She liked the feeling of it. Liked the energy it seemed to bring to her. Liked the thought of having her life jolted by doing something that would be talked about with suspicion if anyone in the community knew of it.

The old woman could tell, she thought. The old woman had lapsed into her world of silence, of faraway gazes, but she was not sure if the silence and the look was nothing more than a grand performance given for the attention it got her.

It did not matter. The anticipation of the supper, of having Taylor and Noah invade her life, was liberating.

She looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. She had an hour, or more. Time for a bath. She would use the scented soap her sister had given her for Christmas, and she would wear the new dress she had purchased on her last trip to Gainesville.

She wanted to feel fresh, new.

Alive.

TEN

It was almost six-thirty when Taylor pulled his Ford to a stop in front of Eleanor Cunningham’s home.

“This is going to be a night to remember,” he said to Noah, reaching under the seat of his car and pulling out a bottle of after-shave lotion. “I came out here one time right after Boyd got home—to bring them something, but I forget what—and he made me stay for supper. It was before his grandmother moved in. Guess he knew I hadn’t had a square meal since my divorce, and that was only a few months old then. I’ll never forget that night. Lord, this woman can cook.” He paused, dabbed some of the lotion on his face, handed the bottle to Noah. “But I guess you know that, don’t you? You’re a lucky man, Noah Locke. Two nights in a row at the table of Eleanor Cunningham. Wouldn’t mind that kind of duty myself.” He grinned his boyish grin, opened the car door, stepped out, bellowed toward the house, “Put the lard in the pan. You got fish on the way.”

The supper was festive, not strained as it had been the night before.

The reason was Taylor. Taylor’s stories, Taylor’s hands sweeping in emphasis over the table and the food, his hands making laughter as a magician made silk handkerchiefs and flowers out of air.

The laughter was as contagious as a plague. Whatever formality had greeted the two men at their appearance—bringing twelve fish of good size, even after the cleaning—had disappeared at the table with Taylor’s question to Eleanor: “You mind if I say a few words of grace?”

The question had surprised Eleanor. Saying grace had never been practiced in her home. “I—suppose not,” she had answered, casting a nervous glance toward Beatrice Cunningham, who again sat silent in the rocking chair near the table.

“Well, now, I can hear from the tone of your voice that you’re a little bit uneasy with that,” Taylor had said, grinning.

“Oh, no, it’s not that. I—”