“More than enough,” he replied. “I’ll pour you one.”

“I could use it,” she told him.

The basket contained towels and bedsheets for the cot and some cleaning materials.

“I thought I’d clean up the place a little bit,” she explained. “Put a sheet on the cot and leave you some towels.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he said.

“I know I don’t,” Eleanor told him. “But it’s something I want to do. I owe you, and it’s little enough as a payback.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said.

“In my way of thinking, I do,” she replied. “Besides, I haven’t been down here in a long time. I always liked it here, almost as much as my husband did.”

He wondered if being at the shack bothered her, remembering her husband’s death. Yet, she did not look bothered. There was a freshness about her. Her hair was not gathered in the small bun at her neck as it had been. Her face seemed to hold a faint coating of makeup. Her eyes seemed clear, bright.

“I swept up some,” he said.

She glanced around the shack, her face showing pleasure. “It looks a lot better than it did when Boyd would come down here,” she said. “He never swept the floor or picked up anything. I’d come down every couple of weeks and try to straighten it up, but it always seemed to get on his nerves, having me around. Especially after the war. Before, it was different. We had some nice times before he went off to war, but when he got back, he liked being by himself and this was the place that let him do that, I suppose.” She smiled a smile that held memory. “One time I picked some wildflowers—ironweed, pretty little purple flowers—and put them in a vase and left it on the table, and he threw them out the minute he saw them.” She turned to look at Noah. “After that, I just let him do what he wanted to with it. When he died, it was like a pigsty. One of the first things I did after the funeral was to clean this place. I don’t think I’ve been back since.”

Noah poured two cups of coffee at the table and Eleanor took a seat in one of the chairs.

“I left Granny with Howard Reynolds and his wife,” she said, guiding the talk away from her husband and the shack. “Sometimes they watch after her for a few hours to give me a little break.” She picked up the cup of coffee, pulled it to her face and inhaled its odor. “They’re good people, the best I’ve met since I’ve been here. Their son Milton lost his wife two or three years ago and he moved back in with them, but he’s away somewhere working with a road builder and they watch after the boy.” She paused. “It’s sad about Matthew. He’s sweet as he can be, but he’s not far from being retarded.”