She therefore asked the counterman, “In the last few days, has any one of these men come in and purchased gas?”

The response was both astonishing and rewarding. Following only a casual scan, the man tapped Seamus’s with his finger and said, “Yup. Him. It’s slow this time of year. I’ve haven’t sold any in almost a month—except to him a few days ago. A small tank of helium.”

A few years earlier, Beverly had purchased a tiny jewel box of a home on the edge of a small lake in Windsor, Vermont. The town marked a convenient midpoint between her second job at Dartmouth and Joe’s place in Brattleboro, but that, she’d maintained, had merely been an additional benefit.

Her primary residence was a wedding cake of a McMansion south of Burlington, far to the west, purchased by her ex-husband at the peak of his hubristic success as a lawyer. This far humbler Windsor abode, tucked away, modest, as shy as a colt finding its footing, had won her heart as the place she wanted to enjoy with Joe, even knowing that their times here would be few and brief.

It was with that love and contentment and past life experience that she greeted him that evening, leaning against the open front door as his car pulled into the yard.

“Hey, sailor,” she said as he came in for an embrace, sighing deeply as her arms slipped around his neck.

“Hey, you,” he replied, muffled by her neck, recognizing in this woman the oldest and best friend he’d ever had.

“How’re you holding up?” she asked, dropping one arm to around his waist and accompanying him into the house.

“Good, especially now,” he said. “Even if it’s been a curious last few days.”

“More fallout stemming from the late, perhaps unlamented Mrs. Shaw?”

“Fair to say,” he agreed. “Although her death could be the proverbial tip of an iceberg.”

He eased off his coat and jacket and draped them over the back of one of the armchairs in the living room. “You,” he said, kissing her properly, “have been hard at work in the kitchen, I smell.”

“I have,” she admitted happily. “I know your druthers are probably for sardines on Wonder Bread, but I have conjured up what I hope will be an acceptable alternative.”

He touched the side of his nose. “If this is right that it’s your world-famous spinach lasagna, then you’re on.”

“It is and you’re welcome. Step right this way.”

They ate on the screened-in back porch overlooking Lake Runnemede, which the locals have the sense to call a pond. The end-of-day peacefulness allowed them to sit quietly at the table, enjoying their coffee in the dying light, and soak in the meager warmth of the day. This transition from winter to summer remained almost lyrical to most New Englanders, who, while stalwart about their ability to brave the cold, are never proud enough to deny spring’s lifesaving infusion.

“So,” Beverly finally said, reaching out to hold Joe’s hand. “Tell me of your journeys and travails. I sense you are burdened, if not troubled.”