By the time we made our way back to the house, Judy was waiting for us at the door. “You’re just in time. Supper’s almost ready.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” I said as I led her inside. “I had Judy prepare a special dish of shrimp and grits for us. It’s a local favorite.”
Diane’s eyes lit up. “Can’t wait. But do you mind if I make a call before dinner? I want to check in with Cassie, make sure she’s settled in at my aunt’s.”
“Of course.” I showed her to the small study off the main hallway. “And take your time.”
When Diane closed herself inside, I turned back down the hall, my thoughts drifting to the pieces of my life I had shared with her that afternoon. We had only begun to scratch the surface, but already I was feeling an unfamiliar vulnerability rise within me as memories, dusty and forgotten, awakened from their slumber.
3
When Diane had finishedher call, she joined me in the dining room for supper. Now that the storm was gone, the evening light filtered through the windows, tinting our faces in shades of apricot and honey.
“Smells delicious, Judy,” I said as I topped off our glasses with sweet tea.
Judy poked her head in from the kitchen, a beaming smile on her face and a wooden spoon in hand. “Thank you. Supper is coming right up.”
Diane watched in awe as our plates were served. She confessed that she wasn’t much of a cook, and that many of her meals consisted of fast food and frozen dinners. “It’s not that I don’t care for good food, but the long hours spent at the newspaper rarely afford me the time to prepare something as grand as this. Plus, Cassie is happier with a box of chicken nuggets and apple slices than anything I can whip up.”
Before we indulged ourselves in the feast before us, I blessed the food and the hands that prepared it. “May it nourish our bodies and our souls,” I said, before adding, “Amen.”
Finally, we dug in, the comforting sounds of cutlery scraping plates and contented sighs filling the room.
“I thought this afternoon went well,” said Diane between bites. “Don’t you?”
“Quite,” I agreed, my fork hovering midway to my mouth. “Which is a little surprising, considering it’s been years since I’ve opened up about my past.”
“I think it’s good, you know, to open up. It has a healing effect, sort of like letting fresh air into a stuffy room.”
There was a rustic charm to the moment—the fading grapefruit hues of the sunset streaming through the kitchen window, the warm aroma of Judy’s cooking, and Diane’s comforting presence.
“We all lug our past with us,” Diane continued as she looked down at her half-eaten bowl. “It’s like a shadow that follows us everywhere we go. But, like my mother used to tell me, it’s up to us whether we let it weigh us down or if we adjust the straps and learn to carry it with grace.”
“Your mother is a wise woman,” I said, thinking how my past tended to lurk behind me, a silent specter ever-present in my life. “I suppose that’s why I enjoy these quiet moments, in the comfort of family and friends. They’ve always provided an escape from the burdens that seek to claim my peace of mind. And you’re right,” I admitted, pushing around the remaining grits in my bowl. “The past is always there, and we do carry it with us, no matter how hard we try to leave it behind.”
When supper was over, Diane and I went our separate ways, agreeing to resume our conversation over breakfast the next morning. After cleaning up, I wandered to the porch, drawn by the comforting blanket of twilight. I settled into the old wicker chair, my body yielding to its familiar contours, and it wasn’t long before Judy joined me.
“So, is she what you expected?”
“Honestly? I can’t say I really knew what to expect. She’s certainly every bit as determined as I thought she’d be. And she’sdefinitely got a wisdom about her, a sort of quiet strength that I admire. But there’s something terribly sad about her as well, something that lingers in her eyes. She told me this afternoon that she recently lost her husband. And at her age… Can you believe it?”
“Sorrow knows no age,” said Judy. “Of all people, you should know that.”
“I know. It’s just hard to see others go through the pain. Especially someone so young.”
After a moment, Judy turned to me and said, “It’s strange, isn’t it? The three of us here together, at different stages of life, all widowed?”
“Yes, it is,” I replied, staring out at the encroaching darkness. “It feels like a club that no one wants to belong to.”
Judy chuckled softly, her eyes tracing the invisible path of a distant firefly. “A club of the heartbroken, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
I retired to my room a little after nine, where I sat on the edge of my bed, my mind still turning over Judy’s words like a rough stone smoothed by ripples in a brook. Outside, the moon beamed overhead, a silver orb casting a soft luminescence over the dunes that stretched out beyond the yard.
Staring out into the night, my thoughts drifted back to my past. The images came as fleeting ghosts, some more solid than others—soft smiles and laughter, shared secrets and quiet whispers—glimpses of the years now behind me. In the distance, the lighthouse’s brilliant beam cut through the darkness, a silent sentinel protecting the shores. As a young woman, I’d sit for hours watching that beacon, captivated by its rhythmic pulse. Looking upon it now, that same sense of wonder washed over me.
As if in response to my memories, the lighthouse’s light seemed to dance and twirl, painting the darkness with streaksof silver and white. The past and the present felt like they were converging in this singular moment, a siren’s song pulling me from my daydream.