“Okay.” She took a healthy gulp from her can. “What about her?”
“Her former husband. Did you happen to know him?”
“No. I never heard any news about her after high school, so I didn’t even know she was married.”
“What about other classmates? Did you keep in touch with anyone who might be able to give me a name and information on how to find him?”
Meg stared above Jo’s right shoulder, thinking, and Jo saw a spark of interest appear in her eyes. She looked back at Jo. “You know, I might. Hold on.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “My pocketbook’s in the back.”
Jo sipped her ice tea and watched Meg go into the kitchen, her step a bit livelier than when she’d come out. Jo crossed her fingers that she’d return with a good lead. While she waited, a customer walked through the door, and Jo glanced over, relieved to see it was nobody she recognized—or who recognized her—but sad, at the same time, over that feeling. She had chosen to settle in a small town partly for the pleasure of becoming part of a community. She was discovering, though, that there could be a downside to that. With the way her business had slowed, she needed to clear her name quickly, before “down” turned into “down and out.”
Ruthie came out to wait on the customer, and Meg soon followed, holding a large, well-worn handbag. She plopped down in her seat and began searching through it, pulling out things that looked to Jo like they might have been in there for years: old envelopes, rumpled tissues, at least two pairs of sunglasses, a mashed, wrapped Twinkie.
“Ah,” Meg finally cried. “Here it is.” She pulled out a battered-looking address book and flipped through it, small pieces of paper dropping out in the process. “Yes. Emmy Schmidt. I have her number. If it hasn’t changed and I get her, I’ll bet she can tell us something.”
“Want to try now?” Jo dug into her own purse. “You can use my cell phone.”
“Sure.” Meg took the phone, then grinned. “I hope Em-my’s sitting down when she answers. This’ll be quite a shock, hearing from me.”
Jo watched as Meg carefully punched in Emmy Schmidt’s number, then waited for the connection. Meg drew a breath as someone apparently answered.
“Hi, Emmy? This is Meg Padgett. Remember me? From the Marching Wolverines?” She grinned, and Jo was able to faintly catch the sounds of Emmy screaming in surprise. “Yeah, a long time. Uh-huh. Right!”
Jo waited as Meg went through a brief catching-up conversation, noticing that she offered little of herself other than that she was now Meg Boyer and living in Abbotsville, Maryland. Emmy apparently had much more she wanted to share. Meg traded reminiscences about the high school band, in which she had played the clarinet and Emmy was a majorette, which at least sounded promising to Jo as someone likely to have been friends with Linda. But Jo shifted in her chair, wanting the conversation to get to the point.
Finally she heard Meg bring up Linda, not mentioning what had happened to her recently but only asking, casually, if Emmy knew if she was married or not.
“Oh?” Meg said, making writing motions to Jo, who quickly pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from her pocketbook. “So she married him after all, huh? But it didn’t last? What a shame. I heard she had gone to New York. Is he there too? Oh, really?” Meg scribbled something down. “Wow, that’s a surprise. What made him move there, I wonder? Oh. Uh-huh. I see. Well . . .” Meg’s side of the conversation lapsed into “mmms” and “uh-huhs” as Emmy apparently took over once again, but Meg pushed the paper she’d written on over to Jo as she continued to listen.
Jo read what was written there and felt her eyes widen. She looked up at Meg, who nodded agreement with Jo’s reaction.
Linda Weeks’s former husband was Patrick Weeks—a name that meant nothing to Jo—but he presently lived in Marlsburg,
“Her former husband. Did you happen to know him?”
“No. I never heard any news about her after high school, so I didn’t even know she was married.”
“What about other classmates? Did you keep in touch with anyone who might be able to give me a name and information on how to find him?”
Meg stared above Jo’s right shoulder, thinking, and Jo saw a spark of interest appear in her eyes. She looked back at Jo. “You know, I might. Hold on.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “My pocketbook’s in the back.”
Jo sipped her ice tea and watched Meg go into the kitchen, her step a bit livelier than when she’d come out. Jo crossed her fingers that she’d return with a good lead. While she waited, a customer walked through the door, and Jo glanced over, relieved to see it was nobody she recognized—or who recognized her—but sad, at the same time, over that feeling. She had chosen to settle in a small town partly for the pleasure of becoming part of a community. She was discovering, though, that there could be a downside to that. With the way her business had slowed, she needed to clear her name quickly, before “down” turned into “down and out.”
Ruthie came out to wait on the customer, and Meg soon followed, holding a large, well-worn handbag. She plopped down in her seat and began searching through it, pulling out things that looked to Jo like they might have been in there for years: old envelopes, rumpled tissues, at least two pairs of sunglasses, a mashed, wrapped Twinkie.
“Ah,” Meg finally cried. “Here it is.” She pulled out a battered-looking address book and flipped through it, small pieces of paper dropping out in the process. “Yes. Emmy Schmidt. I have her number. If it hasn’t changed and I get her, I’ll bet she can tell us something.”
“Want to try now?” Jo dug into her own purse. “You can use my cell phone.”
“Sure.” Meg took the phone, then grinned. “I hope Em-my’s sitting down when she answers. This’ll be quite a shock, hearing from me.”
Jo watched as Meg carefully punched in Emmy Schmidt’s number, then waited for the connection. Meg drew a breath as someone apparently answered.
“Hi, Emmy? This is Meg Padgett. Remember me? From the Marching Wolverines?” She grinned, and Jo was able to faintly catch the sounds of Emmy screaming in surprise. “Yeah, a long time. Uh-huh. Right!”
Jo waited as Meg went through a brief catching-up conversation, noticing that she offered little of herself other than that she was now Meg Boyer and living in Abbotsville, Maryland. Emmy apparently had much more she wanted to share. Meg traded reminiscences about the high school band, in which she had played the clarinet and Emmy was a majorette, which at least sounded promising to Jo as someone likely to have been friends with Linda. But Jo shifted in her chair, wanting the conversation to get to the point.
Finally she heard Meg bring up Linda, not mentioning what had happened to her recently but only asking, casually, if Emmy knew if she was married or not.
“Oh?” Meg said, making writing motions to Jo, who quickly pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from her pocketbook. “So she married him after all, huh? But it didn’t last? What a shame. I heard she had gone to New York. Is he there too? Oh, really?” Meg scribbled something down. “Wow, that’s a surprise. What made him move there, I wonder? Oh. Uh-huh. I see. Well . . .” Meg’s side of the conversation lapsed into “mmms” and “uh-huhs” as Emmy apparently took over once again, but Meg pushed the paper she’d written on over to Jo as she continued to listen.
Jo read what was written there and felt her eyes widen. She looked up at Meg, who nodded agreement with Jo’s reaction.
Linda Weeks’s former husband was Patrick Weeks—a name that meant nothing to Jo—but he presently lived in Marlsburg,
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