you Randall Pope’s mother?”
Mrs. Pope’s face brightened. “I certainly am! You know Randy?”
Sunny inhaled and exhaled before saying, “I was on the golf team with him. He was captain the year I joined.”
“Of course I knew that. Very small world. I think your mother knew the connection.”
“She certainly did,” said Sunny.
“I hope he was a good captain,” said Mrs. Pope.
Sunny said after a pause, “He was a good golfer.”
Beaming, Mrs. Pope said, “It was his spring sport, which you probably know. Football was his first love, and basketball was second. Mr. Pope was a football fanatic, but I liked the basketball games, because I got to watch them in a nice warm gym.”
Sunny opened a menu and said without looking up from it, “Your son found a dead carp floating in the brook—or what was euphemistically called the brook—and put it in my golf bag.” She plucked several napkins, one by one, from a dispenser and spread them on her lap. “At least I was ninety-nine percent sure it was Randy.”
Mrs. Pope blinked, took a sip from her cup, blotted her lips, and asked, “Did Bill Sandvik get in touch with you? Or Bill Kaufman? Someone was going to call you and ask if we—meaning the Players—could say a few words at the funeral. We thought either of the Bills would give a stunning eulogy.”
“That would be fine,” said Sunny. “I’m sure my mother would love it. Would have loved it …”
“Bill S. was her leading man a number of times and has a gorgeous speaking voice, but Bill K. is a freelance toastmaster. They may still be sorting it out.”
“Either,” said Sunny. “Or both.”
“Everyone was rocked by this tragedy. It touched everyone in town, directly or indirectly.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” said Sunny.
“Did you order?” Mrs. Pope asked her, accompanied by the snap of Mrs. Angelo’s fingers behind her. From the counter, The Dot’s one waitress barked, “What?”
“Winnie! Bring Sunny a menu.”
“Just coffee,” said Sunny.
“What if Gus scrambles you an egg or two?” asked Mrs. Angelo from her stool. “Or we have omelets now—Eastern, Western, or Hawaiian.”
Mrs. Pope confided, “When I went through this with my mother, I lost one dress size without even trying. And she died at eighty-eight. Not unexpected.”
“Still too young,” said Mrs. Angelo.
“Not in my mother’s case,” Mrs. Pope continued. “She was completely demented. But I know what you’re saying: You think you’re prepared, but you never are. And in your case, there’s an extra layer of tragedy—losing your only parent before you’re even …”
Sunny wasn’t sure where the unfinished sentence was supposed to lead. Her age? Her marital or professional status?
Mrs. Pope tried, “Thirty-three?”
“No, I was two years behind Randy. It’s the hair. People always think—”
“Well, of course! People are so unobservant. Your face is still the face in your yearbook picture.” She patted Sunny’s hand. “Mr. Pope and I take out a full-page ad in every King George Regional yearbook—Pope Sand and Gravel—so we get a courtesy copy.”
Sunny could see that Mrs. Pope, whose own hair was dyed a uniform chestnut, was counting the days until she could take the younger woman under her wing and advise her that gray is for aging hippies or the occasional over-fifty model whose silver hair is the very point.
“Tell me what I can do,” said Mrs. Pope. “There must be something I can help you with. Do you need a place to stay? Will the relatives need a place to freshen up?”
“I’m set,” said Sunny. “But thanks.”
“Randy lives on East Pleasant. You might know his wife.”
“I do.”
“It’s one of those cute stories: They didn’t like each other in high school—she thought he was conceited—three-letter athlete, tall, good-looking—and Regina was a few years younger and, from what I understand, a late bloomer. But then they ran into each other after he graduated from B.U., and she was back here from Rivier College, student-teaching—”
“I know the whole story.”
“I don’t know how well you knew him, but I can assure you that he’s matured into a fine husband and father. He’ll most certainly be paying his respects.”
“I’m sure Regina will,” said Sunny.
Winnie rounded the counter carrying a platter of English muffins, sunny-side-up eggs, home fries, and sausage flattened into a patty. “Couldn’t help it,” she said. “Gus heard you were here. He practically wept.” She checked to make sure Mrs. Angelo was out of range. “He thinks you’re taking a stand by coming here,” she whispered. “He’s really touched.”
“I’m taking a stand?” asked Sunny.
“The food,” Mrs. Pope explained. “Their last meal. It was take-out from here.”
“It was the last time anyone saw Miles alive,” said Winnie. “Until they ruled out food poisoning, we were sweating bullets around here, if you know what I mean. Even with all the hoopla about the furnace, business has dropped off—at least that’s my opinion. Guilt by association.”
“Then please tell Mr. Angelo that he’ll be seeing plenty of me, but I’m going to insist on paying for my meals,” said Sunny.
The waitress said, “Let him if he wants to. He had a lung removed and we like to give him his way.”
“Cancer,” Mrs. Pope translated.
“In remission,” said Winnie.
“Is he okay?” asked Sunny.
“We think so. It didn’t spread. Next Thanksgiving it’ll be five years.” Winnie knocked on the wood-look Formica, and Sunny seconded the motion.
She was waiting with her golf bag when the driving range opened at nine. After paying for the largest bucket of balls, Sunny walked past the rubber mats to the grassy area that separated the beginners from the experts. She began with short irons and worked her way up to her woods. An older couple arrived in matching cruise-line sweatshirts, stretched in tandem, then addressed each ball with their lips moving, as if reciting lessons. Even with her head down, Sunny sensed when their bucket was empty, when the husband had simply instructed his wife to watch her.
“You the pro here?” he finally called over.
“I wish,” said Sunny.
As
