One Second After Read Free Page A

framed by the Great Smoky Mountains beyond, facing due west so Mary could have her sunsets.
    When trying to describe the view he’d just tell friends, “Check out
Last of the Mohicans;
it was filmed a half hour from where we live.”
    It was a fairly contemporary-looking type of home, high ceiling, the west wall, from bedroom across the living room to the dining area, all glass. The bed was still positioned to face the glass wall, as Mary wanted it so she could watch the outside world as her life drifted away.
    He pulled up the drive. The two “idiots” Ginger and Zach, both golden retrievers, both beautiful-looking dogs—and both thicker than bricks when it came to brains—had been out sunning on the bedroom deck. They stood up and barked madly, as if he were an invader. Though if he were a real invader they’d have cowered in terror and stained the carpet as they fled into Jennifer’s room to hide.
    The two idiots charged through the bedroom, then out through the entryway screen door . . . the lower half of the door a charade, as the screen was gone. Put a new one in, it’d last a few days and the idiots would charge right through it again. John had given up on that fight years ago.
    As for actually closing the door . . . it never even crossed his mind anymore. This was Black Mountain. Strange as it seemed, folks rarely locked up, keys would be left in cars, kids did indeed play in the streets in the evening, there were parades for the Fourth of July, Christmas, and theridiculous Pinecone Festival, complete to the crowning of a Miss Pinecone. Papa Tyler had absolutely humiliated his daughter, Mary, in front of John early on in their courtship when he proudly pulled out a photo of her, Miss Pinecone 1977. In Black Mountain there was still an ice-cream truck that made the rounds on summer nights. . . . It was all one helluva difference from his boyhood just outside of Newark, New Jersey.
    There was a car parked at the top of the driveway. Mary’s mother, Me-ma Jennie.
    Me-ma Jennie was behind the wheel of her wonderful and highly eccentric 1959 Ford Edsel. Ford . . . that’s where the family money had come from, ownership of a string of car dealerships across the Carolinas dating back to Henry Ford himself. There was even a photo framed in the house up in the Cove of Mary’s great-granddad and Henry Ford at the opening of a dealership in Charlotte back before World War I.
    Though it wasn’t polite to be overtly “business” in their strata and Jennie preferred the role of genteel southern lady, in her day, John knew, she was one shrewd business person, as was her husband.
    John pulled up alongside the Edsel. Jennie put down the book she was reading and got out.
    â€œHi, Jen.”
    She absolutely hated “Ma,” “Mother,” “Mom,” or, mortal sin of all mortal sins, “Me-ma” or “Grandma” from her Yankee son-in-law, who was definitely not her first choice for her only daughter. But that had softened with time, especially towards the end, especially when he had brought the girls back home to Jen.
    The two got out of their cars and she held up a cheek to be kissed, her height, at little more than five foot two, overshadowed by his six-foot-four bulk, and there was a light touch of her hand on his arm and an affectionate squeeze.
    â€œThought you’d never get here in time. She’ll be home any minute.”
    Jen had yet to slip into the higher pitch or gravelly tone of an “old lady’s” voice. He wondered if she practiced every night reciting before a mirror to keep that wonderful young woman–sounding southern lilt. It was an accent that still haunted him. The same as Mary’s when they had first met at Duke, twenty-eight years ago. At times, if Jen was in the next room and called to the girls, it would still bring tears to his eyes.
    â€œWe got time. Why didn’t you