The wine in her glass swirls as she spins the glass stem between her fingers. “When did we get old, Jillian?”
“Speak for yourself.”
Her gaze meets mine. “No, I mean it. We’re not even thirty and we’re old.”
I sit beside her on the other stool. “I admit sometimes I feel that way.” I take a drink of the wine, for a moment savoring the full body, earthy aroma, and oaky flavor. The fruity finish refreshes my taste buds, causing my throat to contract. I continue my thought. “But being back here—in Blue Gil—makes me feel young, too.” I look in her direction. “Not in a good way. I feel likeSheriff Manes and Deputy Morton...they look at me like I’m still seventeen or eighteen.”
“Maybe it’s because you left.” Becky sighs. “Somehow, I’m a married old has-been.” She glances my way, with just her eyes and back to the wine in her glass. “I’m not complaining about my marital status, just that those girls...” She lifts her chin toward the picture.
“What about them?”
“The group of them had no bounds.”
“What does that mean?”
“No limits. I don’t know. I think this is all too much. I can’t believe Marty Thompson is dead.” She takes a sip. “This shit doesn’t happen in Blue Gil.”
She knows? How did she learn?
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Oh please. Everyone knows.”
I don’t ask for more specifics. Instead, I concentrate on her earlier statement, that shit like this doesn’t happen in Blue Gil. “It seems no place is immune.”
“Yeah, but Marty...Martha Thompson.” She emphasizes Marty’s full name. “With a name like Martha, you picture a sweet person, you know, like George Washington’s wife?” She laughs. “At least an older person.”
I scoff as I picture the first First Lady of the United States, white hair, plump, with a pioneer bonnet. “Was Mrs. Washington nice? I’m behind on my knowledge of First Ladies.”
“I don’t really know.” Becky takes another drink. “She was flaunty.” Becky’s brown eyes come my way. “Is that a word?”
“Flaunty?” I repeat. “Mrs. Washington? What couldshe possibly flaunt in...what…the late seventeen hundreds—her ankles?”
“No, not Martha Washington, Martha Thompson. And whatdidn’tshe flaunt?” Becky sets her nearly empty glass on the counter, stands, and begins to walk around the living room. “Shit, Jillian. You’re the only one I can talk to. This town...everyone thinks they know everything. I’m not talking shit about the dead. I’m not.” Her words come quicker as the pace of her steps increases. “Maggie Thompson made a big deal about how her children could hold jobs along with school and whatever other activities.” Becky slows and looks my way. “Maggie said it is important for college applications that children can multitask.”
“Marty worked?” I ask. “Where?”
“Hank’s dad, John, gave her a job at Sanders Feed Store in Lawton.”
“Your in-laws’ store?”
“Yes. She was mostly a cashier on weekends. John would joke about the pretty little brunette.” Becky turns toward me, disgust in her eyes. “Sexism is alive and well in Blue Gil.”
“In Lawton too, by the sound of things.”
“Anyway, I don’t give a shit about John. He’s ancient and is never going to change. I don’t even think Jacqueline pays attention.” Becky wrings her hands, twisting her wedding band. “You know when you’re raised one way, it’s not easy to break the mold.”
Raised? By John and Jacqueline Sanders. That would be Hank.
My gaze narrows as I take in my friend’s expression. “Goodness, Becky, what are you saying?”
“I...I...” Her jaw clenches as she exhales through her nose. “Shit, Jillian, a few weeks back, I may have threatened Marty Thompson.”
“Wait. What?”
Becky walks to the counter, lifts her glass to her lips, and empties the contents. Next, she hands me the glass. “I hope you have more.”
Nodding, I take the glass around the counter to the kitchen. “You’ve never mentioned Marty before when we talked.”
