Her normal meetings were at night, after work. There was a different crowd at a noon meeting in the middle of the week—a crew of little old lady alcoholics who’d been sober as long as Noelle had been alive, and who’d been up in each other’s business just as long. Noelle knew them, because being sober in the Adirondacks meant you knew every other sober person in driving distance. They had great recovery, but she usually avoided them because they were always trying to con her into helping out with an event.

Her usual haunt, the alano club in Mt. Pleasant, had meetings all day, cheap bad coffee, and always a few alcoholics up for a card game. They also had alcothons—twenty-four-hour meetings on Christmas and New Year’s, so people without family had somewhere to go in case they had the urge to drink. At the first sign of weakness, Noelle would get suckered into providing a tree, bringing a ham, and welcoming newcomers. She didn’t even know where she would cook a ham. Certainly not in Mrs. Matthews’s pork-free kitchen.

Seeing the little old lady alcoholics made Noelle think about Miriam’s Old Ladies. Noelle had overheard Miriam on the phone, checking up on them. How did the surgery go? Did you get the grocery delivery I sent? I told so-and-so to get in touch with you about that piece, if she doesn’t give you a fair price you let me know. She was like a mother hen clucking over her chicks, except all her chicks were over seventy.

After the meeting, the ringleader of the old lady alcoholics cornered her.

“You didn’t listen to a single share, kid,” the woman said. “Your head was a million miles away. Get your ass in the car, we’re going to lunch, and you’re going to tell us about it.”

Noelle wanted to protest that she had her own ride, but she just yes ma’amed and got her ass in the car. She was taking her life in her hands, as the woman drove like a bat out of hell, but she would also have been taking her life in her hands if she’d said no.

When they were all settled on the patio of an old beat-up diner, long menthol cigarettes lit, coffee cups filled and rimmed in red lipstick, they turned to her.

“We’ve been worried about you since Cass died,” the ringleader said.

“If you hadn’t come down off the hill soon,” another added, “we were going to come up and get you. Did that woman leave a mess behind her? Is that what’s got you all twisted up?”

“No,” said a quiet, ancient woman who looked like she might have played pro ball in her youth, “she’s got girl trouble.”