was strictly forbidden.
'Are you heading to the garage?' His voice sounded rusty as if he talked little.
It was a dumb question, she thought. Everyone who ate at the restaurant parked in the garage in the basement. Except maybe a few folks like Helena Whitworth who had bankfront parking. The first floor housed the bank and a few lawyers' offices that were long since closed for the night.
'Yes, please,' she answered formally. 'Th-the garage.'
'You make it sound like some place I'd like to visit.' He smiled, but still didn't look at her.
As the old elevator jerked in movement, they both swayed and waited.
'Mrs. Montano,' Zack said. 'I'm sorry to hear about your loss. Davis was a hardworking man and a good neighbor.'
'Th-thank you,' she answered, staring at the seam in the silver door.
Zack closed his eyes and continued, 'I overheard what you said a few minutes ago in the restaurant. I want you to know if you ever need that hug, I'll leave my porch light on.' Words tumbled out of his mouth as if he had no control over them. 'I imagine you can see it from your place, 'cause I can see your lights from mine. No strings, no questions, just a hug if you need it.'
The elevator tapped bottom, and the doors slid open. He waited for her to exit first.
Anna reacted without thinking. She took a step forward, then swung back suddenly and slapped Zack Larson hard across the face.
She walked away, shaking with anger knowing he had listened in on her conversation with Helena.
Just as the elevator closed with him still inside, she heard him mumble, 'Or…maybe not.'
In the 1920s wagons carrying nitro to oil sites would occasionally blow up while crossing railroad tracks or deeply rutted dirt roads. The railroads were not happy, nor were the widows of the drivers.
October 18
Meredith Allen curled into the shadows of her living room and watched as Sheriff Granger Farrington climbed out of his patrol car. He tossed his hat on the seat and headed toward her door. She glanced at the clock glowing from her VCR beneath the TV. Nine o'clock. Probably time for his final rounds, she decided. How did she get on his list? It must read something like 'lock up office, check on fights at bars, drop in on pathetic widows.'
Everyone in town knew his routine. Since being elected sheriff, he started each day at his office by seven and ended every shift by driving through town just after dark. On weekends he was on call, but most folks knew they could find him at his office on Saturday mornings and checking out the bars around midnight without taking the time to order a drink. Sunday was slow and he was a little harder to locate.
Meredith always thought he deserved his Sundays alone. Surely one of his deputies could handle things. But, in a small town you are what you do. Not just during work hours, but all the time. She had seen the town pharmacist cornered at church about a prescription and heard last week the home economics teacher was called at midnight because the Methodist Women's League had a canning problem.
The only unlisted number in town was the home phone of Hank Wilson, the TV repair shop owner. He figured in his line of work other folks' emergencies were never his. Rumor had it that the unlisted number made some people so mad they would buy another set rather than give Hank their business.
Just guessing, she would say Granger Farrington loved what he did. The paper had reported he worked ten years on the Houston Police Department and three with the highway patrol before running uncontested for sheriff. Most folks fell he had done a great job for the past four years.
Once, when Meredith had borrowed his copier at the courthouse, she noticed his rules posted on a wall beside his desk.
As far as Meredith knew, he had followed every rule to the letter. He never dated any women in Clifton Creek, nor made drinking-buddy friendships with anyone in town. Some said he limited his friendships and his women to Sundays in Wichita Falls.
Meredith thought of his third rule as he knocked on her door. This was a professional call. Nothing more. The principal at the grade school probably phoned him, reporting no one had seen her since the funeral. Principal Pickett might be worried and influential enough to ask the sheriff to take action.
Meredith curled back into her chair. She was not interested in talking to anyone. No amount of talking would change anything. She just wanted the world to go away and let her be unhappy all by herself.
The sheriff knocked again, then tried the doorbell as if it would make any difference.
'Go away,' she whispered. 'I don't want to get involved personally.' From now on she planned to take the sheriffs third rule to heart. A week had passed since Kevin's death and she could not stop the hurt inside. If she learned anything, she had learned caring is not worth the pain that follows. From now on no one would come close enough to be more then a 'Hello' friend.
After waiting a few minutes, he finally stepped off the porch. He took a few steps down the walk, then noticed the old Mustang parked in the garage. The same car that was usually parked next to his at the courthouse when she worked on holidays while the county clerk's office was closed. On those days he would stop by to let her know someone else was in the building. She always passed his office and told him she had locked up when she left. That had been the extent of their communications before the night at the hospital when he held her tight to keep her from falling.
But, he had only been doing his job as he was now and Meredith did not want to be part of his duties.
They were considerate strangers, she thought. Saying hello to one another at work. That was enough.
She heard him step onto the back porch and knock at the rear door. The sound echoed through her little house.
'I'm not answering,' she whispered once more. 'I don't want to see or talk to anyone, Sheriff. Not even a considerate stranger like you.'
To her shock, he ventured further without probable cause of crime. He tried the doorknob. She had seen enough cop movies to know he was not following the rules.
She closed her eyes, pretending she did not hear his footsteps coming inside her house.
'Meredith?' he called. 'Are you home, Mrs. Allen?'
Don't make a sound, she thought.
The sheriff swore beneath his breath as he tripped over the mop just inside the back door.
'Meredith,' he shouted as he moved through the clue tered house. 'You've got to be in here. No one would leave the heater turned up so high. It has to be eighty in the place.'He caught his foot on one of the kitchen chairs. 'You must be alive. If you were dead, you'd smell in this heat in no time.'
He drew a deep breath. 'As it is, it smells like dying potted plants in here.'
She wondered if he always talked to himself or if he was keeping a running dialogue so that she would hear him coming and not be afraid.
He rounded the bar and entered the shadowy living room. For a moment, he did not see her hidden within the furniture. She sat perfectly still hoping he would yet go away.
'Meredith?' His feet crunched atop dead leaves as he moved around crumbling sprays that had filled the church a week ago. White mums, limp and brown tipped, were all that clung to the wiring of once beautiful arrangements. 'Meredith!'
