Eden Hill Read Free Page A

Virgil truly was sorry; he enjoyed fishing almost as much as his friend. “Let us know what you catch.”
    “I’ll bring it by and show you! By the way, did you fellows see the sign?”
    “Sign?” Virgil looked at Welby, who shook his head.
    “Across the road. Sun’s up, so you can see for yourself. Gotta go now, ’cause they won’t be bitin’ all day.”
    “Well, have fun. And tell Lula Mae that Vee will definitely read his Sunday school lesson tonight.”
    “I’ll do it. See ya.” Without further explanation, Arlie stuffed the package into one of his many pockets and climbed into the truck, which spat forth dark black fumes, ground its gears, and rumbled into the already-smoky morning.
    The two stared in silence for a long time as Arlie’s truck growled into the distance. Welby spoke first. “I’ll be. What do you make of that?”
    The sign, new and freshly painted, stood in the vacant lot across the road from Osgood’s.

    FOR SALE: 1.32 ACRE(S)   —COMMERCIAL POTENTIAL   —
150 FOOT FRONTAGE   —
WELL WATER   —
IDEAL FOR SERVICE STATION
OR STORE
    Underneath were the name and telephone number of a real estate firm in nearby Quincy.
    Virgil’s shaking hand lost what was left of its steadiness, sloshing coffee onto his shoes. Stable and secure had just flown out the window and headed for the treetops.

M AVINE SAT at the dinette for a long time, staring at the soiled dishes and silverware scattered about the counter. The morning hadn’t gone at all the way she’d hoped. Was Virgil right, and was the Pageant article just a lot of foolishness? Her husband had seemed bewildered by her question. After all, the man was nothing if not practical. Could the question be important to her, but wrong to ask Virgil?
    Out of habit, she turned the radio back on. Town Talk had already started, with the county extension specialist giving tips on choosing the freshest turkey and someone from the Rotary Club talking about their rummage sale. Poultry and used clothing were the furthest things from her mind thismorning. With a twist of a knob the Philco fell silent again, leaving the clock as her only distraction. She opened the hot water tap, found a clean dishrag, and shoved all the tableware into the sink with a clatter.
    Dr. LaMour’s article had seemed to her both good and timely. The questions about romantic dinners and special evenings were a bit silly, she had to admit, but the part about working long hours had captured her interest. Virgil had been spending a lot of time down at Osgood’s lately. Sometimes he’d leave the house right after breakfast and not return until after supper. He’d always call, but working through lunch? And a few evenings last week, he’d gone back out after a quick TV dinner and not come home until nearly nine o’clock.
    Of course she trusted him. They’d met in grade school, when Virgil was ten and she was eight. Because he had started school late and had repeated a year, they found themselves in the same class. He was handsome and kind, and by the time they were in the eighth grade, she was smitten. When war came and he’d joined the Army, he’d promised to write every week and return to Eden Hill and marry her. Promises he’d kept.
    They had a fine son   —the spitting image of his father   —and they had never wanted for a place to live or food on the table.
    But she also respected her friend Gladys. They’d been in the same class all through school, and while Gladys might exaggerate now and then, she knew a lot about marriage   —make that marriages   —and how wedded bliss could become wedded bust. Her kidding was good-natured, of course, butshe’d sent the Pageant home with Mavine and mentioned she ought to show it to Virgil.
    Things had definitely gone wrong for Gladys. Her first husband divorced her some years ago. All she would say was that things didn’t work out. “Don’t let it happen to you,” Gladys had said.
    No, whatever might be going on,