“My pleasure.” He walked her to the door, but before he opened it, he leaned closer, and whispered conspiratorially. “Miss Mannes . . .”

“Yes?” She smiled.

“Um, we’ve seen you in here a lot these past years, since, uh, since your parents died. And, I must say, I’ve never seen . . . um . . . well, you’re looking very good.”

“You mean—what happened?”

“Um, well, yes, I guess that’s my question.” He began to wring his hands.

“I don’t know, Mr. Hillis. Good-bye.” She walked out the door into the warm air, and looked up and down the street.

Hillis turned to face the wide interior; every eye was on him, questioning. He shrugged his shoulders and went back to his desk. He canceled his appointments and went to church.

Martha walked across the street and entered the McRae store. Dave was putting a new tape in the cash register. He looked clean and fresh in his white shirt, his bald head nicely tanned, the gray fringe around his head combed neatly down. He looked up briefly as she entered, then went back to his work.

“Hello, Martha,” he said. “Long time no see.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

Slowly his head came up to look at her smiling face. Jesus Christ! His face reddened; he cleared his throat. Such shocks were not good for the heart, he thought. He smiled. “Bring me any eggs?”

“No. I want to talk to you about my mother.”

Dave came around the counter and took both her hands in his own. “You look pretty as a picture, Martha. I’d never have believed you’d look this nice. What’s happened in your life?” God, her eyes are absolutely beautiful, he thought. Like sparkling snowflakes inside.

“I don’t know. Something.”

“Something indeed. I’d be delighted to talk about your mother. A dear, dear lady.” He showed her his forearm, where a thin white scar ran the length from the wrist to the elbow. “She did this for me.”

“She cut you?” Martha was horrified.

“No, no, dear, no. I cut myself helping your father when I was just a lad. He half carried me into the house. I was bleeding terribly. And your mother laid her hands on the cut and healed it.”

“She healed it?”

“Yep. Worked miracles, that woman. A natural healer.”

“Did she . . . ? Did . . . ?” Martha groped for the question.

“Did she heal a lot of people? Most everybody in town was helped by your momma at some time or another. A wonderful woman, she was, yes indeed.” His eyes looked beyond her, far into the past.

“And father?”