We talked, Hutch and I, for so long that the party emptied. Birdie blew out all the lanterns but the two by our bench. We discussed random and out-of-order events from the past twenty-five years—family and kids and births and deaths. We talked about Auburn football and careers, about art and history and everything except Rusty and Hillary.

When I yawned, Hutch laughed. “Okay, I think the party is over.”

I glanced at the empty dock, the full trash cans, and the dark night. “Yes, I think so.” He stood and held out his hand for me to take. “Thanks for talking to me for so long,” I said.

Resting, like we do in that silence, until I asked, “Listen, on Sunday there’s this book festival in Mobile. Any chance you want to go?”

“Go?”

“With me. I’m planning on going.”

He stared at me for a moment; I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to taste his kindness. I wanted him.

He gave me a smile like a gift. “I’d like that.”

“Good night, old friend,” I said, and turned away before I ruined anything good I’d healed in that night.

“Good night,” I heard him say, but I was already five steps ahead, moving toward the guesthouse. I felt his gaze on me until I opened the door and turned to wave good-bye. But he was gone; I’d imagined him watching. I leaned my head on the doorpost and looked into the night. Then I saw him. He was standing at the end of the dock, still watching. I waved and, wishing I didn’t have to, I shut the door.

I’d actually shut the door to him a very long time ago and as much as I wanted or needed to, it was way past time to open that door.

Excerpt from Lillian Ashford’s Journal
New Year’s Eve 1962
Twenty-two Years Old

It was the end of last January when I started throwing up. All the time. Not just in the morning or when I smelled something bad or when I moved too fast—just all the time. I kept calling in sick to Mrs. Prinkle until she finally pulled me into the office. I know how I looked—I’d seen myself in the mirror all pale and skinny and sad.

I’d been walking through my days in a kind of black and white and gray fog. Everything seemed so pointless and meaningless and well, boring really. Nothing that had once seemed fun was fun anymore. Laughing was completely out of the question. I didn’t know how anymore. All the decorating jobs were so stupid—didn’t these women have anything better to do than ask Mrs. Prinkle about their blue-green fabric swatch for their sitting room club chair?