Chapter 1
Vivian Quackenbush, what are you going to do when you don’t have Wine Down Wednesdays anymore?
I placed my camp chair next to Abi’s and took in our little cul-de-sac with the intention of remembering the crisp October evening forever. We lived in your typical metro Atlanta suburb, patriotically named Heritage Park, with each street named after a piece of American history. We lived at the end of Oregon Trail, the subdivision’s main drag.
Our houses looked similar but not quite the same. Mitch and I lived in a one-story blue HardiePlank while everyone else in the cul-de-sac had a brick front and two stories. Since our neighborhood was only twenty years old, the trees hadn’t caught up to the houses yet, meaning our homes felt both clumped together and exposed. The cracked asphalt now sported green lines of weeds, too.
Melancholy washed over me. As much as I hated the suburban snarl of traffic and the neon-green glow of the new shopping center that had been built practically in my backyard, I would miss this. I would miss Abi. I would miss Rachel. I would miss this cul-de-sac where we’d first gathered to watch our children play and now gathered for our own entertainment.
“What’s got you so sad?” Abi asked without looking up from her knitting.
“Just thinking about how I’m going to miss all of you when Mitch and I move to Florida,” I said, now studying my friend. She wore herhair naturally today, no wig to cover the tiny tight curls. Her brown eyes were trained on her knitting, her lips pursed in concentration. She wore a shade of bright yellow that I could never hope to pull off, but it popped against her dark skin.
“How are Zeke and the boys?” I asked as I looked to the pink-and-blue cotton candy sky.
“Zeke is in Chicago,” she said of her husband without missing a stitch, “and the boys are grounded because they played some kind of computer game until three in the morning, even though they both had tests today. How about Mitch and Dylan?”
I smiled at the thought of my husband and son. “Mitch is down in Florida for some kind of dental convention, and Dylan is so happy up at the University of Tennessee that he hasn’t bothered to so much as text his poor, worried mother. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. If that child is partying instead of studying and loses his scholarship, he and I are going to have words.”
Abi sighed. “These kids of ours.”
She really had no idea.
But she would.
Her boys, twins, would be off to college next fall, and then she would feel the smothering silence of an empty nest. No need to tell her that, though. Far better to be around for coffee and a shoulder to cry on when she figured it out.
“Mitch sure has been traveling a lot, hasn’t he?”
Her tone of voice made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but then again, Abi worked as a private investigator, so she couldn’t help but ask all sorts of questions. “Something about lots of lectures on retirement and then the usual dental thingies where he’s looking for potential buyers or something.”
“I see you have a real handle on the situation,” Abi said with a chuckle.
“Oh, you know me. I keep up with the important things.”
Yes, the important things like the bills and the laundry. Lord knew keeping up with cooking, cleaning, and laundry ought to pay a wage. Alas, it did not unless you went to do those things for someone else.
“I still can’t believe he’s retiring so early,” Abi said.
“Well, we just haven’t been fancy, I guess. He’s been socking away money for years. He says he might work part-time for someone else, but he wants more freedom now.”
“And you still want to move to Florida when Mitch does his something-something that leads to retirement?”
A pang of sadness poked my heart. “That’s the plan. But I sure am going to miss both you and Rachel.”
“Speak of the devil,” Abi said.
Rachel walked into the cul-de-sac with her customary speed. It never ceased to amaze me how someone who walked so quickly could always be running behind. I liked that we were the three bears of punctuality: Abi was always early, Rachel was always late, and I was always right on time.
We always forgave Rachel, though. She was in charge of bringing the wine.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rachel said. “I mean, thank you for waiting on me.”
Abi and I shared an oh-boy-more-therapist-speak look. Rachel had been going to therapy where, among other things, she’d learned to reframe apologies into statements of gratitude. We were trying to be supportive, really we were.
Mostly.
“What’s this evening’s selection?” I asked.
