perpetual bliss. Nothing worried him, not the local happenings and not world events. He went to his more or less token job at Poppy Smith’s convenience store every day, and then he went home to his trailer right next to the road that led to the Parkway, the monotony of it all broken up by coon hunting and trout fishing and an ice-cold bottle of beer now and again. That he would be so undone by a woman he’d seen buying gas at Poppy’s store was more than a little unusual. That he’d wanted Meyer to meet him at the church to talk about it bordered on the absurd.

      “So what’s going on, Bobby Ray?” Meyer asked after a moment. “One of your chickens come home to roost?”

      “Ain’t my chicken,” he said. “I ain’t got no chickens. Not that kind anyways.”

      “Whose then?”

      “I can’t tell you, Meyer.” Bobby Ray looked at him. “It might not be her, you know,” he added hopefully. “Poppy didn’t guess who she was.”

      “Did you ask him?”

      “No! I ain’t asking Poppy. His eyes ain’t that good anymore anyway.”

      “Well, who do you think she is?”

      “You reckon you can find out her name for me, Meyer?” he asked instead of answering. “Reckon you can?”

      “Maybe. But names change, Bobby Ray. Especially women’s.”

      “I know that, Meyer. I ain’t that dumb. You find out both her names, okay? Her first name ain’t going to change, is it?”

      “No, probably not, unless she’s a movie star or something.” He was trying to make Bobby Ray laugh, but it wasn’t working. For once, Bobby Ray was staying on topic.

      “Will you do it? Will you ask?”

      “If I get the chance, I’ll ask. Why are you so worried about her? She seems nice enough.”

      “I just am.”

      “How did you find out where she was staying?”

      “That car she was in went up where you work.”

      “What were you doing—following her?”

      “No, I wasn’t,” Bobby Ray said, clearly insulted by the question. “Somebody told