Blackberry Winter. Cheryl Reavis

hadn’t shown. Even Poppy, who knew every single person born and raised in the valley and everything about them past and present, didn’t presume to be familiar with this man. He took Tommy’s money in silence and skipped the usual “old home week” small talk.

      His fingernails was tore off—

      Meyer’s thoughts suddenly went to the woman crying on the gazebo steps. Her mother might be mixed up in all this somehow, and if Tommy Garth was in it, then so was Estelle.

      And Meyer wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

      CHAPTER 4

       “M rs. Jenkins is looking for you,” Poppy said when Meyer walked into the store. He could see Bobby Ray intent on dusting probably dust-free soup cans near the front window.

      “I just left from up there,” Meyer said.

      “Which don’t amount to a hill of beans. There’s still a hour or so of daylight left. I reckon you ain’t done till she says you are. And she says she needs you to take somebody somewhere. Right now.”

      “Did she say who?”

      “No. She didn’t say where, neither. That woman is way too high-strung for me to go asking her questions. I reckon you’ll find out when you get there. You got some job, boy, you know that?”

      “I’ve had worse, Poppy.”

      “Yeah, I reckon you have. Is there anything up there you don’t do?”

      “She hasn’t got me cooking breakfast yet, so your wife’s job is safe,” he said and Poppy laughed.

      “How are you doing these days, Meyer? You look like you dropped a pound or two to me. You sleeping all right?”

      “I’m okay.”

      “You sound like me when I first got back home. I was as big a liar as you are.”

      “Yeah, well, don’t tell Nelda you think I’ve lost weight. She’ll be chasing me around with a big bottle of castor oil and a spoon.”

      Poppy laughed. “You better get on out of here. Oh, and Mrs. Jenkins said you don’t need to come inside. Just wait in the parking lot. You ain’t let that truck of yourn get all dirty now, have you?” Poppy called after him.

      Meyer waved him off and went outside to get into the truck he kept spotless for just such a summons to the big house. He headed back in the direction he’d come, wondering which guest needed a chauffeur. He hoped it wasn’t the drunk. The man was supposed to be here until the weekend and he hadn’t been sober since he’d arrived. If he made it to the end of his stay without somebody having to set him down hard, it would be a miracle, and, unfortunately, Meyer Conley was apt to be the “somebody.”

      He parked in the Lilac Hill parking lot as instructed. His passenger came out immediately—not the drunk but the woman Bobby Ray was so worried about. He got out of the truck as soon as he saw her.

      “Are you waiting for me?” he asked, glancing toward her own vehicle.

      “I…don’t feel much like driving,” she said and he believed her. She looked pale and tired, much more so than when he’d seen her earlier.

      “Okay. Where to?” he asked.

      “Don’t we need to discuss your rates?”

      “No, ma’am. Mrs. Jenkins takes care of that—unless you want me to drive you to Cincinnati or something.”

      “No, just the cemetery,” she said, smiling slightly.

      “Right,” he answered. “Your…daughter didn’t want to go?”

      She looked at him and he knew right away that he hadn’t slipped his interest in the rest of her party past her.

      “She’s gone into town to do some shopping,” she said, smiling again.

      He opened the door for her, then went around and got into the truck. “There are several cemeteries,” he said as he got it into gear.

      “The cemetery,” she said.

      “Yes, ma’am. Are you here for the funeral?” he asked as he pulled onto the road and turned in the direction that would take them to the church he’d just left. Estelle’s church.

      “No, what funeral is that?”

      “I’m not sure. I saw them digging a grave earlier, but I don’t know who it’s for. It’s not like it used to be,” he added after a moment. “Lot of strangers in the valley now. Flatlanders mostly. You know about flatlanders?” he asked because he was almost positive she wasn’t one.

      “I know about flatlanders, but my daughter doesn’t,” she said, and he glanced at her.

      “She didn’t grow up in the hills, then.”

      “No.”

      “I didn’t think so.”

      “Flatlanders can come in handy sometimes.”

      “Ma’am?”

      “Your place—the one Mrs. Jenkins mentioned. I would think you rent it mostly to them.”

      “Mostly,” he said. “It keeps me in pocket change. Like I said, Mrs. Jenkins doesn’t have to worry about the competition.”

      “Business is good at Lilac Hill, then.”

      “Up and down, I guess. She does a lot of advertising, but it’s still feast or famine. Depends on…I don’t exactly know what it depends on. Whatever the flatlanders feel like doing that week, I guess.”

      “Did you ever try it? Being a flatlander?” she asked.

      “Yeah, I tried it. I was in the military long enough to see the world and to find out the world isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

      He could feel her looking at him.

      “I’m…sorry,” she said.

      He shrugged. “I got a college education out of it. Ma’am, would you mind if I ask you your name?”

      “Maddie,” she said.

      He waited for the rest of it and, for a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to tell him.

      “Kimball,” she said finally.

      “Meyer Conley,” he said to refresh her memory.

      “Yes. I know. Do you mind if we don’t talk?”

      “No, ma’am.” He reached to turn on the heater.

      “Are you cold?” she asked.

      “Me? No, ma’am.”

      “I’m not, either,” she said, and he left the heater alone.

      They rode along in silence.

      “What parts of the world did you see?” she asked abruptly, in spite of what she’d just said.

      “The Balkans. Korea. Two tours in the Middle East. People around here—in this valley—are a lot better off than I used to think. There are some bad places in this old world. Of course, us folks here didn’t have any idea we were so bad off until the government sent people to tell us.”

      She smiled. “You grew up here.” It wasn’t quite a question.

      “Yes, ma’am. Mostly. I lived in Chicago for a while when I was young until my great-aunt Nelda came and got me. One of the best days of my life.”

      “Nelda…Conley?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      She lapsed into silence again, staring at the passing scenery—a Christmas-tree farm, then another one, then the volunteer fire department with a sign out front announcing the Brunswick stew supper next Saturday night—one with