Finally Franny

By Bonnie Gardner

When Franny MacClain left Latitude, Alabama, she thought`she had the world in her hands.  Now twenty-five years later, failed marriage behind her, she has come home. She doesn't know whether she is here to hide or to heal.  All she knows is that she needs to figure out who she is now and what to do with the rest of her life.  How could a future that had once seemed so bright turn out so wrong?

Deputy Tru Jeffcoat almost doesn't recognize the woman, but it doesn't take long for him to see the high school sweetheart he'd loved and lost.  As time passes and he watches her begin to bloom again, he sees the old Franny.  Can he convince her that she is still as worthy as she was then, that they belong together now,and she is finally the Franny she was always meant to be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Gardner
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524220099

Bonnie Gardner

After spending most of her life as either an army brat or a military wife, the last people that Bonnie Gardner expected to find herself writing about were military men. After all, she'd looked forward to the day she could put that spit and polish and moving around behind her. Then she sold her first book. Her hero was ex-military. Then she sold her second book. Her hero was retired military. You get the picture. When her editor suggested that she use her military knowledge and background, she resisted. She really did. But common sense won out. After all, they say to write about what you know, and that's what she knew. Bonnie grew up on army bases around the world. According to her parents, one of the first homes she lived in was a converted World War II army barracks. She lived in Hawaii before it was a state, and has either visited or lived in almost every state of the Union. During six years in Germany in her formative years, Bonnie developed her love for reading and movies. (In those days, there was no American television to watch overseas, so books and movies were her entertainment.) Even at the tender age of 12, she was a critic. If she didn't like the ending of a book or a movie, she'd spend half the night rewriting it in her mind. Though she didn't actually write any of these ideas down, she honed her skills by writing long letters to friends she'd left behind. Finally, when she was almost 16, her father retired to his home state of Alabama, and there, Bonnie met her husband. Wayne was the cutup sitting next to her in geometry class at Marbury High School, the last of 11 schools she'd attended while growing up. She tried to ignore him, but his clowning won out. They married at 19 and have been together for over 30 years. They have two grown sons, one of whom is now serving in the air force - the third generation in their family. Though Bonnie swore she would never marry a military man, Vietnam intruded and Wayne was drafted. He joined the air force because his father had retired from the air force. It was only supposed to be one enlistment, but...he stayed for 25 years, and Bonnie followed him whenever she could. And Bonnie wouldn't have missed a moment of it. She learned how to do things she never thought she could do - like repair a toilet - when her husband was away for weeks or months at a time. She learned how to be alone. And she learned she could handle anything if she set her mind to it, even Casualty Duty when she and her husband had the unpleasant task of notifying a friend that her husband had died in the line of duty. All those things made Bonnie what she is today, and all of that experience shows in her books. When she writes about her men in uniform, she knows them. She knows the joy and the pain of loving a man in uniform. She knows their wives, their girlfriends, and their mothers. She's been all of them.

Book preview

Thanks to Sue and Bev for reading. I still need lots of help.

Chapter One

It might have been my imagination, but the heaviness that had been pressing down on me since I’d decided to end my twenty-five year marriage to Jack Benson seemed to grow lighter the farther south I drove. The closer I got to home, the more like the old Franny MacClain I felt. I grinned like a yokel when I spotted the first green highway sign that showed the distance to Huntsville, Alabama. Huntsville wasn’t my final destination, but it was the city nearest to rural Latitude, where I’d grown up.

My marriage had been over for years, even before Jack had made his earth-shattering announcement. I’d been so unwilling to accept the reality, of course, that I hadn’t wanted to see what was right in front of me. Jack was no longer the man I’d married. One day I had been shocked into reality. Then I’d had no choice but to accept that we could never go back.

Of course, nobody in Alabama knew what I’d learned that day, but that had been the final straw. I’d fled the home we’d made together in Connecticut, horrified and confused. It had taken six months to make the break final, but I’d dealt with the revelation, the lawyers, the red tape, and now it was done. I’d packed everything that was important to me into a rented trailer and headed south toward home.

I wouldn’t exactly describe it as limping home with tail tucked between my legs, but I wasn’t exactly coming in triumph, either. Once upon a time, I couldn’t wait to get away from the south and to live in the civilized north. If only I’d known then what I knew now.

I supposed, I was returning to lick my wounds, to lay low till I figured out my life. Who would fault me for wanting to be amid the low mountains, warm breezes, and soft accents that I’d left so long ago?

Another hour passed, and I finally drove into Latitude. It was not the same place I’d left when I married Jack, I discovered. As soon as I hit Main Street, I could see the changes. Latitude used to be a typical southern cotton gin town, not so much a town as a wide spot in the road, marked by a cluster of small businesses.

There had been the cotton ginning company, of course, a no-name grocery store, that had apparently acquired a name since I’d last visited, a post office, a couple of mom-and-pop gas stations, complete with café/barbecue joints, less prosperous since the interstate highway had gone through thirty miles or so to the west, making the main road nothing more than a fast way to get from Latitude to Huntsville. The Baptist, Methodist, and Holiness churches were still there to keep the people on the straight and narrow, but cotton fields had become subdivisions, and businesses to serve them now flanked the road.

I knew that the old twelve-grade school, built during the Depression by the WPA, had been replaced by a state-of-the art high school and separate middle and elementary schools after it had burned about twelve years ago. As a graduate of LHS, I’d received an invitation to the dedication of the new school, but at the time, I was too far away and too busy to attend.

As I made my way to Grammy’s house, I catalogued the changes. Tee Bone’s, the teen hangout when I was in school, was still there, but there were two fast food franchises and a bigger name-brand grocery store than the old IGA that was still there. One of the mom-and-pops had gone, but a florist, a hair salon that wasn’t built in somebody’s garage, a video store, and a couple of small boutique/gift shops populated a strip mall. The skeleton of another shopping strip was up with a sign proclaiming that leases were available.

I wondered if the people had changed as much as the real estate. I turned off the highway and passed the Latitude Funeral Home. A line of cars idled, motors running, ready to carry a batch of mourners to a freshly dug grave in one of the three churchyards in town. That hadn’t changed.

A twinge of sadness made me swallow. The last few times I’d been here had been for funerals, culminating with Daddy’s ten years ago. After that, there hadn’t been much reason to come. Life and Jack had kept me away.

Now, I wanted to reconnect. I needed to.

I awkwardly maneuvered the SUV and trailer around at the next crossroad and headed back to the cemetery next to Latitude Methodist. Not having visited the family plot since Daddy’s funeral, I wanted to see my parents before I ended my long trip. I hadn’t seen the double headstone since Daddy’s date had been added. Had anyone been taking care of the grave?

I pulled to a cautious halt along the road and set the parking brake, taking a moment to get my bearings. I scanned the once-familiar church grounds, striped by lengthening shadows as the sun sank low. I climbed out, shaking my arms and legs to unkink, then locked the car, more out of habit than necessity, and drew in a deep breath.

In the gathering darkness, I strolled along the neatly manicured lanes to the section that contained the MacClain family plot. Last time I was here, my emotions had been raw and new. This time, I simply felt at peace.

Franny MacClain was home.

Even though so many years had passed, I found the marker with ease. After Momma died, I’d visited this spot weekly, whispering my young-girl secrets, trying to connect with the main woman in my life. Visits were less frequent when I was in college and had stopped after I married and moved north.

I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you as much as I used to, Momma, I murmured as I lowered myself to the ground. But you haven’t been out of my thoughts.  I turned toward Daddy’s side. I’ve missed you too, Daddy. I love you both.

A withered, dried out bunch of wildflowers sagged out of the cement urn stationed at the center of the double marker. Who’s been tending the grave? My brothers still lived in the state, but I couldn’t imagine which one would have been so attentive. One of their wives ...?

The ground around the spot was well-manicured, with no hint of tattered and brown remains of daffodil foliage. I wondered if they still bloomed every March. I couldn’t help smiling, remembering when I’d planted the bulbs. I’d wanted Momma to always have flowers. Never mind that daffodils only bloomed in the spring.  

Intending to replace them with something fresh as soon as possible, I plucked the desiccated flowers from the urn. The dried foliage crumbled in my hands, and I opened my fist and allowed a breeze to carry the withered petals away. In spite of the years and distance that had kept me away, I felt a tug of connection as I knelt there.

We try to keep it pretty for them, a man said from somewhere behind me, and I scrambled, startled, to my feet. I remember how much your ma loved flowers, he said.

It was the Mennonite caretaker who’d been a fixture at the cemetery as long as I could remember. Funny, he looked no different than when I had first planted those bulbs on Momma’s grave over thirty years ago. Mr. Schrimscher, it’s so wonderful to see you. Thank you so much for taking care of Momma and Daddy.

We looked at each other, not sure what to do. Southerners were huggers, but I’d been away a long time. I hadn’t known Joseph Schrimscher that well, anyway. I stood there awkwardly, waiting to see what he’d do.

It’s no bother, the caretaker said. I liked your folks, and I remember how much your mother liked pretty things. Sarah, she always comes and puts flowers on graves when they’s nobody left to do it.

How is your wife? I asked, smiling as I remembered the pretty, shy woman who had toiled tirelessly at Joseph’s side. She has gone home to the Lord these past five years, Joseph said.

But ...? Didn’t you say ...? 

My daughter, Sarah, he said, seemingly unflustered by my reaction.

I’m so sorry, I said. I wish I’d known.  I fingered the dried stalks, all that remained of the small bouquet. Thank your daughter for ...  I held up the remnants of the flowers, watching as they were picked up by the warm, Indian summer breeze and drifted to the warm earth.

Yes, I will. She will be happy to know that you like them.  He looked down, obviously as awkward as I felt. Will you be visiting long?

I shook my head. This time I’ve come home to stay.

And your husband? Will he be joining you?

Tears that I swore I was done with filled my eyes and I blinked them back. No, I murmured. Jack Benson is gone.

***

So much for coming in under the radar, I muttered as I pulled away from the cemetery. I wondered how fast the country grapevine would pick up the news. The town might have begun to take on a more urban appearance, but surely it hadn’t grown so much that the local news-dispensing system had gone. I could just imagine the speculation about what had become of Jack.

If they only knew!

I figured it wouldn’t be long before old friends started appearing at the door. Friends, I wasn’t sure I was ready to see. The thought that there might be people here who cared comforted me, and I smiled as I negotiated the winding farm-to-market road.

Funny, it almost seemed as though the trip from Latitude to Grammy’s was longer than the entire drive from New England. Finally, I spotted the rusting mailbox and turned into the rutted, narrow lane leading to the old red brick farmhouse. My headlights played on the house and I got my first look.

The house I’d inherited from Grammy some twenty years ago looked the same, though a little worse for the wear. The red brick exterior was sturdy enough with its four columns standing straight and tall, but the interior would surely need work. My head lights showed that the shutters and trim were sorely in need of paint.

It wasn’t a large house, but boxy and square with a big shady front porch, complete with swing. I’d loved swaying there on warm, summer evenings when it was too hot to sleep. The lawn hadn’t been mowed recently, though the onset of shorter autumn days and, perhaps, a light frost had kept it from going wild.

I’d have my work cut out for me, not that I minded. Hard work was just the prescription, and I was looking forward to hours of hard, mind-numbing physical labor to help me forget. Not that I could. Still, I was happy for a place to go, if not to hide out, while I figured out who I was now that I was no longer Jack Benson’s wife.

I glanced out over the cotton field that adjoined the property. This year’s crop had already been harvested, and the bare stalks mown down to dark stubble. Remnants of cotton fibers had drifted and settled into the ruts between the rows and reminded me of a light snow in the falling gloom.

I’d been leasing the adjoining acreage to a neighboring farmer and renting out the house until my renters had decided it was time to buy their own. I looked over the land, all mine as far as I could see. Oddly, I felt rich.

This is it.  I sighed, not sure whether it was with satisfaction or in relief. Home.  I eased off the brake and pulled up between an enormous cedar tree and the left corner of the house. A twin to that tree stood at the opposite side, and I remembered helping Grammy decorate them with lights and red festoons at Christmas. They were far too huge for decorating now, but I smiled at the memory.

I had arranged for the utilities to be turned on before I left Connecticut, but the house was dark. No welcoming light shone through the windows, nor was the porch light on. Until I’d seen Mr. Schrimscher at the cemetery, I was fairly certain nobody here had known I was coming home.

Nobody who cared, anyway.

I grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, climbed out of the car, and mounted the familiar porch steps, key in hand. Of course, the first thing on my to-do list would be to change the locks, but it was comforting to know that I could open the door and walk inside as if I’d never gone away. The key turned, and the door swung slowly inward.

I chuckled at the horror-movie creak. There was a can of spray lubricant in the car that would take care of that in short order, but for now that eerie squeak seemed right.

The switch was just inside the door, and I reached for it and flipped it. Nothing. I shrugged and stepped inside, playing the flashlight beam across the scuffed and littered wood floor. Just a few more steps to the kitchen where I tried another switch and was rewarded with flickering light as one of the fluorescent bulbs above the sink hummed to life. The other one was burned out. Still, the light it emitted was brighter than the feeble beam in my hand. I switched off the flashlight to conserve the battery.

Walking from room to room, I flipped switches, rewarding myself with a warm glow here and utter darkness there. Still, there was enough light to see the way to the bigger bedroom. I came to a stop in the center of the old room, the one where I had snuggled in the big brass bed under piles of homemade quilts on sleep-overs with Grammy. It had always been safe and warm there whether I’d suffered from nightmares, a girlish broken heart, or cowering from the sound and fury of a sudden summer storm.

I drew a deep breath and opened my arms wide, then slowly turned and surveyed my domain.

This was home.

Maybe, here I could finally forget the heartache and confusion of the past few years. Or at least, get beyond them. I could find myself, that girl — no, woman — I’d wanted to be before life had stepped in the way.

***

The next morning, I woke stiff and sore with bright light pouring in through the grimy, unwashed windows. Not having taken the time to unload the trailer, I’d slept on a makeshift pallet on the floor. After all, I’d camped on a pile of quilts in the same place at Grammy’s house many times when the house was full of holiday visitors. Of course, age and time had tightened my joints, and I longed for the comfort of a good, firm orthopedic mattress.

That could wait. It would take work to make the house ready for placing furniture inside.

Yawning, I stretched and blinked and looked around the room. I could now see what I hadn’t in the dim light of the night before. The walls, though solid, were in dire need of paint, and the floors, hand-hewn wood, could stand refinishing. Just the kind of hard work I needed while I planned for the rest of my life.

Lord, it was still hard to accept everything that Jack had put me through. And even harder to believe the lengths to which I’d gone in hopes of saving our dead marriage. Considering the circumstances, it had been wasted effort.

The marriage had been doomed from the start, I realized now. It had just taken years to come to the conclusion. I still wasn’t sure I could talk about it to others, and in truth, I didn’t plan to tell. Not if I could avoid it. Only a few people in Connecticut knew, or cared, about the divorce.

I’d gotten through it, and I was truly glad it was over. Maybe I could finally discover, after a twenty-five year detour, the Franny I was meant to be.

I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled to the kitchen where I’d stashed some meager supplies, packed in anticipation of my late arrival. I’d brought enough to keep from starving until I was settled enough to go to the grocery store. I unearthed the smaller of two stainless pots and filled it with water for instant coffee. While it came to a boil, I rummaged in the box for cereal and took a carton of shelf-stable milk from the cooler. It wasn’t my favorite breakfast, but I wouldn’t starve.

Tomorrow, I’d have the automatic coffee maker and microwave oven unpacked and ready. For now, I’d just have to rough it, as I would for several weeks, at least.

Eating breakfast standing up at the sink, I gazed out over the back yard. The pecan trees had started dropping nuts, and the leaves on the maple were dry and brown. Apparently, this was going to be one of those years where the leaves just withered and fell or were torn away by an autumn storm. It was too warm this late in the year for a pretty fall.

Of course, I’d seen my share of glorious fall colors every year for the past twenty five or so, and once you’d seen it, there didn’t seem to be that much special about it, not when it came around every year, no matter what. Down here, the fall colors were a rare and fleeting occurrence, something to be appreciated and enjoyed.

Four years of college had taught me that a hot shower could cure almost anything, and it was a fact that had proved to hold true.

Well, for most things, anyway.

It had done nothing to save my marriage.

Still, it helped ease away the kinks from sleeping on the floor.

***

Shouldn’t have wasted the shower, I muttered to myself as I finished scrubbing down the kitchen. The stained and nicked Formica counter tops were, at least, sanitary now. Even if I wasn’t. They didn’t exactly gleam, but they were clean. I stepped back to survey my handiwork and brushed a strand of hair away from my damp, flushed face.

I’d unloaded the trailer, stashing my clothing and an inflatable mattress in the bedroom. What else there was to unpack were the wedding china from Grammy, the few items I couldn’t bear to part with, and some of the kids’ things. The furniture and necessities I would buy as I needed them.

I took a diet soda from the ancient fridge, then sank onto the tall stool that would serve as my seat in the kitchen. A folding lawn chair sat in the living room, positioned to face the tablet that could serve as a portable television until I could see about cable and other not-quite necessities. The comforts of home.

At least, I had money. I’d worked in real estate for the past ten years, and even after helping with the kids’ college tuition, I’d amassed a tidy fortune. I wasn’t ready for Social Security yet, and I wasn’t about to starve.

Life was good.

Or, would be one day.

Ruefully, I placed my hands against my thickened waist and pudgy thighs. Once upon a time, I’d kept myself in shape and trim, but the past few years hadn’t been kind. Most of it I’d brought upon myself. As I’d faced the truth about Jack, I’d consoled myself with food and medicated myself with chocolate.

Of course, all that had accomplished was that now I was wearing clothes two dress sizes larger.

My cell phone rang from somewhere in the house, and I slid off the stool to retrieve it. I’d promised my daughter Molly that I’d call when I got there. But I’d been tired, and it was late. Then in my haste to make this old house into a home, I’d forgotten to check in.

Hi, sweetie. Yes, I got here just fine.  I rolled my eyes and waited until Molly finished chewing me out for worrying her, then smiled. How many times had the roles been reversed when Molly had been late checking in?

Yes, I’ll keep you posted.  I nodded, though there was no one present to see it. No, it’s not too bad. Mostly dirt and grime, nothing that some elbow grease and a good coat of paint wouldn’t fix. And I’m thinking about renting one of those big sanders and redoing the floors.

Molly described her latest project for a few more moments then said her goodbyes. Bye, honey. I love you.  I flipped the phone shut and smiled.

Molly, my firstborn, had accepted a job right out of college with a well-known fashion magazine in New York. In just two years, she had advanced from editorial assistant to full-fledged editor of the features department. Molly had always known what she wanted out of life and she’d gone for it.

Too bad I hadn’t been more goal-oriented when I was Molly’s age. Of course, farm kids from Latitude, Alabama, hadn’t gotten the same type of career direction that kids did these days. Maybe I wouldn’t have found myself in this situation now. Maybe I’d actually know what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I’d done the wife and mother thing, and though I loved my kids and wouldn’t trade them for the world, I hadn’t been the happy housewife. I’d never been able to meet Jack’s expectations of what a real wife should be. No matter what I did, he’d always wanted what I couldn’t seem to attain.

And I’d wanted something else, too. I just didn’t know what then.

I was so proud of the kids. I’d enjoyed watching them grow and took pride in my contribution toward making them the responsible young adults they were now. Motherhood just hadn’t been enough.

Jay was a Cadet First Class at the Air Force Academy this year and was anticipating the opportunity to get into action. I was proud that he’d made the decision to serve, but I still hoped that peace would break out in the world before he accepted his commission.

Seemed as though the kids had always known what they wanted out of life. Why was I so uncertain?

I’d been so sure I’d wanted more than the simple life in Latitude that I’d gone to college with great expectations and had ended up in a similar rut. With more possessions, maybe. Baggage?

I returned to the kitchen, set the phone down on the counter and collected my neglected soda. It had started to get warm, but it was wet, so I drank it down.

I wiped the sweat that had beaded on my brow. For mid-October it was downright hot. I probably should have turned on the air-conditioner, but after living in Connecticut for so long, temperatures in the 80s seemed wrong — and welcome — in October.

This was Alabama, however, not Connecticut, and anything was possible this time of year. I remembered Halloweens so cold — at least, by Alabama standards — that we’d had bundled up as if we were going to the North Pole, and then there had been others when only shorts and tee shirts would do.

Though there were a few weeks yet till October 31, it appeared that it would be tee shirts for the trick-or-treaters this year. Not that I expected any nocturnal callers this far off the beaten path. Still, I’d keep a supply of candy on hand, just in case. I wouldn’t be disappointed if none came by.

In the meantime, there was still plenty to do. Today, tomorrow, and the next day.

***

Supper consisted of canned stew and bottled water, but it was plenty. It was easier to clean an empty house, and I’d done a good day’s work. The house almost seemed ready for ... What? I didn’t know.

I explored the back yard and discovered a small vegetable plot, a few ripe tomatoes clinging to vines. Several pepper plants were still producing and a couple of misshapen cucumbers lurked beneath yellowed leaves. I had gratefully gathered the small harvest and had thrown together a sort of a salad. Along with the stew, supper hadn’t been half bad.

Tomorrow, I would have to shop. Maybe, I was finally ready to make my presence known. I was going to have to face my old friends and neighbors sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.

Of course, I still didn’t know what to tell them about why  Jack and I were no longer together. I shrugged as I rinsed out my supper dishes. I could probably get away simply saying we’d divorced, though some would surely want to know the details.

The circumstances, if they ever came out, would provide gossip and news for the country grapevine for months to come. I had done nothing wrong, but still ...

Maybe if I’d just been a better wife, a better mother, a better lover ...

No. I shook my head almost violently. I was actually happy that Jack had forced my decision. I was finally ready to find out who Franny MacClain, no longer Benson, really was.

I dried my bowl and plate and set them on the sideboard. Darkness had fallen — it came quickly this time of year — but now that I was settled, or as settled as one could be living out of boxes, I had lights to hold back the night.

In spite of the spare surroundings and the echoes of the empty house, I felt oddly content.

Though I knew it was probably unnecessary, I patrolled my small domain, checking and locking windows, finally locking the front door, a ritual probably unnecessary this far out in the country, but comforting anyway.

Just as I reached to flip off the light, I was startled to notice the gleam of headlights turning off the road and heading toward the house.

Obviously, somebody’s lost, I murmured, hoping that the driver would realize his mistake and back out. An odd shiver trembled through me as I waited, dismayed as the car came to a halt and the engine stopped. I wondered if I should go for my cell phone in case this intruder was up to no good.

Then I realized that the vehicle was a patrol car, and a man in uniform was approaching.

Chapter Two

Can I help you? I called from the doorway as the driver, adjusting his hat on his head, stepped on the first front riser. I couldn’t help feeling a slight shudder of unease, though I didn’t know why. Scenarios of escaped convicts or murderers on the run flashed through my head. Why else would a cop be coming to my door this late?

Just checkin’ out the lights, Ma’am.  The officer touched his hat in a gentlemanly gesture which seemed oddly reassuring. This house’s been empty for a while, and sometimes kids’ll break into an empty one and use it to party.

Thank you, officer. As you can see, no kids here.  Assuming our business done, I started to step back inside and close the door. I was bone weary and the idea of sinking onto that air mattress was the only thing I wanted to do right now.

Ma’am.

I paused, hiding my impatience with difficulty. Yes, officer?

You mind if I check the place out? The owner don’t live around here, and...  He shrugged. It’s deputy, by the way. Not officer.

Sure, no problem, deputy.  I sighed, stepped back and held the door wide. I supposed I could make a scene and insist that he leave, but going along with him was probably more expedient. My name is Francis MacClain. I own the place, by the way.

The deputy stopped, half in, half outside. That right? Can you show me some ID?

It didn’t appear that I’d be getting to sleep any time soon. Yes. Sure. It’s inside. I’ll get my purse.  I turned and headed for the kitchen. It’s in here. You can come with.

Yes, Ma’am.  He followed me in, hat in hand, one hand resting on his holster. Sheesh, did he think I had a gang of outlaws hiding behind the kitchen door ready to spring out at him? Surely, I didn’t act like a criminal?

The deputy’s eyes seemed to bore through me as I rummaged through my purse. I tried not to squirm. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but I couldn’t place him. Maybe it was just that he had that universal cop look. They all seemed to look earnest and eager, and so very young. This man looked closer to my age, however.

I’d been away from Latitude for 25 years – almost 30, if you counted college. There was no reason to assume I’d run into two people I actually knew in the first couple of days back.

Finally, I found the wallet and offered it to the man. It’s in here.

Take the license out, Ma’am.

Why was he making me feel like a criminal? He was the one disturbing me, keeping me from bed, not the other way around. I fumbled getting the card out then passed it to him.

The man seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to study the license. He looked at me, then the picture, and back to me. I haven’t had time to change my license. I’ve only been here a couple of days, and I’m recently divorced, so the name is different, I explained, self-consciously brushing at my hair. Not that it would do much. I hadn’t bothered with makeup this morning since I’d been planning a long day of hard work, and this late in the day, fatigue wasn’t helping.

"Don’t look much like