Lynda Lynch’s home, by contrast, had been frumpy outside and folksy inside. But not dirty in any sense. The word that came to mind was “grandmotherly.”

Vic Bazinet’s trailer was something altogether different. To use a four-letter word, the place was a dump.

Out front: a cigarette-burned armchair with a FREE sign on it, a smashed air conditioner on a wood pallet, a telephone-cable spool repurposed as a picnic table, a cord of firewood waiting to be stacked.

Nor could I overlook the vacant lot across the road. A burnt trailer had been torn down and trucked away for scrap metal. But the scorched foundation remained. Jamal Marquess, RIP.

It must’ve made for a hell of a view for Felice Bazinet: looking out your window at the place where your ex-lover burned to death.

While I was surveying the scene through my binos, the Bazinets’ Christmas lights came on. Strings of green and red bulbs were nailed up and down the corners and along a roofline jagged with lengthening icicles. As holiday displays went, it was simultaneously tacky and heartbreaking.

The sight made me think of my own Christmas predicament. Where would I go? And more importantly, with whom? I had successfully dodged making a decision, but my time was up.

Aimee Cronk had once teased me, “It must be torture being loved by two women.”

In fact it was. All the more so because I had always felt undeserving of love.

Without pausing to indulge in a bout of self-pity, I picked up my phone from the console and called Dani. I was legitimately curious about how her interview had gone. And sooner or later, we needed to discuss the rumor her mother was spreading around Pennacook.

To my surprise Dani picked up immediately.

“I was about to call you!” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got awesome news.”

“What’s happened?”

“Jemison wants me to come in for a sit-down. He said he’d been talking to people around the state, asking who he should recruit, and my name kept coming up. We really hit it off on the phone, too. I’m going in for an interview tomorrow. He didn’t say it, Mike, but I think I’m going to get the job.”

The feeling in me was of a bomb having dropped and yet failed to explode. The news was a dud. I registered the impact but nothing else. But at least the uncertainty was over.

“Congratulations.”

“Aren’t you happy for me?”

“I’m very happy for you.” She worked so hard, and I was one of those old-fashioned people who liked to see virtue rewarded. “I guess the new job will mean you’ll move to Greater Portland. You won’t want to commute in from the boondocks.”

Greater Portland was even farther from Ducktrap than her current rental.