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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Kiss Me, She Thought

State Street. That much Lisa remembered, and how it had been close to 2468 State Street because she'd made that feeble joke about the house having its own cheer, except it didn't, not quite.

Was it 2467 or 2469?

She slowed her bike slightly at 2467, but there were two Buicks in the driveway and Mick had said his parents drove old BMWs. But when she pulled up to the gate of 2469, there were no cars in the driveway at all. She was wondering if it might've been 2465 when she heard someone say, “Hey.”

She looked side to side, and front to back, and began to feel a little silly.

“Up here.”

There, perched on the second-story, green-shingled roof, was Mick Nichols. She laughed. “What're you doing?”

He shrugged. “Sittin'. Watchin'.” He stood. “I'll be right down.”

But that wasn't what Lisa wanted. “No. Let me come up.”

Lisa didn't have a particular fear of ladders, but she was glad all the same that Mick stood at the top steadying this one. And she was glad to have his hand to grab when she made the little leap from the garage to the house, and again when she pulled herself from the top height of the first story onto the low eave of the second. He had his shirt off, and he gave off a mingled smell of soap and sweat that she liked.

When they got near the second-story ridge, Mick said, “Sun or shade?”

“Shade,” Lisa said, smiling. “I burn.”

They sat in the shade and gazed out. Everything looked green—the trees, the yards, the valley and hillside beyond— everything. In a voice meant to sound husky but kind, Lisa said, “Someday, Simba, all this will be yours,” and got a laugh from Mick, which allowed her to look at him. He'd always seemed average sized, but he was surprisingly wide chested and narrow waisted. “You pump iron or something?” she said.

Mick shook his head. “I ought to,” he said, “but . . .” and his voice trailed off. He gave her his jacket to use as a pillow, then laid back on his rolled shirt. “Pretty nice, huh?”

It
was
nice, Lisa thought. Nicer than anything she'd felt in a long time. “You hear about Maurice?” she said.

He hadn't, so she gave him the whole story, except the Lizette Uribe parts she'd promised to keep secret. When she finished, Mick let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he said in a low voice. “Somebody shot him who was Maurice.”

A second or two passed and Lisa said, “Janice is pretty crushed.”

Mick didn't say anything.

Lisa said, “I thought she was stupid to fall for him and in a certain way she was, but she saw something in him that was, you know, redeemable, and I couldn't. I've been raised to believe that every person is capable of redemption. Deliverance from the bondage of sin. But really all I saw was a sleazeball.”

Mick said, “Maybe because that's all he is.”

“No,” Lisa said, and the vehemence in her voice surprised her. “No, I don't believe that anymore.”

A second or two passed and Mick said, “Maybe that's because you're so nice.”

“I wish,” Lisa said.

She'd propped herself on her elbows to tell about Maurice, but now she lay back and closed her eyes.

A bird called
fee-bee, fee-bee, fee-bee.

The drone of a small plane came and went.

A small child bawled, “Where's Sam and Henry?”

The touch and then the soft clasp of Mick's hand.

Then his soap-and-sweat scent was closer and he was slowly smoothing a finger from her open wrist up her bare arm.

Kiss me, she thought, and he did.

CHAPTER FORTY

The Last Time He Saw Myra

A week had passed. It was Sunday again, and Mick was cycling toward Promontory Point, where he'd agreed to meet Myra. Which was fine, because Lisa had some big family reunion thing all day, but had more or less invited him over afterward, in the evening. “There'll be cookies in it for you,” she'd said, and Mick had said, “You just made an offer I can't refuse.”

Myra had been more mysterious in arranging her meeting with Mick. Promontory Point at 1:30 P.M., her e-mail said. Picnic. Wear
jacket. Myrakins.

Wear jacket? Why wear jacket? It was breezy, but sunny and warm. He didn't mind wearing the jacket, though. He always wore the jacket. The jacket had gotten him through the tough time.

He spotted her green Civic parked near an old oak with low, long-reaching branches. Myra was sitting on one. Beneath her, a red-and-white-checked tablecloth was spread on the ground. A basket sat on the cloth.

“I thought we were going to sit on the ground,” she said as he drew close. “But those oak leaves are prickly little guys.”

She'd brought croissant sandwiches and apples and two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade, which Mick was careful to drink slowly. It was pleasant under the canopy of the tree, protected from the sun and wind, almost a shady room. They chatted, but Mick noticed that Myra didn't mention Pam, and, for that matter, he didn't mention Nora.

Finally, when they were done eating, Myra slid off the branch and walked over to her car, which seemed to be filled with colored balls. When she stood upright again, she was holding what looked like a dozen helium balloons, all printed with messages that Mick could read as she got closer. GET WELL SOON! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! WELCOME, LITTLE ONE! The strings were tied to a cluster of jingle bells, which Mick supposed kept them from flying off.

“Fun exclamatory balloons,” Mick said deadpan.

Myra grinned. “You're kind of funny. Not fall-down-and-laugh funny, but, still, kind of funny.”

“Fewer bruises that way,” Mick said, and eyed the balloons. “So what're they for?”

Myra smiled, set the cluster of jingle bells on the grass, and withdrew a small paper bag from the picnic basket. The bag had a small handle. Then, from her backpack, she took out an envelope. On the front, in Myra's writing, it said
Pam.

“That
the
letter?”

Myra nodded and, almost ceremonially, set the letter into the paper bag.

“What're you doing?” Mick said.

Another smile from Myra. “Sending it skyward.”

Mick was trying to get this straight. “Unopened,” he said.

“Affirmative.” She smiled at Mick, and suddenly she looked like her old self. “Here's what I decided. This letter would just make Pam feel uncomfortable and mad at me and sorry for me and all sorts of basically bad stuff.” She waited. “Why put her or me through that?”

“So what're you going to do?”

Myra shrugged. “Maybe chat with a counselor. That's what they're there for.”

The breeze made a soft hollow whistle in the trees. Myra wetted a finger and held it aloft. “This letter's going east,” she said, then turned to Mick. “Still carrying a pocketful of secrets?”

“I've still got the disk, if that's what you mean.”

Myra let her eyes sink into his. “How's about sending it up with my letter?”

Mick expected something inside him to recoil from the idea, but it didn't happen. It was as if he felt his whole body relaxing. “Sure,” he said.

He unzipped the pocket and handed the green disk to Myra.

She set the disk alongside the letter in the bag and, while Mick held on to the strings, she untied the jingle bells and replaced them with the bag. “Does it feel too heavy?” she asked.

Mick gave the strings a jerk. “Naw,” he said.

“You want to do it?”

Mick shook his head and handed the strings to Myra, who paused for a second, then let go. The balloons dipped for just a second, sank, then caught a breeze and floated straight. It looked for a moment as though the whole bunch would wind up in a tree ten yards away, but they swooped up and floated free. Myra and Mick stood watching the balloons and bag grow smaller and smaller, and then the balloons were gone.

They were both quiet for a time. Then Mick said, “You were right. It went east.”

They walked back to the oak tree and gathered their stuff to leave. But as they were about to part—Mick on his bike, Myra in her car—Mick said, “I was thinking.”

Myra laughed. “That can get you in lots of trouble.”

Mick grinned and waited for her to see he was serious.

“Okay,” she said. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I don't really want this jacket anymore. I mean, I like it and everything, but it's warm now, and summer's coming, and besides I've never really gotten over how great it looked on you that day.”

He shrugged free of the jacket and held it out. Myra stared at him. Her face was soft and calm and undeniably beautiful.

“I offered you the jacket then,” he said, “but you wouldn't take it. Only now, we're, you know, friends. So maybe you will.”

Myra smiled and took the jacket. Then she leaned forward and while hugging him put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Bye, Mick as in mittens.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Last Chapter

On the ride home from the Doyle family reunion picnic, Lisa sat silently in the backseat while, up front, her parents compared notes about various relatives—who'd lost weight, who was learning Chinese, who was taking a barge down the Danube in the fall. Lisa only half listened, which was about right, she figured, because she only half cared.

It was not quite dusk—the last angling sunlight threw long shadows and turned white buildings a soft, buttery yellow. When the Camry pulled up to a signal, Lisa found herself staring straight down the long sidewalk adjoining Cumberland. It was a long block, and at the far end of it, someone was riding a bicycle. At first, she couldn't tell if it was coming or going, but then—the bike and rider were gaining size—she saw they were approaching. And there was a dog jogging alongside. They were silhouettes, then they were dark forms, and then they were an average-sized boy and a thin black dog.

“I'll walk the rest of the way,” Lisa said suddenly to her parents, and jumped out just as the light was changing. “Bye-ya,” she called. “See you back home!”

As they drove off, she realized it was the first time she'd felt alive, really alive, all day. She waited on the corner as the boy and dog drew near. Her heart was galloping. It was Mick, of course, and Foolish, on their way to her house. He swung off his bike and coasted the last few yards. “I don't know why,” he said, “but from way far back, I thought it might be you.”

He was beaming. So was Lisa. She glanced down the street to make sure her parents were out of view, then leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Afterward, she ran a hand through his tightly curled hair. “You know, if you let that grow out, you'd have actual ringlets.”

Mick asked how she felt about actual ringlets.

Lisa laughed. “I've always wanted some.”

“Then maybe I'll dodge the barber for a while,” Mick said.

They stood smiling for a time and then, in the low tone of complicity, Lisa said one word: “Cookies.”

Mick grinned. “Pfeffer-nougats?”

Lisa laughed and with each new mistake—“Pfeffer-doodles? Pfeffer-hooven? Pfebber-noogles?”—she laughed louder. Finally, when he gave up, she said, “Pfeffernusse, and don't you forget it.”

They'd turned now, and were walking along the path in the warm, buttery light. Lisa said, “They don't come cheap, you know.”

“What don't?”

“The pfeffernusses. They're going to cost you.”

Mick said he wasn't a wealthy man. “What do they go for?”

“One kiss per pfeffernusse,” she said. She gave him a saucy look. “And that's cheap.”

“Tell you what,” Mick said. “I'll pay double that.”

Lisa grinned. “That was a good answer.”

They walked another half block and Mick said, “So what about Foolish? How many kisses does he have to pay?”

Lisa glanced down at the dog. “I like Foolish,” she said. “In fact, I like him so much, I'm going to make his free.”

An easy laugh from Mick. They had each other's hands now, and were talking easily, and walking slowly, in no particular hurry to get home.

EPILOGUE

Six Months Later

Tony Cruso, seeking a fresh start, accepted a teaching position in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and traded in his vintage Porsche for a late model Dodge pickup. In August, just before he left, he received a mysterious letter from the Jemison Chapter of the National Organization of Women acknowledging an anonymous contribution “in honor of Tony Cruso” for $2,375. He presumed it was not coincidental that this was the exact amount of money he'd paid to repair his vandalized Porsche.

Nora Mercer-Nichols finished the sweater she'd been working on and gave it to Mick's father just before Thanksgiving. The sleeves are slightly different lengths and the neck is tight, but he wears it nearly every night when he gets home from work. He also tags along with Nora to church every Sunday.

Winston Reece took ownership of his uncle Arnold's VW bug, formally declared himself (through mass e-mail) “a passive resister to all conventional thought,” and is growing a wispy beard, which he considers “the correct facial accoutrement for a person of my age, gender, and attitude.”

Joseph Keesler resumed his classes, with Kara, at Duke University in the fall, but as a summer intern with the Prudential Group, he outsold many of the veteran agents.

Donald Pfingst completed his mission on August 30, and married the former Marie Tomlinson in the St. George, Utah, temple in September.

From the Onondaga County Department of Corrections, Maurice Gritz wrote Janice Bledsoe a letter proposing marriage. Her reply was three words long:
Can't. Love, Janice.
When paroled, Maurice enlisted in the U.S. Air Force with the hope that he could train in the recovery of downed pilots in enemy territory.

Genevieve Bledsoe, when given Maurice's letter by Janice, had read it and said, “Sweetie, I'll kill myself before my daughter marries a jailbird.” A week later, the two of them began back-packing the John Muir section of the Pacific Crest Trail, which was supposed to take three weeks (and which Mrs. Bledsoe thought might make a salable story), but on the second day, Janice stopped, sat on a rock, and would go no farther. “You go ahead,” she said, but her mother wouldn't, and they returned to the trailhead. They drove to Morro Bay, found a comfortable motel, and spent the next week playing card games in their room or walking along the beach, where Janice would look for stones or shells and throw them into the low, curling waves.

During the summer, Lizette Uribe took a precalculus class with Lisa Doyle at Jemison Community College. Lizette still works at Village Greens on Saturdays, but no longer does catering jobs during the week. She earned a 3.7 the first quarter of her junior year at Jemison High and hopes to go into law.

Myra Vidal transferred to Reed College in Oregon, where during summer classes she met a girl named Maddy. Every so often she sends four-word e-mails to Mick. They say,
I'm well. You well?

In late August, Mick's mother telephoned Mick from San Francisco to say that her accountant had recently told her that Mick had finally cashed five of her five-hundred-dollar checks and, not that it was any of her business, she was wondering what for? “A worthy cause,” Mick said. There was a silence on the line then. His mother said, “Would you care to elaborate?” and Mick said, “Not really.”

Lisa Doyle and Mick Nichols could be seen around Jemison all summer long, driving the forest-green 2002 his father restored, or just talking and walking, usually with Foolish trotting happily alongside. With the first snows in late November, they switched to cross-country skis and are a regular sight on the trails of Pipsissewa Wood. Foolish likes that, too, and follows along in their tracks.

All five of the phoebe's eggs hatched in mid-June and in early July the fledglings flew away.