Page 87 of The River We Remember

“Loretta and Sam hosted a little gathering in honor of Ruth Coffee.”

“Gordon Landis accompanied Mimi.”

“That’s right.”

“Mimi’s a little concerned.”

“About what?”

“She thinks Gordon is interested in you.”

“Ever since his wife died, he’s been interested in anything that wears a skirt, Garnet. When I was a girl, we had a saying: A man’s like a skeeter; he’ll suck on any neck. If I was you, I’d caution Mimi to be careful where Gordon Landis is concerned.”

Garnet leaned against the register and asked, a little too casually, “You and Brody, did you have a good time?”

“It was a lovely evening,” Angie said.

She smiled, and Garnet smiled, and for a long moment, nothing more was spoken.

“Well.” Garnet took a step back. “I’d best be on my way. Me or somebody else from the Women’s Guild will drop by tomorrow for that box of books.”

“I’ll be sure to have it ready.”

Garnet left the Wagon Wheel and got into her station wagon, which was parked in the gravel area in front of the diner. She glanced in Angie’s direction. Through the glass of the front window, their eyes met once more. Then she backed out and drove away.

If Angie Madison hadn’t known it before, she knew now absolutely. Garnet Dern was in love with Brody.

The phone in the kitchen rang, and as if the thinking of him had conjured his voice, it was Brody on the line.

“Angie,” he said. “It’s about Scott.”

THE HEADLINE IN the Black Earth County Clarion the next day would read SCOUT TRAINING HELPS BOY BECOME HERO. It would feature Del Wolfe’s glowing eyewitness account of his friend’s dramatic rescue of Holly Coleridge and a photo of the girl planting a grateful kiss on Scott Madison’s cheek. For his part, Scott’s only quote was that he was thankful for all he’d been taught in Boy Scouts.

Brody Dern had been called to the scene by Russ Arnold, whose land bordered the river where Scott had come ashore. Brody, in turn, had called out the paramedics. Holly Coleridge was taken to the hospital ER, where she was examined and pronounced well enough to be released into her mother’s care. Sam Wicklow had been alerted and was there to snap the front-page photo of Holly planting that kiss on Scott. There was no picnic in Veteran’s Park that day.

Scott’s heart had been overworked. When Angie arrived at the hospital, what she saw was a wan boy, her beloved boy, who smiled at her but looked ready to fall over. She brought him home, and he didn’t argue at all when she put him to bed. He fell asleep almost immediately and slept through the late afternoon. He woke in the evening, and Angie brought him chicken noodle soup. He ate in bed, and then went back to sleep.

Angie didn’t leave the house. She divided her time between Scott’s bedside and the bookshelves, considering all the volumes she’d acquired over her years of voracious reading, culling for the Women’s Guild those she was willing to part with. She boxed them and put them beside the desk in her bedroom.

That night, she sat at the same small desk. Two journals lay before her—that old worn volume of her earliest years, and the newest, which contained less than a year of entries. She’d scanned the older journal, reminded herself of her current blessings, and now the fountain pen was in her hand poised above the new journal. She stared a long time into the dark outside her window, imagining all the terrible possibilities that day might have held. Finally, she wrote: The most frightening thing we do in our lives is to love.

She might have written more, but she heard a knock at the front door, a gentle rapping at first. It was late, well after ten, and she was in her nightgown. She waited, and the rapping came again, more urgent this time. She put the new journal atop the old and stood. But as she turned from her desk, her elbow knocked both volumes to the floor. In her haste, she simply snatched them up and put them atop the box of books she’d set aside for her donation. She grabbed her robe, stepped into the hallway, and hurried down the stairs.

Felix Klein stood in the glare of the porch light.

“It’s late, Felix.” She tried not to sound as put out as she felt. “I’m not inclined to fix you a meal at the Wagon Wheel, if that’s what you’ve come for.”

“Oh no, Angie, nothing like that. And I haven’t been drinking, if that’s what you think. It’s just that I saw your light on upstairs, and I have something for you. Something I would like you to give to Scott.”

He held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a medal hung from a ribbon.

“It’s the Distinguished Service Medal. I was awarded this for my service in the First World War. Quite an honor. I heard about what your son did today. It struck me as an act of valor, something that deserved a medal. Would you be willing to give it to him for me?”

She eased the screen door open and stepped outside with her visitor. She took his medal and in return leaned to him and planted a kiss on his grizzled cheek.

“That’s just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, Felix. Of course, I’ll give Scott the medal. It will mean a great deal to him, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Angie. That’s all I wanted. Good night.”