End of conversation. I closed my eyes and listened to Pachelbel’s Canon in D that radio station WBHM was playing. So much had happened and I was so keyed up, I had no idea that I would go to sleep. But I did. In fact, I was shopping in Warsaw with Haley when the car stopped and Sister said, “You’re home, and your mouth’s open.”

True enough. I closed my mouth, told her I would talk to her in the morning, and stepped from the car into a curtain of mist. Fred had left the back light on and the deck off the kitchen looked icy. Typical Birmingham January, I thought. Warm one day, freezing the next.

Fred opened the back door for me, leaned forward and held out his hand.

“Be careful. That porch is slippery.”

“I thought you’d be in bed,” I said, taking his hand and stepping into the warm kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep until you got in.”

Chances were he’d already had three hours sleep in his recliner, but that was okay.

“How’s Luke?”

“About the same.” I had called from Oneonta and told Fred about Luke’s concussion. “They’re just keeping him for observation.”

Fred was hugging me, his arms inside my coat. He had on his old velour robe that smelled like Gain soap. I rubbed my cheek against it and considered going to sleep standing up.

“I’ve got to go to bed,” I said. “I’m beat.”

Fred followed me down the hall. “No sign of Virginia?”

“Nope.” I sat on the edge of the bed and kicked my shoes off. “The guy she ran off with is a snake handler, though.”

“What?”

“He’s a snake-handling preacher.” I pointed toward the bathroom door. “Hand me my nightgown and robe.”

“I thought he was a painter.”

“He is.” I started shucking clothes.

“How did you find that out?” Fred held out my gown and flannel robe.

“The woman in the ambulance told me. And the sheriff says he’s one of the best-known ones in north Alabama.”

“What sheriff?”

“Virgil Stuckey. The sheriff of St. Clair County. There was a body in the church and I think Sister’s smitten with him, the sheriff. They both seem smitten.”

“What do you mean, a body?”

“A woman’s body.”

My nightgown was on.

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” I said. And for what was probably the first time in sixty years, I went to sleep without washing my face and brushing my teeth and with my clothes in a pile by the bed. Jet lag is a killer.