Nighttime noises had always been a comfort to her—light winds rattling the palm fronds, tree frogs serenading each other, the soft pulse of crickets—but tonight the sounds didn’t soothe her as they usually did. Something bubbled deep inside her that had nothing to do with the champagne she’d sipped with Emmajean and everything to do with her friend’s casual mention of the river’s secrets.

With her eyes clamped shut in an attempt to entice slumber to visit, and hopefully more peaceful sleep this time, the whine of the boat motor started up again, the memory as real as life. It was as if he were still there on the river, still making his way toward her. Toward both of them. And she knew then she was still fighting him. Maybe she always would be.

* * *

The Sugar Bend Observer, Sugar Bend’s Community News Source

Letter from the Editor, Liza Bullock

May 2022 | Volume 11, Issue 5

This week I had the privilege of attending a birthday gathering at the Home Under the Oaks for Sugar Bend’s oldest resident. Mrs. Myrna Blaylock turned 102 on Monday, though to look at her, you wouldn’t think she’s a day over 80. With a glow in her cheeks and perfectly coiffed hair (styled at Cuts and Coffee every Wednesday at noon, thank you very much), she was the best-looking gal under the oaks by far.

I wrote this week’s neighbor profile on Mrs. Blaylock, and you can find the feature on 2B. Prior to writing the feature, I corresponded with her grandson to get some background information on his grandmother. In an email he wrote that his grandmother has always loved animals and the wild life. Upon first reading it I assumed he meant “wildlife.” However, after seeing the way Mrs. Blaylock hopped out of her chair and danced a foxtrot with one of the men at the party, I’m having second thoughts!

Summer is here and the possibilities are endless. Rest assured, if anything “wild” happens in Sugar Bend, we’ll make sure to include it here in your monthly Observer.

Enjoy the issue!

Liza

Two

Violet walked through the dewy grass, dampness curling over the sides of her rubber-soled slippers and tickling her toes. The bag of birdseed she carried was getting low. She’d have to remember to run by the feedstore to grab a new bag. Either that or ask Tyler to run her some by next time he was out this way.

As she walked she tipped the bag over each of the fourteen bird feeders scattered around their half-acre spread by the river. She’d learned long ago if she filled the feeders in the evening, the blasted raccoons would sneak in and empty them. So now, as soon as the first hints of pink streaked across the sky, she was out in the middle of it. The early rising birds thanked her for their breakfast with sweet serenades.

Usually this was the best, most peaceful part of Violet’s day, but her dream last night had unsettled her. Instead of disappearing with the dark, it remained with her, its edges still sharp and painful, even on this fresh, clean-slate morning.