G’mama was dragging an ancient green aluminum Coleman cooler into the entry hall just as Conley returned to the house.
“What’s all this?” Conley asked. Three suitcases stood at the foot of the stairs, along with a huge wicker picnic hamper, a flowered hatbox, a bulky-looking television, a bulging hot-pink zippered garment bag, a lumpy dog bed, and a pair of enormous potted ferns.
“Just a few things we’ll need at the beach,” Lorraine said, reaching down to scratch Opie’s ears. “Were you a good boy?”
The dog flopped down onto the floor and rolled over onto his back.
“G’mama, this won’t fit in my car. Are you even sure you need all this stuff?” She nudged the cooler with the toe of her sneaker. “I thought we’d buy groceries on the way out to the beach in the morning.”
“This is just the basics. The corn and green beans and field peas Winnie froze from the garden last year and a few other essentials.” Lorraine gave her granddaughter a sunny smile. “Don’t worry. There are several quarts of Winnie’s vegetable soup and Brunswick stew in here too, along with a peach pie and a chocolate pound cake.”
“That’s great, but where will we put Winnie? And Opie? And the ferns?” She gestured helplessly at the stack of luggage. “And the rest of this stuff?”
“We’ll take the Wagoneer,” Lorraine said. “I had Winnie drive it home so it’ll be all gassed up and ready in the morning.”
“You still have Pops’s old car?”
“Of course,” Lorraine said. “And it runs like a Swiss watch. I do just like your grandfather always did—oil change every three thousand miles, tires rotated twice a year. Lamar at the Pure Station says he’s never seen such a well-maintained vehicle. He keeps making noises about buying it, but I can’t let go of Pops’s car, can I?”
“You’re not still driving it, I hope.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not that old, Sarah Conley.”
“Grayson says your eyesight is deplorable.”
“Your sister needs to mind her own beeswax,” Lorraine said. “I drive when I want to. Now. Do you want your supper? I already had some cottage cheese and tomatoes, but Winnie left you a plate out in the kitchen.”
“Supper?” Conley glanced at her watch. “It’s not even six yet.”
“Dining late doesn’t agree with my digestive tract,” G’mama said. She turned toward the stairs. “I’ve got to finish my packing, and then my show comes on at seven.”
“Right.” Conley grinned. “You’re still watching Wheel of Fortune?”
“Of course. It keeps my brain agile. And just between us girls, that Pat Sajak is mighty easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
“Very,” Conley agreed.
When Conley went into the den shortly after nine, she found her grandmother slumped into the side arm on the sofa, her head resting on her shoulder, mouth ajar, snoring softly in perfect rhythm with Opie’s loud, shuddering snorts. Lorraine held the remote control tightly between her be-ringed fingers.
The room, which had once been her grandfather’s office, was pine-paneled and lined with overstuffed bookshelves, and at the moment, it was bathed in the blue light of the television, which was tuned to Lorraine’s other favorite channel, Turner Classic Movies.
Conley was trying to slip the remote control from Lorraine’s grasp when her hand was swatted away.
“I’m watching this,” G’mama said, struggling to sit upright.
“You were sound asleep. Come on, let me walk you upstairs to bed.”
“I’m fine right here,” Lorraine replied. “Opie will wake me up when he wants to go out for his potty break, then we’ll both go upstairs.”
“Suit yourself,” Conley said. “I think I might go out for a ride.”
“So late?” Lorraine frowned. “Where do you think you’ll go this hour of night?”
Conley shrugged. “I’m going stir-crazy just sitting around the house. My stuff is all packed. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
Lorraine adjusted her eyeglasses and gazed up at her granddaughter. “You’ve been telling me that since you were five years old.”
“And you’ve been worrying and fussing at me since then too,” Conley said.
“This isn’t Atlanta, you know. Nothing respectable is open this late at night.”
“Who says I want respectable?” Conley winked, and when she went to kiss her grandmother’s papery cheek, she was surprised when Lorraine pressed her hand to the side of Conley’s face, caressing it briefly.
“Headstrong,” she said. “Keep your car doors locked, will you? And promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? Foolish? Never.”
Conley drove aimlessly through what was left of her hometown’s business district, growing more depressed by the moment. Silver Bay, it seemed, hadn’t yet fully recovered from the last hurricane to blow through town. The sidewalks were rolled up tight.
What she needed was a drink. But the only half-decent restaurant in town, the Lamplighter, which had a small bar, closed at nine. She drove toward the Bowl-A-Rama, which was where she’d first experienced the thrill of being served an underaged beer when she was home from her senior year of boarding school. The bartender at the time was one of Grayson’s many former admirers, and he’d slid the icy can of Natty Light across the polished bar top with a knowing smile and the equally magical phrase on the house. The guy—his name was Jeb—called her the next night to ask her to the Christmas formal, and she’d turned him down flat, explaining that she had a firm policy about dating her big sister’s exes.
He’d been shocked into silence for a moment, then disconnected without another word.
Conley slowed the car when she reached the shopping center where the Bowl-A-Rama had been a fixture for as long as she could remember, and now it was her turn to be shocked. The shopping center was still there, but the Publix had been replaced with something called Pawn World, and on the spot where the bowling alley had once stood, nothing remained but a weedy patch of cracked asphalt.
“Damn it,” she muttered, racking her brain to come up with a viable alternative. “Not the Bowl-A-Rama.”
She racked her brain for another late night option. There was always the bar at the country club, where her great-grandfather had been a founding member, but her tank top and jeans would hardly meet the dress code. Anyway, there was a distinct possibility she might run into Grayson and some of her country club pals, and she really didn’t feel like knocking back a cold one with her sister after their testy exchange earlier in the day.
As far as Conley could recall, there was only one other actual bar within the fifteen-minute drive she was willing to make for a drink and some company.
“The Legion it is,” she muttered, pulling back onto the highway.