“You ever hear of that bookWhere the Crawdads Sing?” Jimmy shouted. The shouting irked her more than anything. “Been on the bestseller list for weeks.” Roberta nodded. She didn’t need Jimmy Barkhausen to tell her that. She’d read it twice already, then recommended it to her sister. “Well, my wife has been trying to get it from the library for months. So, I got on the Amazon [theAmazon:further annoyance], clicked ‘add to cart,’ and surprised her with a copy the very next day. Good Lord, she loves that book.”
Books.Books were Roberta’s one true thing. Her love, her escape, her habit, her weakness. Roberta coursed through books like caffeine addicts tossed back a triple espresso. It was how she spent her days and nights, when not cooking or walking Maisey or talking to her sister, Gina, on the phone. Roberta may have been an introvert, but she was no fool. She’d known Amazon sold books, but she was a devotee of her local library. What she couldn’t procure from the library, she treated herself to from an adorable indie bookstore two towns over, though only on special occasions. But that summer her beloved Saybrook Library was under renovation, and the bookstore was a bit of a drive to keep up with her habit. “Next-day delivery!” Jimmy shouted from across the room.
That same afternoon Roberta logged on to her computer. It took only a moment to create an Amazon account. The array of options was staggering. Sinister, even. Who were all these merchants? Could she trust them? Before the sun set, she’d not only filled her cart, she’d compiled a bestseller wish list. She clicked the latest Hildebrand release. It was half-price and brand-new.All right, she told herself before committing altogether. This was temporary. To tide her over during the library renovation. Oh, but there was Ann Patchett’s latest release! And so it happened that Roberta Blythe came to have a book a day delivered to her mailbox. To absolve her conscience, she still drove two towns over to the indie bookstore every month. And when the library reopened in the fall, she’d drop the Amazon account like a bad habit. In the meantime, there was no use beating herself up. These were the things she told herself.
Now, as she closed the mailbox and held the new book against her chest, the rumble of an approaching truck caught her attention. Roberta recognized the blue Ford right away: Wendell Combs. She lifted a hand in greeting.
Wendell’s mother, Charlotte, had been a dear friend of Roberta’s right up to the end. It began as an unlikely friendship, as at first glance neither woman had anything remotely in common with the other. But that was life in a small town: no one escaped with just one glance.
Roberta had been in the IGA market scouring the produce section when she heard a shriek. At the end of the aisle, by the dairy case, stood Charlotte Combs. Roberta followed the young mother’s gaze to a lone shopping cart with two boys. Standing up in the cart was the younger one, whom Roberta guessed was about two years old. In his clutch was an empty egg carton, and below, on the linoleum floor, the remnants of the entire dozen. But that was far less concerning than what he did next: still standing in the cart, he threw his hands up overhead and wobbled precariously.
To Roberta’s horror, the toddler lurched over the edge at the same time the mother screamed, “Wendell!”
Quickly, the big brother spun around and threw out his arms. In that instant the little one fell into them, and the two flopped to the floor. There was a terrible thunk as the older boy’s head fell back against the linoleum, followed by crying.
Charlotte reached her boys first, scooping up the little one, then falling to her knees beside his big brother. “Darling, are you all right?”
Roberta had reached them by then, and Charlotte looked up at her. “Here!” Before she could say a word, Charlotte thrust the younger boy into her arms. He paused in his tears to regard this stranger and then howled louder.
Charlotte ran her hands over her older son’s head, inspected his hair, fretting. “Wendell, you brave, brave boy.”
Roberta watched Wendell’s mother help him up. He put a hand to the back of his head. “I’m okay, Mama. It doesn’t really hurt.”
Charlotte turned to Roberta and exhaled with relief. Robertawas taken aback momentarily by her glow; she was quite beautiful. “Thank you so much,” she said, relieving Roberta of the boy. “This is Wesley.” She blinked at the messy floor in dismay. “The egg breaker.”
The two had exchanged brief introductions as Roberta waved over the deli boy and sent him to fetch a mop.
“It’s my fault,” Charlotte said, swiping a lock of blond hair back into her ponytail. “I never should’ve stepped away from the cart.”
Roberta regarded her sympathetically. So many parents came through her courtroom with less regret over far bigger issues. “It happens to the best of mothers,” she reassured her.
The deli boy returned with a mop and bucket on wheels. “Oh no, I can’t allow you to,” Charlotte said. “This is our mess.” Without warning, she thrust Wesley back at Roberta; he eyed her warily but, thankfully, this time did not howl. To everyone’s surprise, Charlotte relieved the boy of the mop. As she mopped the floor with brisk, efficient sweeps, Roberta got a good look at both boys. They had large cornflower-blue eyes like their mother’s and thick brown hair that must have come from their father.
“Thank you again for your help,” Charlotte said when she was done. She eyed Roberta’s tailored suit and white blouse. “I hope Wesley didn’t get any egg on you.”
“No, no. It was no trouble at all,” Roberta said, stooping to pick up her small basket of vegetables. It looked lonely compared to the teeming cart Charlotte strapped Wesley into and took hold of.
As she made her way down the aisle away from the little family, Roberta heard her name. She turned.
There was that smile again. “Are you free this Thursday night?”
Roberta fumbled with her basket. “Free?”
Charlotte pushed her cart closer. “I host a bridge game. You must come.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”
Charlotte grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
If anyone had taken the time to actually notice Roberta, they might have called her several things. But “ridiculous” was not one of them.
Charlotte was not taking no for an answer. “We start at seven. Do you play?”
She did not, but from then on Roberta spent every Thursday evening at Charlotte’s dining room table with a group of eight women who seemed to like being there. Roberta had learned there was no denying Charlotte Combs.
But Roberta was a quick study, and she found herself almost enjoying the group, despite how vastly different they were from her. All were married and mothers. Janice Garvey was a high school English teacher, and Marie Dennis worked at the town clerk’s office, but the rest stayed at home with their young broods. It was exactly the kind of group that normally would have set up the hair on the back of Roberta’s neck. Roberta preferred her own company. She held zero interest in the exchange of Crock-Pot recipes and found idle chitchat migraine-inducing. Nor did she have a spouse to complain about, something many in the group approached like a sport. In fact, as far as Roberta could tell, the others behaved as if they’d been sprung from some domestic prison for the night. There was spiked punch and finger food and always some kind of baked-good contribution. Roberta did not bake. But she allowed herself to partake in the offerings. It was the eighties and the entertaining was easy, if completely foreign to Roberta.
As the weeks passed, Roberta found herself holding her breath in anticipation of Charlotte’s bridge club. To her surprise, the women did not make her feel one bit excluded. If anything, Roberta felt somewhat revered. Of course, that had much to do with Charlotte, who had artfully set the tone from the beginning, causing Roberta to blush. “This is my dear friend Roberta, andshe’s kind of a big deal. She’s a judge.” Which set off a wave of exclamations across the room. But what rang loudest in Roberta’s ears was what Charlotte had called her: “my dear friend.” Besides her insufferable sister, Roberta had never had someone to call a real friend. Forget one as stylish and irresistable as Charlotte.
