The parking lot at Wal-Mart was packed. Finding a space at the very rear of the lot, Mary trudged toward the busy store. She dreaded dealing with the mob of shoppers inside. On the off-chance she might have a repeat of that horrible scene in Value-X, she surveyed the lot—looking up one row and down the next—in search of Sarah’s vehicle. She sighed with relief when she didn’t see the other woman’s car.

List in hand, Mary grabbed a cart and headed straight for the toy section. She hoped the store would have Barbie dolls left on the shelf. She hated the thought of a single child being disappointed on Christmas morning. Fortunately, the shelves appeared to have been recently restocked.

Reaching for a Firefighter Barbie doll, she set it inside her basket. With a sense of accomplishment, she wheeled the cart around the corner to the riding toys. To her horror and dismay, she discovered Sarah McDowell reading the label on a toddler-sized car. This was her worst nightmare.

“No,” she muttered, not realizing Sarah would hear her.

Her bitterest enemy turned and their eyes locked. “What are you doing here?” Sarah demanded.

“The same thing you are.”

Sarah gripped her cart with both hands, as if she was prepared to engage in a second ramming session. Frankly, Mary had suffered all the humiliation she could stand and had no desire to go a second round.

“Can’t you buy your grandson’s gifts some other time?”

“How dare you tell me when I can or cannot shop.” Mary couldn’t believe the gall. She would shop when and where she pleased without any guidance from the likes of Sarah McDowell.

“Mary, hello.”

Mary wanted to groan out loud. Janice Newhouse, the pastor’s wife, was easing her cart toward them. “This must be Sarah McDowell. I’ve seen your photo on a real estate brochure.” She smiled warmly at the woman who had caused Mary so much pain. “I’m Janice Newhouse.”

“Hello.” Sarah’s return greeting was stiff.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Janice said, apparently oblivious to the tension between the two women.

“I’ll just bet you have.” Sarah said this as though to suggest that Mary was a gossipmonger, when nothing could be further from the truth. For years, she’d quietly refused to get drawn into any discussion involving Sarah. It wouldn’t do either of them any good. The same could not be said for Sarah McDowell. She’d taken delight in blackballing Mary’s membership in the Women’s Century Club. She’d dragged Mary’s name and reputation through the mud. Mary, on the other hand, had chosen the higher ground—with the exception, perhaps, of that newspaper column on the perfidy of real estate agents, and that certainly hadn’t been a personal attack.

“I understand the Willis family bought their home through you,” Janice said, making polite conversation.