After she heard him go out to the garage and heard the Chrysler fire up and roll out, Dolly got up and soaked in a hot bath until it cooled to tepid, washing her hair and scrubbing herself pink in the meantime, trying to get last night’s residue off her. Once dressed and somewhat restored to at least the shell of her former self, she flopped on the couch with Cherry Ames, Night Supervisor, trying to keep her mind off things. It didn’t work. She wondered what JJ was doing. She wondered what Byron would say when he got home, what she would say to him. She thought of all sorts of things that she could say, but nothing that seemed exactly right. Every time she recalled the picture of Byron walking out the back door of Shorty’s with that woman, she felt like throwing up again.

Her swirling guilt and fury seemed too much for the little bungalow to contain. By about two o’clock, there seemed nothing to do but to return to the Mickelson house. She told herself she’d better check to see if JJ was all right. In truth, she thought going there might salve the queasy, lost feeling in her stomach. Maybe JJ would understand, and forgive her, and they could be friends again, so she wouldn’t feel so alone.

But there was no answer to her knocking, and when she let herself in and glanced into the kitchen, she saw a rectangle of white paper on the butcher block. She flipped on the overhead light, and leaned over the note. She read:

Dear Dolly—

I hope you get this. I want you to know I’m sorry. Like I said, I always seem to f—things up, so I am leaving, before I can do anything more.

Your husband is probably sorry for what he did, just like my grandpa was. I would not advise doing something you might regret later, such as giving him up for me! Ha ha.

I was hoping you would look in on the house sometimes, like you were. I hope I didn’t discourage you. You can write to my dad, Jack Mickelson, in Stone Harbor, Wis., about it, if there are any problems.

I would like to tell you a whole lot of things, but I’d best just tell you good-bye, and good luck.

JJ Mickelson

P.S. And thanks.

So, it was true, then. The lost queasiness. The emptiness.

She was alone, and it seemed she’d better get used to it.