women all leaned in. Except for Alice Miller, who sometimes wished her hearing wasn’t as good as it was.
“It was some older man from out of town.” Helene nodded and went back to her stitching.
“Poor Arlene. You have to feel for her,” Muriel said. “Look how her children have turned out. Violet crazy, Charlotte in the family way and Bo, well, is he the most worthless young man you’ve ever seen? I wonder if Arlene will ever come back to the group.”
Looks were exchanged around the table, along with shrugs. Arlene did always have the latest gossip, but with Pearl returning now…
“Eve Bailey’s marrying the sheriff,” Alice Miller threw in, hoping to give the poor Evans family a break.
The conversation turned to weddings and the possibility of more babies. The Whitehorse Sewing Circle was famous for its quilts. For years the circle had made a quilt for every newborn.
“I saw the cutest pattern,” Pamela said, and the afternoon passed in a blur of talk of quilt patterns, material and—always a good standby—food and the latest recipe one of them had tried, as the group stitched away just as it had done for years.
Friday, 6:38 p.m.
ARLENE EVANS STARED at the image in the mirror and felt like crying. She’d changed clothes four times already. If she didn’t make up her mind and quickly, she was going to be late. Why had she accepted a date in the first place? She was too old to date.
When Hank Monroe had asked her out, she’d been so excited and surprised she hadn’t thought about the actual date part. But the reality set in the moment she went to buy something to wear.
For years she hadn’t given a thought to the way she looked. No one else had, either. Floyd, her former husband of too many years to count, had hardly given her a sideways glance. So she’d worn what any working ranch woman wore: an oversize long-sleeved Western shirt, jeans and boots. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress—and she’d bet neither could anyone else in the county.
Her brown hair was long, thick and straight as a stick—the same haircut she’d had in high school, which she trimmed herself when she remembered. Usually her hair was either swept up in a ponytail or thrust under a hat, so she paid little attention to it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her hair down, let alone curled it.
“Stop acting foolish,” she snapped at her image in the mirror as she snatched up an elastic band and pulled her drooping curls up into a ponytail.
She took off the dress she’d spent too much money on, tears welling in her eyes as she recalled how cute it had looked on the hanger.
“What did you expect?” she asked herself, sounding just like her mother. Her mother, even dead for years, was right. “Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
Arlene hurriedly washed the makeup she’d experimented with from her face and changed into a shirt, jeans and boots. She was what she was, and this date with Hank Monroe was a one-time shot.
She thought about the first time she’d seen him and couldn’t help but smile. He’d called about signing up for her rural Internet dating service. His voice had been deep and soft and had a strange thrilling effect on her.
They’d agreed to meet at a local café so she could get him signed up. She’d been nervous about meeting him because he wasn’t like most of her clients—twenty- to thirtysomething. He was forty-eight—mature, like herself.
The minute she’d walked into the café, she’d spotted him. He’d looked up and their eyes had met.
It sounded ridiculous, she knew, but her heart had begun to pound wildly. Hank Monroe wasn’t handsome, but there was a masculine strength in his features and in the broad shoulders, slim hips and long legs cased in denim. He looked like a man who could wrestle grizzly bears if he had a mind to.
And, her smile growing as she remembered the first time he’d laughed, he’d made her laugh, surprising them both since hers resembled a donkey’s bray.
Hank Monroe had made her feel young and beautiful—all the things she wasn’t.
Which should be a clue.
Her mother again. But it was true. Hank had signed up for her dating service to meet women, not date the owner of the service. Who knows why he’d asked her out? Just being polite, she could only assume, suddenly glad she hadn’t dressed up. No reason to act like this was a real date after all.
As she came out of her bedroom, she found her son Bo sitting on the couch, watching television, a huge bag of potato chips in his lap, his bare feet up on her coffee table.
With a frown, she brushed his feet off the table and took the bag of chips from him even as he protested.
“Hey! What am I supposed to eat for dinner?” he groused.
“There are leftovers in the fridge,” she said, putting a clip on the chips and taking a cloth back to the living room to wipe the smudges from the coffee table.
“Leftovers?” he demanded indignantly.
She turned down the television volume and straightened to look at her twenty-three-year-old son. He’d been her pride and joy. In her eyes he could do no wrong. She shuddered as she recalled when that had changed.
“Where is your sister?” she asked, determined not to get into an argument with him. Not before her date, anyway.
He shrugged.
Arlene realized she hadn’t seen Charlotte since her almost-nineteen-year-old had left for her doctor’s appointment earlier that afternoon. Charlotte’s old blue sedan wasn’t parked out front, and Arlene realized she hadn’t heard Bo and Charlotte arguing for hours.
“She should be back from her doctor’s appointment by now. Did she call?”
Bo’s attention was back on the television. “Nope.”
Arlene frowned, hoping the appointment had gone well. Charlotte had been more irritable than usual before she’d left. Arlene remembered how uncomfortable it was being pregnant the last few months. She wondered if Charlotte wasn’t having second thoughts about keeping the baby. She could only hope.
“Well, when your sister gets home. make sure she eats something besides potato chips and candy bars. Remind her she’s feeding a baby who needs something nutritious to eat.”
For a moment Arlene thought about canceling her date. If she didn’t cook something, she was afraid neither Bo nor Charlotte would eat properly.
“Promise me you’ll eat and make sure Charlotte does.”
Bo rolled his eyes. He’d heard this enough times. For months she’d harped on Charlotte to take care of herself for the baby’s sake. Not that Charlotte had any business being pregnant, Arlene thought as she headed for her car—and her date.
Her date. What had she been thinking? Dating was for people half her age who still had the stamina—and the optimism. She had neither.
She’d
