“I’m staying at my father’s house. I’ll drive out there after the meeting, unless you need the car.”

I leaned into the trunk and gripped the handle of the laptop. Allen placed his left hand on my wrist.

“I can get it all myself,” he said, letting his palm glide lightly onto the back of my hand and pause there a moment as his grip replaced mine. I felt the smooth center of the palm, the tougher skin where fingers and palm connected.

Allen lifted his suitcase and computer from the trunk.

“No, I won’t need the car.” He set down the suitcase. “Here,” he said, and handed me the keys.

“See you in a few minutes,” I said.

I watched him walk across the asphalt and into the office. He was a good-looking man, his eyes that deep, steady blue you see in an October sky, his wavy brown hair starting to gray at the edges. His haircut was functional: barbershop, not salon. He had a hard lean body that would look good in jeans and a T-shirt. He kept himself in shape.

Perhaps it was just the longing of a woman who hadn’t been with a man in over a year, but as I watched him disappear through the doorway I wondered what the fingertips and palm of his hand would feel like pressed to the small of my back. Maggie Glenn, you’ve been a long time lonely, I said to myself, and drove across the road.

“LOOK WHAT THE CAT’S DRAGGED IN,” MAMA TILSON announced, bustling out from behind the counter, her body covered by the white barbecue-stained hospital gown she always wore instead of an apron. She leaned forward to hug me, not letting the gown touch my clothes. “Good to see you, girl.”

She stepped back and looked me over. “You’re just as pretty as ever. I still tell Billy Watson and those Moseley boys the biggest mistake they ever made was letting you get away.”

“I hope you don’t say that in front of their wives.”

“Of course I do,” Mama Tilson said. “Their wives know well as I do it’s the gospel truth.”

Mama Tilson’s son Ely opened the screen door next to the counter. He’d been tending the barbecue pit and sweat beaded his forehead.

“This hog’s ready to baste,” he said.

“Okay,” Mama Tilson said. “You go have a seat, Maggie. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“No rush,” I said. “I’ve got a friend joining me.”

“This friend wouldn’t happen to be a man by any chance?”

“He’s just someone I work with.”

Mama Tilson laughed. “Well, Maggie, your face all ablush argues otherwise, but I won’t pry. You just let me or Becky know when you and that friend of yours are ready to order.”