“How are you doing”?

I am perfectly aware that this is not an appropriate breakfast to be eating at 5:18 in the morning, or any other time for that matter. However, when you’ve been awake since 3:45 and get hungry, you eat what is at hand. These sea salt caramel/chocolate cookies were available to me and I was powerless to resist. But, I am told that eggs and milk were involved in their creation, two perfectly acceptable breakfast staples.

When people ask me how I’m getting along during this pandemic, my answer is usually some version of “pretty well, actually.” The reason that this answer is mostly true is because I am married to Pam Dunnevant.

Since the day that Henrico County schools closed on March the 12th or whenever it was, Pam has been home all day everyday. Like everyone else, the isolation has been troubling. She, like everyone else, is worried about the future, concerned for her family and friends. But, with her it feels and looks different. There is a calmness about her, a serenity about everything. After a half day in the office, I come home at lunchtime a bundle of frayed nerves, often with a vacant expression on my face. More often than not I find her busy with some project or another. She is cheerful, relaxed, calm. I pick up on it and it begins to calm me as if it’s contagious. I begin taking my cues from her. I begin to relax. I start thinking of mundane things, the daily plot of life, the relentless forward progress of things. Yes, rearranging the furniture in the den needed to be done. Yes, she made cookies, a new recipe she’s trying out and yes, I will have one at 5:18 in the morning for my breakfast. No matter what is happening around me, I see in her a cheerful confidence which is infectious and allows me to truthfully answer, “pretty well, actually. I’m doing pretty well.”

Knowledge Is Power

Granted, its not everyday when a photograph like this gets published in a real newspaper. I would expect this in The Onion or The Babylon Bee. But this story came to me courtesy of the New York Post with the terrifying headline...Can the Coronavirus be Spread Through Farts?

Apparently, two Australian doctors just completed a study on the subject, and like so much else on the subject of COVID-19, the conclusion was a definite maybe. Drs. Norman Swan and Andy Tagg sat out to determine whether flatulence in the Age of the Cornoinavirus can be both silent and deadly.

Luckily for humans, most of us wear what amounts to several different masks in the form of underwear, pants...etc, which serve as excellent masks to protect ourselves and others from “aerosolized feces.” However, there are no published data on whether flatulence alone presents any risk of transmission. Still, Dr. Tagg suggests not throwing all caution...to the wind. Instead he suggests keeping your pants on and considering them part of your personal protective equipment, just in case. Dr. Swan added the phrase, “no bare-bum farting.”

Look, I know what you’re thinking here, “You have got to be shi**ing me, right?” Sadly, no. This is real. I reproduce this story here because knowledge is power. Sometimes the “facts” about this deadly virus can be confusing, even contradictory. We shouldn’t be wearing face masks. Yes, we should be wearing face masks..etc. And, the last thing I want to do is spread fear. (When Pam first saw this headline, her response was, “Ok, I’m doomed, then.”)  But, we must not be afraid of where the science takes us here. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.

So the lesson here is...we all need to isolate ourselves from beans, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, and lentils. I’m thinking that bean burrito night at the local nudist truck stop would be considered a ground zero hot spot.

On a cautionary note, these two doctors are Australian...from down under. Make of that what you will.

What The Heck??

Ok, what in the Sam Hill is this fresh abomination? 

This ad popped up on my blog this morning for reasons that suggest that there is a bug in the algorithm. Anyone who has known me for more than fifteen minutes knows that I am not exactly what anyone would call a fashionista. My taste in clothing lies more in the direction of whatever is most comfortable, and what happens to be...clean. So, imagine my surprise when...this...monstrosity presents itself to me at 7:27 am. I mean...what is this thing??

First of all, the model is one of those androgynous blade-thin humans who still shave with a hot towel. Thankfully they cut off the picture at the bridge of his nose to save us all from having to stare into the abyss of those limpid pools!! After you get beyond the model, you have to contend with the fact that this dude is wearing a cravat of some sort—under a warm up jacket—wrapped inside a plaid sport coat. The color scheme here seems to be Dijon mustard left out overnight. This outfit comes to us by a company called Bugatchi, a firm with a sufficiently Italian sounding name to attract the people for whom this is illustrative of proper clothing. Luckily for us, this cutting edge get-up is ON SALE. 25% off we are promised, with the dangling carrot of the possibility of up too 50% off.

No...I didn’t click on this ad. I just sort of stared at it listlessly for a while wondering what occasion might be appropriate for me to show up so bedecked? Maybe the next time I am invited to an art gallery featuring avant guard revelatory finger painting. Perhaps one day I will be asked to attend a cocktail party at a Yacht Club fundraiser to benefit Youth Sailing Clubs in the inner city.

Now that I’ve posted my views on this subject, I suspect that some deviously clever member of my family will save this to their Christmas list for 2020.

Another Day in Quarantine

CoronaVirus Quarantine Agenda: Day 34

8:00 am—Coffee and a quick scan of FaceBook where I notice that Becky Baldwin has laid out a counter full of sour bread dough. I suggest that she place one loaf out by her mailbox that I will pick up later in the afternoon. 

8:30 am—Pam whips up a new breakfast recipe which includes sausage links, eggs and cheese buried inside a crescent roll: 

I immediately douse her creation with Salsa and heaven descends.

10:00 am—Since this is the third Saturday since my last vacuuming trip upstairs, I fire up the Shark Duo-Clean 2000 and pick up two full canisters of hair from this girl...

 

...who has decided that there is no place better for sleeping than our new comfy carpet.

10:45 am—I launch myself into a full cleaning of our bathroom. Nothing like the smell of Windex in the morning...

12:00 noon—I take the leaf blower ( Kobalt 80v with lithium battery ) and blow off all the pollen, oak tree strings, helicopter things and leaves from the deck. I will repeat this process three more times before the day is done.

2:00 pm—Go out for what turns out to be a terrible run. I had to stop twice, once for a cramp in my calf and second for a balky knee. These stops lead to a truly pathetic time. Oh well, some days you have it, some days you don’t...

3:00 pm—Naptime

4:45 pm—After one more leaf-blowing of the deck, I settle in for a fine adult beverage, when I am sent the following photograph from a friend who will remain nameless to protect his tenuous reputation...

Of course, I reply with a photograph of my own, far superior choice, Hardywood Singel...

...it has come to this. I have been reduced to debating the proper beer choice for Coronavirus afternoons on the deck with someone who thinks beer should be served in metal cans...by the quart!!!

4:45 pm—Becky Baldwin shows up at my front door with a still warm loaf of sour dough bread, my ingenious plan worked to perfection. I knew that all I had to do is plant the smallest mustard seed of a suggestion that would give Becky the chance to serve someone, and she would be powerless to resist. It was phenomenal!

7:15 pm—Dinner from Wong’s Tacos. Two episodes of creepy Netflix series called You.

9:45 pm—Continue what appears to be an unending quest to finish reading Middlemarch. It’s like War and Peace with no Russians and neither war nor peace...just stuffy British people who don’t seem to have anything to do. Yet, I persist.

11:00ish pm—drift off into dreamland.

And, just like that, the Dunnevant’s survive another day of social distancing, shelter in place and quarantine.

Lucy has clearly let herself go...bed head, ear ka-boom, and proud of it...

One Month

It has only been about a month since our Governor ordered all Virginians to “stay at home.” I have been in strict compliance. Since I’m considered essential I am allowed to drive the mile and a half into my office every day. Once there, new safety protocols are in place limiting exposure. I stay there for roughly half the day, then return to my home for the afternoon and conduct business via the internet and call forwarding. The trips to and from my office have been the extent of my traveling, with the exception of a few trips to the drive thru of my bank and a couple of ice cream meetings with a friends in the largely empty parking lot of Ray’s Italian Ice where social distancing guidelines were strictly enforced. Pam has limited her outings to a once weekly trip to Publix to get groceries. Three times, I have driven to Wong’s Tacos to pick up our Friday night dinner order at their curb. That’s pretty much the extent of our adventuring since the Governor’s declaration. It’s been one month. One month.

Officially this edict is in place through June 10th here in the Commonwealth. Hope exists that it may be lifted before then. However, in the rapidly changing world of viral pandemics, there always exists the possibility that the June 10th date will be extended. For the sake of my personal sanity, I choose not to think of the most negative scenarios. In fact, I choose not to think much of anything which  involves dates on a calendar. I have defaulted to the cliched athletes’ response...I’m just taking it one day at a time.

Having said that, I must here confess to a fierce inner battle raging within me. With each passing day, I’m becoming more and more annoyed with the parameters of my life being set by a Governor. The fact that one man presumes to have the authority over my liberty is an affront to what I consider my natural rights as a free citizen of a Republic which features a Constitution and a Bill of Rights. I have chosen not to fight this because of the nature of the crisis we face, a highly contagious virus with deadly power. But choosing not to fight something is not the same thing as approving of something. I do not approve. I comply out of a moral obligation to my neighbors and my community. I admit my lack of definitive scientific knowledge on the matter and—for the time being—chose to defer to the judgement of those who have been democratically elected to positions of leadership. But my deferral is not infinite. The longer I am asked to forfeit my rights as a free citizen, the more conclusive information I will require from those making such demands.

Understand, this has nothing to do with politics in general or our Governor’s political affiliation in particular. I would feel exactly the same way if the one making such demands of me were a small government Libertarian. This debate isn’t about anyone’s personality. It is about the proper roll of government and the proper limits on its power— even in times of great crisis. I have a natural inclination to resist authority. I have always struggled with any authority in life. It was my mother who warned me many years ago that my unwillingness to submit myself to anyone else’s yoke, though a fine quality when applied judiciously, might wind up being an obstacle to a happy life. She was not entirely wrong in her assessment. My fierce independence has served me well many times. But it has also been the obstacle she warned me it would be in other matters, not the least of which was the necessary submission required in the Christian faith. So, when I watch government at all levels scooping up more and more power over ever greater portions of our daily lives, resentment and suspicion begin to grow roots in my heart.

I watch the daily briefings from Washington with growing disgust, irritated by the self-congratulatory campaign style cheerleading. I see the pettiness, the juvenile score settling, the incessant whining from the podium. Even worse, the vacuous blowhards who populate the press remind me that a free press is worthless if they are so hip deep in politics themselves, they can’t be told apart from the politicians. The specter of government officials casting themselves as our saviors by proposing one free money giveaway after another, making themselves, Washington D.C. the epicenter of our salvation is galling to me. No matter how this thing turns out it will be the central planners who will take the credit, and blame any failures on the public’s failure to properly fall in line. They will be united in their proclamation that in order for a modern society to protect itself from future pandemic, we must bargain away more and more of our liberty for greater safety. Not to worry, they will exercise these new powers with great care and deliberation.

I guess that my essential problem is that I am not a European with continental sensitivities. I know nothing of Monarchies, I have no experience with a feudal history, I am clueless of peerage, I am unfamiliar with the Socialist ethos that has governed much of Europe for most of my lifetime. For better or for worse, I am an American with American sensibilities. My country hasn’t had two world wars fought on our streets, and just one civil war. For more than half of America’s history we were largely ungoverned and frankly, ungovernable.( see the Wild West ). That history has forged in many of us a resistance to and great suspicion of centralized solutions to anything. Thomas Jefferson’s great word that the best government was the government that governs least rings true in my heart and in the hearts of millions more in my country. Today, that phrase seems charmingly naive. When I observe what has happened to the power, size and jurisdiction of government just in the last six weeks it is staggering. Maybe once this crisis passes, they will willingly lay all these new powers down. My gut tells me they will not, but even if they do, all of us will be stuck with the 6 trillion dollar price tag for it all.

Times change and human beings have to adjust. Perhaps I am experiencing a sea change in what life will be like for modern man in modern societies. Maybe the future will include less freedom, less personal autonomy in exchange for a more muscular government strong enough to protect us in the new age of pandemics. Maybe my notions of the proper role of government, along with my understanding of the preeminence of individual liberty have been overtaken by this rapidly changing world. If so, I will adjust. But, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And it doesn’t mean I will ever become comfortable with a man or women in front of a bank of microphones telling me where I can and cannot go, what I can and cannot do.

Tired of Worrying

It’s pouring rain this morning in Short Pump. The wind has picked up. Dark clouds are low in the morning sky. I can hear the roar of the downpour on the roof, washing away the heavy pollen, flooding away the thousands of maple tree helicopters that fell over the weekend. I suppose I would be forgiven for wishing that this storm could also sweep the COVID-19 virus into the storm drains and out to sea. I’m tired of it all. Aren’t you?

I’m tired of the worry. Who will get it? How long will this confinement last? How much more damage will be done to our economic life before it’s done? What will the world look like when it’s over? I have no answers. Despite reading a thousand articles from a thousand perspectives, I am no closer to being able to reach any firm conclusions than I was when I was blissfully ignorant. And now, the uniting power that this crisis had in the early days of March has given way to the same old partisan divides that plagued us before. What camp are you in? Democrat or Republican? Trump or Biden? Fauci or Birx? It is as tiresome as it is infuriating. But, it is who we are now.

I will go into the office this morning as I have since it started. I will have telephone conversations. I will FaceTime with clients and answer their questions, offer my guidance. I will stand apart from some of my best friends in the world and commiserate. I miss the physical closeness. It feels odd to keep people away, the whole six feet thing feels further than that. But at least I get to see them, to hear their views on everything. Then, I leave around noon and head back home. I put call-forwarding on my office phone so that during the afternoon, incoming calls come to my cell phone. Few calls come in the afternoon, I’ve discovered. My clients have also gotten tired of talking about this mess. What more is there to say?

My hope is that we are closer to the end of COVID-19 than we are to its beginning. I have reason to believe that we are, but like everything else with this virus, there are no sure things. But, I choose hope over despair, optimism over negativity. Despite whatever my personal feelings might be about the Coronavirus, I will continue to do everything that I have been asked to do by my government. I will trust that they know better than I do at this point. They are privy to information that I am not, so if they say “shelter in place” “keep social distancing” that’s what I will do. When this is all over, we will know who was “right” and who was “wrong” about it all. But for now I will do my part, if not for my own well-being, for the well being of my neighbors. If we discover that all this economic disruption was unnecessary, then recriminations will follow. There will be plenty of blame to go around after the final reports are written. 

But right now as the rain falls, the last thing I care about is the pettiness of politics. I just want to find the light at the end of this interminable tunnel. I want to be able to hug my friends, order from a menu in a crowded restaurant, shake a client’s hand. I want to get in my car and drive to Maine. I want to never hear the word Zoom again. I want to sit on my aisle seat at Hope church, drop my check into the bread pan as it is passed down my row, the meet up with my Sunday lunch bunch at Anokha’s for Lasooni Gobhi and the Tandoori platter.

Have a safe week, everyone.

Update on My Friend

An update on my friend from this morning:

Me: Have you noticed how nobody ever asks “how is Coke doing?” It’s always...”Is Pepsi ok?”

Her: one face palm emoji

Me: I’m reading a horror story in Braille. Something bad is going to happen...I can just feel it.

Her: That is absolutely horrible...horrible.

Me: “Officer, are you crying while writing me a ticket?” 

        Cop: “It’s a...moving violation.”

Her: three face palm emojis...enough!!

So yeah...she’s doing fine.

14

Jack hardly recognized her. She looked only vaguely like the woman in the flats and Michelin Man coat but almost exactly as he remembered her from The Hedges. It was as if she had been dragged through an L.L.Bean outlet directly into a hair salon and delivered fresh to his table. She wore new, stylish clothes, a fleece jacket, and proper boots, and her hair was shorter and cut close around her face. She looked ten years younger, and she smiled broadly when she introduced herself.

“Hello there,” she started, looking past Liz. “I decided to take your advice. If I’m going to go hiking around here, I need the right gear.”

Jack was transfixed, eyes wide, mouth ajar, without the slightest clue what to say. Liz was equally surprised. Who the hell was this woman? 

“Uh . . . Dad? Do you two know each other?”

Jack roused himself sufficiently enough to attempt an answer. “I’m sorry, Liz—this is someone I met over at Camden Hills Park down by the picnic tables on Pine Run. She’s here on vacation. Never been to Maine before. She didn’t have the right shoes . . . I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name . . .”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

Liz looked on with a bewildered half smile on her face. 

Suddenly, cigarette lady stuck out her hand, first to Liz and then to Jack. “I’m Carolyn.”

Jack recovered and finished the introductions. “My name is Jack, and this is my daughter, Elizabeth.” 

Liz managed a quick smile while correcting her father: “I’m Liz.”

“Sorry for the interruption, but I noticed you sitting over here, so I thought I would thank you for the great advice. This really is a beautiful place. I think I might stay for a bit longer than I originally planned.”

A silence (to Liz, interminable) settled in as Jack and Carolyn exchanged awkward smiles. 

Abruptly, Carolyn perked up and apologized again for the intrusion. “Nice to meet you, Liz. Thanks again . . . ” Then she turned on her heels and disappeared through the doors and down Center Street.

Liz stared at her father across the table with bemused confusion. “So . . . you’ve met someone?”

Jack’s eyes snapped back from their close inspection of Carolyn’s exit back to his daughter, who was trying to hold back a smile.

“Certainly not! I didn’t even know her name. I wouldn’t exactly call that meeting someone.”

“Maybe not,” Liz conceded, “but she certainly met you.”

The ride back to the cabin was largely quiet and reflective, Liz contemplating the possibility that her father would someday move on to someone new, someone not her mother, while Jack’s thoughts were alternating between the rejuvenative power of fashion and a nice haircut, and three decades of repressed guilt. Carolyn, he thought. Finally, after two decades, a name to go with the face.

After an afternoon of reading around the fireplace, Liz volunteered to make dinner. Jack watched her gliding around in the tiny kitchen, her movements so much like Evelyn’s—graceful and light, with no wasted motion. He walked up behind her and enwrapped her in a hug, telling her how proud he was of her, how much she reminded him of her mother. Liz spun around and melted into his arms—the kind of tender, unforced moment that had been missing in their relationship for so long.

Cajun pasta with blackened shrimp was Jack’s favorite meal, and, judging by the contents of the pantry and refrigerator, the only meal he planned on eating anytime soon. 

“Really, Dad? Is this the extent of your diet now? How about a vegetable every once in a while?” Liz teased.

“I won’t be here that much longer, and besides, why reinvent the wheel? I love Cajun pasta with shrimp.”

“How much longer?”

“I don’t know, maybe just a few more days. It’s been nice, actually. Having you visit was a bonus.”

Liz poured herself a glass of Pinot noir. She retrieved a cold bottle of Sam Adams from the fridge for Jack. They sat together at the small, round table in the corner by the French doors and admired the beautiful meal. Liz looked at her father, waiting for him to say the blessing. Growing up in the Rigsby home, this was the ritual before each and every meal, no matter how small or inconsequential. You fix yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips? You better say grace, even if you’re by yourself. Evelyn had drilled it into her kids’ heads that absent a proper blessing and an appropriate dose of gratitude for their daily bread, all sorts of loathsome habits might soon overwhelm them. The key to a happy life, she would say, is a heart of gratitude and thankfulness. Take nothing for granted! 

Liz reached out to hold his hand—another Rigsby family tradition—and waited. After a moment of silence, she glanced up at him. His eyes were shimmering

“. . . You say it . . . ” A plea rather than a request. 

Jack had found any kind of prayer excruciating since losing Evelyn, even minor blessings like this one. It wasn’t that he’d lost his faith—he just felt so disconnected from religious pursuits. His church attendance had dropped off considerably. Being there without her felt empty and reminded him how alone he was. Church was the kind of place where they always went together, making solo trips even more painful. He found it too depressing, sensing everyone’s eyes on him and practically hearing their thoughts in his head . . . I wonder how he’s holding up? He’d decided that going to church was too much trouble, too disruptive of his mental health. The last sermon he’d heard landed heavily on his heart with a discordant thud. The preacher had read aloud from the book of Romans—“the wages of sin is death.” Jack had shuddered at the idea, then become angry after applying the idea to his newly-murdered wife. What did she ever do to deserve her fucking wages? It had infuriated him, and he had never gone back. Maybe he had lost his faith.

The next morning, Liz left for the airport. Her short visit had provided her with a measure of reassurance about her father’s well-being. Although he wasn’t out of the woods by any means, Liz found him more upbeat than she’d expected, closer to the man that she had always known. In her parting words, she pointed out that Evelyn would not have wanted him to pine away for her the rest of his life, that at some point he would need to find someone new to share his life with and that this was a good and proper thing. She had surprised herself with her own words. It had not occurred to her that her father might be happier if he found someone else until she’d watched him stare at Carolyn as she walked away from their table at the Café. There wasn’t lust in his eyes, but rather, a longing for something that he had lost . . . a best friend, a partner, someone to do life with. Her father had always been the most generous man she knew, but now that famous generosity had no beloved beneficiary. 

Jack returned to the house and pondered a series of troubling questions. He thought mostly about Carolyn’s transformed reappearance. The woman he had encountered in the park had seemed mysterious and possibly dangerous. When he had finally recognized who she was in a subliminal flash at the lake, he felt a surge of fear, followed rapidly by guilt—the nagging shame of betrayal after twenty-six years. He had been repulsed by her in that moment, angry at her appearance. How the hell had she found him in the first place? They hadn’t even known each other’s names. Nearly thirty years had passed, for God’s sake!

But then she had stepped out of the darkness and into the light at the Café. He had seen her in full, noticed her eyes . . . beautiful and haunting. Her hair, soft and playful around her face, made her appear much less dangerous—more like someone he could see himself with. It had embarrassed him at the table when a mental replay of their fevered sexual encounter had flashed across his mind as she shook Liz’s hand. What was the matter with him? Twenty-six years later, and the images of that night still shone in his mind in brilliant living color. 

Was her reappearance merely a function of random chance? Why here, in Maine? Why now? Was this the reason he had been drawn to travel here in April—some divine hand stirring the cosmic pot? On further reflection, he decided that he better leave the Almighty out of this, the Holy Creator of the Universe not likely involved in the serendipitous reunion of two adulterers.

It had to be random chance. No other explanation held up to scrutiny. She didn’t know his name . . . how could she possibly have tracked a total stranger to this time and this place? The odds were outrageous. No, this had to be one of those bizarre, unexplainable turns in the road. To overthink it might lead to some sort of existential crisis, which would quickly freeze into paralysis. Jack had decided to stop overthinking. He was determined to find this Carolyn again, to tell her that he remembers her . . .  everything about her. 

It had grown colder. Jack found his heavier jacket, walked out on the deck, and watched a pair of loons crest the water twenty feet from the end of the dock. The lake was still as glass. The mid-morning wind hadn’t started to blow. All he could hear was the soft sound of loons slipping back underwater. 

Jack slipped his kayak into the silky water.

 

                                                                      15

“Dad has a girlfriend,” Liz had exaggerated.

Kevin was speechless, the concept of his father with another woman entirely incomprehensible. “Wait . . . what?”

“Well, not really a . . . girlfriend. But there was this lady who came up to him at the Café and struck up a conversation. They had met hiking down by Pine Run or something, and she just walked up to our table to say hello. Although he denied it, I could tell by the way he looked at her that he was interested. It was so weird!”

Other than her encouraging report on his mental health, this tidbit had interested Kevin the most during Liz’s hour-long phone call. Kevin thought of little else the rest of the day. Once the initial surprise wore off, the practical applications of his father moving on with his life unsettled him. What’s it been, seven months? 

Kevin sat at his workstation overlooking the busy street below, trying to concentrate on the website he was designing for a new startup out west—some sleazy virtual porn company. Normally he would have declined the job out of squeamishness, but the amount of money they were willing to pay was outrageous, too good to pass up. Any guilt he might have felt for listing a porn site in his credits would be overcome by a large contribution to Habitat for Humanity or some other virtue-signaling organization. Apparently, there were mountains of cash being made around the sins of the flesh—“gold in them there hills,” so to speak. His charitable-giving plans notwithstanding, the project had stalled out. His creativity didn’t hum around such filthy graphics. Kevin never thought of himself as a prude. Angela had moved in with him, so technically they were living in sin themselves. Still, two people in love cohabitating without the proper spiritual paperwork seemed a far cry from the debauched business plan of a porn site. He had grown to regret the decision to accept the job but felt ethically bound to complete the work. The irony of his ethics fettering him to an agreement with a smut merchant felt like a cruel joke.

He had warned Angela, “Okay, . . . if you happen to see graphic nudity on one of these screens over the next few weeks, don’t freak out. I’m not cheating on you . . . I’m making a small fortune.” She hadn’t laughed at his deflection, making him feel even worse. The image of his mother came to mind, and he wondered what she would think of him if she knew about his latest client.

Angela walked through the door with a bag of groceries, looking like a runway model, full of bright energy and unbridled optimism. Kevin swiveled his chair around to face her. 

“You’re never going to believe what happened to me today.”

Angela set the bag on the counter and blurted out, “What? You found that moral compass you misplaced, came to your senses, and told Screwtape.com to literally stick it up their ass?”

It was the single most surprising thing Kevin had learned about her since they had started living together. The love of his life had a brutal, searing wit. Normally fastidious with her words, she would occasionally let fly a flaming rejoinder like this one. Kevin felt the burn.

“Uh . . . no. Not yet, at least. No, I got a call from Liz. She’s back home and called to fill me in on how Dad is doing. Apparently . . . Dad may have met someone!”

“Are you kidding? That’s great! Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe.”

Angela walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat next to him. She had an almost comical power to draw out even his most carefully hidden thoughts. It was some sort of Jedi mind trick, Kevin had decided, an unfair advantage endowed upon her by the gods. How could he ever win an argument with this woman if he was denied secrets?

“No, I’ve always known that at some point Dad would move on and find someone. He’s not the sort of man who would do well on his own. It’s just that I hadn’t thought it would be this soon. Seven months, Angela. Don’t you think that’s awfully quick, considering . . . ”

“Considering what? That Evelyn was murdered? What difference does that make? Listen, if Liz came back from finally seeing him and thinks he’s better, that’s good news, right?”

“I didn’t say she said he was doing better.”

“You didn’t have to. If you lead with, ‘Dad may have met someone’ . . . I already know he’s better. I’m thinking that the Rigsby men are on a roll.”

                                                                           * * *

Starla stood in front of the full-length mirror back in her room at the Tidal Beach Inn. It had been a productive morning. It was dumb, blind luck running into Jack at the Café—yet another serendipitous encounter between them. Everything seemed to be working out perfectly. Meeting his daughter had been a surprise, but not an unhappy one. She looks just like her mother, Starla thought as she gazed at her new reflection in the mirror.

It had been years since she had lavished so much care, time, and money on her personal appearance. But if she was going to stand a ghost of a chance with a man like Jack Rigsby, she needed to start caring about how she looked. It was already paying dividends. She had noticed every path taken by Jack’s eyes once he realized it was her. As she left, she could feel his stare. When she had first seen her reflection after the shopping binge and the makeover, it had taken her breath away. This was a Starla she had forgotten ever existed—someone capable of turning the occasional head. Nobody was ever going to mistake her for a movie star, but she was much more than the bedraggled wreck she had allowed herself to become. She finally looked good, and for the first time in years, it mattered. 

She carefully removed the fork from her purse and placed it in the plastic bag, wrapped it in toilet paper, and addressed the FedEx box to Maxwell Johnson, Esq. She had patiently waited until they were done with their meal, biding her time in a dimly-lit corner. When she made her introduction, she had amazed herself by how easily and calmly she’d slipped the fork off the tablecloth with her left hand while reaching to shake Liz’s hand with her right. It was as if she were born for this sort of thing—the cloak and dagger part, at least—the misdirection. 

The nagging problem that Starla Deloplane now faced was determining exactly what she was doing. Each encounter with Jack had only served to confuse the endgame. She was drawn to him. She could see the pain in his eyes. His was the pain of grieving the innocent, while hers was grief for the guilty. But at the end of the day, pain was pain. Starla recognized it well enough when she saw it, and Jack’s pain shrouded his face like a death shadow. It had moved her. That wasn’t part of the plan. She, too, had been stirred by their first encounter in the park. He had aged, grown a bit thicker, but men like Jack never fully shed the physical magnetism they were born with. The flash of recognition, followed swiftly by the memory of his naked body over hers, had startled her. She’d quickly recovered, returned to the job at hand, asking him, What’s the difference between talking to yourself and thinking out loud?

His rambling, tortured answer had been endearing—a man trying to justify himself to a complete stranger. He hadn’t recognized her, she could tell. But why would he? How could he? He had aged better than she had, but she couldn’t muster up any feelings of resentment. Now, today at the Café, it had clicked. She saw the glint in his eyes, the nervous batting of the eyelashes, the brief flush of color in his cheeks. She also thought she saw desire. 

She gathered the FedEx package in her arms and took one more look at herself in the mirror. She lingered over what she saw. Who are you, Starla? For the first time in forever, she didn’t know the answer. She didn’t know if she was out for revenge or if she was after . . . Jack.

Regardless, there was always the chance that he wouldn’t believe her. If so, she would need irrefutable proof. She slid the package into the heavy metal door of the FedEx box at the end of the street and walked back into town.

                                                                            * * *

Halfway across the lake, Jack let his paddle rest as the kayak drifted along the surface. He closed his eyes for a moment like Evelyn always did, allowing his mind to drift along with him. He thought of her, the hours she would spend out on this lake, alone with her thoughts. It occurred to him that his wife never had a nihilistic bone in her body. Everything was always good news. There was no bad news . . . just opportunities for growth. No matter how garbled and disjointed the material world became around her, she clung to her simple understanding of what she called God’s infinite mercy. Some would dismiss Evelyn Rigsby’s worldview as part merry optimism, part naïve isolation. Indeed, Evelyn had been effectively isolated from much of the world’s evil and dysfunction because of her marriage to Jack and the resulting affluence that their flourishing financial success had ensured. But Jack thought it was more than that . . . it was just her character. She was the most optimistic person he had ever known. Sometimes when the two of them were out kayaking together early in the morning, after a long period of silence, he would hear her singing softly to herself . . .

This is my father’s world

And to my listening ears, 

All nature sings, and round me rings 

The music of the spheres.

This is my father’s world

He shines in all that’s fair. 

In the rustling grass, I hear him pass

He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my father’s world

Oh, let me never forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

God is the ruler yet . . . 

He could almost hear her soft alto voice. He lingered in the moment as long as he was able, but soon the oppressing guilt of his betrayal choked out her voice. What would his confession have done to her notion of God’s infinite mercy? For years he had told himself the comforting story that he withheld it from her to protect her innocence. But now that she’d been taken from him, he found that he regretted it more than any single thing . . . the fact that he had denied her the truth, that he had not been brave enough to trust that their love for each other was deep enough to survive it. He wasn’t protecting her; he was protecting his own understanding of the world and his place in it as the virtuous, faithful, and loving husband and father. But now between them laid a great chasm. It was too late for confessions. He had kept the greatest secret of his life from her—her knowledge of exactly what kind of man she had married was forever imperfect, slanted by Jack’s timid selfishness, his giant thumb on the scale of justice. What a coward I was, Jack thought as the loons began to call. 

He listened to the unique warble, its haunting echo ringing out from the tall pines along the edge of the water. It was getting colder. The afternoon sun was sinking fast in the western sky. Jack turned his kayak toward home. Finally, the still afternoon had produced a breeze. As he paddled into the freshened current, he scolded himself for the self-flagellation. She was gone. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. It was time to let it all go—the good with the bad.

As he rounded the last cove before Loon Magic, he saw Carolyn standing at the end of his dock.