get anything right if left to their own devices. She’d been living in this town longer than most anybody else here and knew how to hide her imperfections.
Second stocking in place, Lonna picked up the navy slacks and polka-dot blouse she’d ironed after her five-mile walk and before her granola-and-fruit breakfast that morning. It was almost seven o’clock, and she had to hurry or she wouldn’t have time to get over to Grace’s, fix breakfast and wait for her to finish eating so she could do the dishes before her eight-thirty meeting.
Missing the cat that had been lying on her bed for seventeen years, Lonna worked buttons through holes that had grown curiously tighter and harder to maneuver over the years. Buffy, her snarly calico, had died six months ago, and while Lonna was probably lonelier than she’d admit, she was loath to start all over again.
Besides, kitty litter was damned heavy to haul around.
Purse over her forearm—navy to match her slacks and low-heeled pumps—she was almost out the door before she remembered the list of new books she was recommending to the library board later that morning. It was still on the printer Keith had installed to go with the computer he’d bought her for Christmas. The boy meant well. And he’d been right. The blamed machine made keeping up with her jobs somewhat easier.
But it was a love-hate kind of thing. Refusing to look at the screen that revealed more information than Lonna had ever had or ever would have, she grabbed the sheet she’d printed out before going to bed the night before.
The phone rang.
She was late already, and even if she didn’t get Grace’s dishes done, she couldn’t just make breakfast and leave the woman to eat it alone. Grace looked forward to their morning chats.
And Lonna did, too.
The machine could get the phone. She slid the paper into the leather zip folder Becca Parsons had given her for her last birthday, stiffening as the phone rang again.
Someone needed to talk to her.
And who was Lonna to determine that whatever he or she had to say wasn’t important?
With an exasperated sigh she picked up the phone.
And three hours later, sitting beside Dorothy’s hospital bed, she assured her friend of seventy years that she would not have to go into a Phoenix nursing home. She would not have to leave Shelter Valley or the home she’d lived in all of her adult life. Dorothy’s heart and soul were her essence, and they were still in one-hundred-percent working order.
Lonna would help her while her broken hip healed.
She’d find the time.
And the energy.
She always had.
THE FILM WAS EVOCATIVE. Intense. Full of energy. Keith just wasn’t sure that what it evoked had anything to say to their audience. Or to anyone except maybe the people involved. Or people like them.
Of course he’d been preoccupied with the conversation he’d had with his grandmother earlier that day. He’d been trying to talk her out of a trip to Phoenix by herself. Friday-afternoon traffic was hell. He’d told her Dorothy would be just fine until later that day when he could take Lonna Nielson to the hospital to see her friend.
Had his grandmother listened?
Of course not.
She’d climbed into her Buick and sped to her friend’s side.
This seemed to be a pattern in his life. His word apparently had little value to the women he cared about.
“You don’t like it.”
Keith glanced at his new program director and smiled. Martha Moore, at least, respected his opinion.
“I didn’t say that,” he said, smiling at her before turning his attention to the monitor.
“You don’t have to say it.” Her words were soft as she, too, focused on the film they were previewing. It was a work a student had found and suggested for the following week’s Fine Art feature on MUTV.
The piece was a dance performance. Sort of. It was a depiction of a human condition, one that every human being eventually faced.
An excellent depiction as far as Keith could tell.
He just had no idea why people would choose to watch other people act out the process of dying. It wasn’t something he wanted to put himself through.
But Martha was riveted. Her whole body leaned toward the monitor, almost as though she was going to jump on that stage with those writhing, painfully weak bodies. Eyes drawn to the slim neck exposed by her short black hair, Keith wondered why Martha was still single. Her husband had left more than two years before, and other than a few dates with the architect who’d done some work at Montford, Martha’s love life had been nonexistent.
As far as Keith knew, anyway.
And he couldn’t understand that. Not only was she slim and sexy and down-to-earth, the woman had a way of making a guy feel she honestly enjoyed his company. He wondered if she had anything planned for the weekend ahead; if so, he hoped it would involve something for her and not just for the four kids she was raising alone.
“What?”
She’d caught him staring.
“Nothing.” Jaw set, Keith turned back to the screen.
Keith made it a priority to support student initiatives as often as he could. Part of the MUTV mission was to give the students running the new digital cable station opportunities to recommend and even develop programming. His television motion-picture students had been the driving force behind Keith’s initial idea for the Montford University television station. Unlike many college and university stations, MUTV was not an education-access station.
They were in control of their own programming.
But this particular piece…
Bodies in nude-colored body things, showing the most godawful suffering…
“I think we’re going to have to give this one a miss,” he said.
“No!” Martha’s head spun toward him. “This is what we’re all about, Keith! We have to do it! This is absolutely the best thing we’ve seen in the six months we’ve been here!”
“We’re about positive educational experiences,” he reminded her. “Our programming enriches peoples’ lives in positive ways.”
It didn’t matter if they were showing actual college classes, university sports or a full-length feature film, the goal was the same.
“And it doesn’t get any more uplifting than this,” she insisted. Her brown eyes were turned to the screen again.
Keith stared at her. “It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen! Those people are dying of AIDS!”
The depictions were real—performed by people suffering from the deadly virus.
“They’re
