“And you’re eighty-two.”
“That is a rude thing to remind a woman.”
“Sit.”
She smiled reluctantly.
I took the mower from her.
For the first twenty minutes, I regretted every decision I’d made.
The heat was brutal. My lower back hurt, my ankles had swollen beyond recognition, and the mower pulled sideways every few feet.
Mrs. Whitcomb brought me lemonade and tried several times to make me stop.
I should have.
But mowing gave me something simple to solve.
There was long grass in front of me.
I pushed the mower over it.
For three hours, I didn’t think about foreclosure or Corey or where I would bring a newborn if the bank took my house.
Eventually, I finished.
I sank onto Mrs. Whitcomb’s porch beside her and drank nearly an entire glass of lemonade without speaking.
She watched me.
“Something happened today.”
I looked over.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been angry at that lawn for three hours.”
I laughed weakly.
Then, for reasons I still don’t completely understand, I told her.
Not everything.
Just enough.
“The bank called. They’re starting foreclosure.”
Her expression changed.
“Oh, Mallory.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Where’s that young man who used to park in your driveway?”
I stared at my glass.
“Gone.”
She understood immediately.
“And you’re doing all this alone?”
“Pretty much.”
Mrs. Whitcomb was quiet for a while.
Then she reached over and squeezed my hand.
Frank’s wedding ring was still hanging from a thin chain around her neck.
“Being strong is useful,” she said. “But people make a mistake when they think strong means nobody has to help you.”
I smiled, but my eyes burned.
“Unfortunately, help doesn’t pay a mortgage.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “Usually it doesn’t.”
When I stood to leave, she caught my hand again.
“You’re a good girl, Mallory.”
I tried to make a joke.
“I just destroyed your lawn in several places.”
“I’m serious.”
Something about her expression made me stop.
“Don’t let a hard year convince you that you deserve a hard life.”
I hugged her.
It was the first time I’d ever done that.
That night, I barely slept.
At 5:38 the next morning, sirens woke me.
Red and blue light moved across my bedroom ceiling.
For one confused second, I thought I was dreaming.
Then someone knocked hard on the front door.
I pulled on a cardigan and hurried downstairs.
Two patrol cars were parked outside.
Several neighbors were already watching from their porches.
A tall sheriff stood at my door.
“Ms. Mallory Price?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sheriff Harland.”
