Page 162 of Just One More Thing

I laugh as I take the tray. She even put slaw on it for me.

Her expression softens. “Your granny’s all right,” she says.

“I know.”

“But you’re not.”

I look down at the cup in my hand. At Walt’s writing. Miss Hattie wipes her fingers on a napkin. “You don’t have to tell me your business. I’m gonna guess at it wrong either way.”

That gets another laugh out of me. Smaller this time. “Thank you, Miss Hattie.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she calls after me. Then she pauses. “Unless it makes an excellent story later.”

The loop curves toward the water, and before I even see him, I know Willard will be on his bench.

“Sit down before you wear a trench in the path,” he says.

I sit. With Willard, silence counts as a full conversation. Usually a better one than most people manage with words.

We watch the water for a while. Chip chatters somewhere above us in the oak. French Fry circles overhead like he’s conducting aerial surveillance.

After a few minutes, Willard nods toward my cup. “What’d Walt have to say?”

I turn it so he can read it. He nods, rustles the peanut bag, and tosses one into the grass. Chip appears from under the bench and starts nibbling.

Willard watches him for a second. Then he says, “Funny thing about people. Always wanting somebody else to tell ‘em where home is.”

I glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”

“It ain’t advice.”

“No?”

“Nope. Advice is longer and more annoying.”

That gets a real laugh out of me.

He tosses another peanut. “Besides, if you’ve gotta ask, you probably already know and just don’t like the answer.”

The evening light catches in the deep lines of his face. He keeps looking at the water like he isn’t saying anything important at all, which is how he always says the important things.

My throat feels dry, which is unfair given the amount of latte currently in my system.

I sit there a little longer, trying not to come apart on a public bench in front of a squirrel and a man who can see through walls.

Then I reach over and squeeze his hand. “Willard…”

He squeezes back once. “I know.”

I stand and start walking again.

I end up at the jetty.

The lighthouse stands at the end of it, familiar and white and impossible not to turn symbolic when your life is uncertain. I sit on the warm stone edge and let my feet hang over, drinking the last of my latte.

The water is calm.

I am not.