Times of Trouble: Times of Trouble

By A. R. Shaw

Get the entire Times of Trouble series in one Box Set

1. in the Meantime
2. In the Lean Times
3. In the Rough Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apocalyptic Ventures, LLC
• Release date: May 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223689447

A. R. Shaw

USA Today bestselling author, A. R. Shaw, served in the United States Air Force Reserves as a Communications Radio Operator. She began publishing her works in the fall of 2013 with her debut novel, The China Pandemic. With over 15 titles to her name, she continues the journey from her home in the Pacific Northwest alongside her loyal tabby cats, Henry and Hazel and a house full of books.

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Times of Trouble Box Set

Times of Trouble Box Set

A COZY APOCALYPSE SERIES

A. R. SHAW

ARShawBooks.com

Copyright © 2023 by A. R. Shaw

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

In the Meantime

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

In the Lean Times

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

In the Rough Times

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Also by A. R. Shaw

About the Author

In the Meantime

For my grandmothers: Hilda Jo and Irene

Make new friends, but keep the old; Those are silver, these are gold.

JOSEPH PARRY

One

Irene lowered the back of the pickup truck and caught one of the smaller pumpkins as it tried to roll over the edge. The whole load shifted slightly, as if the escapee had triggered a domino effect amongst the cargo of ripe, fleshy fruit, and, despite her petite frame, Irene spread her arms like a scarecrow ready to catch any others that threatened to fall.

Will you be making your pumpkin pie again? Sylvia asked. The younger woman hung back, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them to keep them warm.

It wouldn’t be a feast without it. When she was certain the load was stable, Irene gestured to Sylvia to help her start unloading the pumpkins into the barn. We’ll can and pickle the rest to see us through the winter.

Irene was unsure how it had happened—it had been a gradual evolution, she supposed, a role she’d gravitated towards as one of the older members of the community—but she secretly liked it when the younger folks looked to her for guidance or expected her to provide all the answers.

When she was younger, if anyone had suggested that this might be where she ended up, in her hometown of Silverdale, Washington, harvesting fruit for the winter and discussing her famous pumpkin pie with the end-of-fall feast in mind, she’d have dismissed it without a second thought. Irene learned all her traditional skills from her grandma, who maybe envisaged more than she ever let on. Baking. Sewing. Knitting. Young Irene had the patience to learn such hobbies, because while she was sitting quietly with Grandma inside the cozy house, she didn’t have to worry about friendship groups that she was always too intimidated to wriggle her way into. Jigsaw puzzles: another pastime high on the older woman’s list of favorites. She loved to read too, and it scared the life out of her to think that once she exhausted the supply of books in the local library, she’d never again experience the joy of reading the first page of a new story.

Sylvia glanced at the Olympic Mountains with their snowy hats in the distance and shivered as she reached for one of the larger pumpkins. There’s a bite in the air already, she said, eyes lowered. I don’t remember it being this cold this early last fall.

Well, I recall adding a little extra spice to the soup when I prepared the first batch. Maybe this was why Irene was a natural matriarch—she didn’t pander to the whims and worries of the youngsters. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together, same as we always do.

She nudged open the barn door with the heel of her boot and inhaled deeply as she stepped inside. Irene loved it when the barn was filled with the food they’d cultivated during the summer. Even if she closed her eyes, the smell of earthy potatoes, bulbous rutabagas, crunchy carrots, and parsnips, and all the other vegetables and fruit they’d already stored in here ready for winter preparations, filled her with warmth and satisfaction. She’d felt the same way when her son David was a little boy and she watched him devour his favorite meal. Providing food for others was the most gratifying feeling ever.

I remember mild winters from when I was a little girl. It confused the animals that were supposed to be hibernating, so they didn’t know whether to cozy up or stay awake. Nature has its seasons for a reason. Irene lowered the pumpkins gently onto the barn floor beside a heap of fat sweet potatoes. Why do you think all this food harvested in the summer is perfect for winter fare?

I guess. Sylvia shrugged. I look forward to winter food more. Pies. Soups. Broths.

Irene straightened and smiled. That’s just your body’s way of dealing with the lower temperatures. Comfort food. There’ll be plenty of that with this lot.

They stepped back outside to collect more pumpkins from the truck. The truck’s paintwork was starting to rust in places she noticed, the red over the wheel arches corroding and turning mottled, fiery orange and dank green. Winter colors.

It was peaceful. The sky was solid blue like a child’s painting, the fir trees tall and majestic, the water smooth as glass. Irene loved the peace, wore it around her shoulders like a fur-lined cloak, buried her head in it sometimes. Like now. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Sylvia. The winters were harsher now, last winter the coldest so far, and she sensed the chill in the air too. But it was all about perspective. They had a barn full of food—well they would have once they finished unloading the pumpkins—a couple of the men were out there now chopping logs for firewood, the whump-whump of their axes as comforting as the peace they were disturbing, so they’d have warmth too. What more could they possibly want?

Sylvia’s face was turned toward the sky. Her nose was pink. She wore a sweater beneath a flannel shirt, but Irene noticed the way her collarbones protruded above the neckline of the sweater, the way her bony fingers twitched in the cold. She couldn’t help herself. She felt responsible for keeping the younger members of the community happy. She still had wool. When she was done preparing food for the end-of-fall feast, she would start knitting a scarf for Sylvia and maybe some mittens. Her patterns were so old that she could barely read the words on some of the pages, or maybe that was because she needed new prescription spectacles, and she’d felt the first twinges of arthritis in her swollen thumbs last winter, but she’d take her time. She might even ask her next-door neighbor Hilda Jo if she could tease a few strands of glitter from some of the cocktail dresses she still clung to in the hopes that, one day, she’d be invited to another party where she could out-sparkle the other guests. Sylvia would appreciate that, she hoped anyway.

They worked up a sweat shifting the cargo from the back of the truck, Irene secretly squeezing the fattest pumpkins and setting some aside to make pie.

I remember carving faces out of pumpkins when I was a little girl, Sylvia said. Mom would put tealight candles inside and we’d place them all around the house. The scarier the faces, the better. We’d give them fangs and bat wings and everything. The younger woman’s face lit up with the memories. I remember she made special spooky suppers. She made me put my hand on a slice of bread so she could cut around it, and then she’d chop off the ends of the bread fingers and trail ketchup from them like blood.

Irene laughed. I remember adding red food coloring to soup and floating plastic eyeballs in the bowls to scare David. One time, he must’ve been around six or seven, he dressed up as a zombie to go trick-or-treating, and he refused to take that costume off for a week after.

Did that make her son sound precocious? She hoped not. At the time, she’d battled with him to get the tattered costume off and get him into some decent, clean clothes for school, but her memories were rose-tinted now, and all she could see was his chubby face and his perfect smile and how she’d pretended to be scared when he gave her his best zombie impression.

Sylvia picked up on the older woman’s reminiscing. My mom dressed me up like Wednesday Addams one time, she said. Bought a black wig with long black pigtails and dressed me all in black, then she made me promise not to speak or smile or react to anything. I just had to stand dead straight when I knocked on folks’ doors and stare them out until they got spooked and handed over some candy.

Irene faced her, adding a tiny pumpkin to the pile in the other woman’s arms. Did it work?

I think so. I remember my mom laughing all the way around town and telling me that I was destined for the stage. Sylvia waited for Irene to gather a pile of pumpkins into the pouch that she’d made from her jacket, before heading back inside the barn.

Maybe that’s what they were missing, Irene thought. Why couldn’t they combine the feast with a Halloween celebration? They could spare some of the smallest pumpkins for decorations, and she was certain Hilda Jo would want to jump on the bandwagon and provide the costumes and makeup if it gave her a chance to shine. Sure, things had changed, but it didn’t mean they had to give up on whatever made them happy. Life was still for living, right? Or else, what was the point?

She didn’t say anything to Sylvia in case the others dismissed the idea without a debate, but she could picture it already, the feast alive with flickering candlelight, the table heavy with hot food, and flowers, and even some of the mayor’s wine. She might even carve hand shapes from toasted bread, like Sylvia said her mom used to do, just to put a smile on the young woman’s face.

Smiling to herself, she finished unloading the truck.

Two

With the truck emptied, the two women set about chopping up the pumpkins. Irene had brought a large basket from home, and it soon began to fill with large chunks of juicy flesh. Setting the seeds aside for replanting, they discarded the stringy parts of the flesh to leave out for the wild animals to feast on. Irene was a firm believer in making everything count, and the creatures were only trying to survive too, so why shouldn’t they get their own end-of-fall feast? She’d already prepared the jars for canning. They sat in a row on her kitchen counter, spanking clean, and waiting to be filled.

She loved the sight of jars filled with preserved food. Was it human nature? The world was filled with all these wonderful fruits and vegetables, in glorious reds and oranges and yellows and mauves, and the hours she spent filling the glass containers with food that she knew would see them through the winter were some of her happiest. She felt like a squirrel admiring a stash of nuts, knowing that she’d still be happily full when the world outside turned white.

Sylvia, she noticed, was a little squeamish when it came to chopping the fruit, flicking the seeds from her jeans, and picking the stringy flesh up between thumb and forefinger like it was something toxic.

Get stuck in, Irene said. She gave the younger woman a demonstration in how to get the best of the firm flesh. Don’t be afraid of it. It won’t bite.

The barn gradually filled with the sweet pumpkin aroma. One thing she had to say for nature, it always came through when humans needed it most.

Careful! A voice reached them from the barn entrance. Almost got me. The woman pulled a pumpkin seed from the red bangs framing her immaculately made-up face.

Sorry. Sylvia smiled up at the new arrival and immediately set about picking stringy orange flesh from her clothes and rubbing away the damp patches.

Hilda Jo had that effect on people. Even now, after everything, Irene had never seen the woman leave the house without lipstick and mascara, and who knew how she kept her hair that precise shade of red-with-a-hint-of-gold. She liked to imagine her neighbor brewing a red potion in the dead of night, a veil of cloying, devilish mist floating around a heavy, black cauldron … but maybe she was doing Hilda Jo a disservice. Maybe she was a natural redhead as she claimed to be.

You could always help instead of standing there making the place look untidy, Irene said. She brought the cleaver down heavily on a chunk of pumpkin and took pleasure in making the other woman jump.

I’m looking for George, Hilda Jo said.

Irene peered around the barn and lifted the largest pumpkin that remained to be cut up, gazing at the empty space underneath. Nope. Not seen him anywhere.

Hilda Jo rewarded her with a dazzling smile. Irene bet she’d been perfecting it in front of a mirror since she was old enough to talk. She could imagine the other woman as a child, stamping her dainty foot and demanding attention. Irene was born and bred in Silverdale, but Hilda Jo was raised on a farm in Kentucky, the only daughter of a horse breeder and an actress. She claimed to have six older brothers who taught her how to knock out a man with one punch by the time she was thirteen and milk a snake so that she could suck the poison from a deadly bite and cure it in the blink of an eye.

Irene didn’t believe the stories no more than she believed the hair color was natural, but others seemed to cling to Hilda Jo’s every word. Even now, Sylvia had abandoned the slimy knife she was holding and was watching the other woman, wide-eyed, taking in the clean, ivory pants, and the tasseled jacket that resembled an outfit from a glitzy, Vegas cabaret show.

Very funny, Hilda Jo said. My, what is that smell?

Irene instinctively tilted her face and sniffed. What? she said. What is it?

Hilda Jo wrinkled her nose, taking care not to reveal too much of her nostrils, and said, Oh, silly me, it’s the pumpkins. I’ve never gotten used to that sickly stench. It’s quite overpowering, isn’t it? It’s a wonder you two can breathe in here. She turned away so that she was facing the outside, leaned against the doorframe, and made an exaggerated gesture of sucking in great gulps of air.

Irene rolled her eyes. Always the actress; it was a wonder everyone still fell for it.

Sylvia laughed, her features coming alive. What will you be making for the end-of-fall feast? she asked.

I’ll be making my sweet potato pie as usual. The redhead’s smile was back. You can’t beat ‘em. Everyone said so last year.

Everyone? Irene’s eyes narrowed.

That wasn’t how she remembered it from last fall. Same as it wasn’t how she remembered it all through the winter either; everyone loved Irene’s pumpkin soups. And her pickled squash chutneys. The pear chutney always went as a treat over the holiday season, but she’d deliberately saved the new recipe, the squash and plum chutney, for the Christmas meal the community came together for. She recalled the praise she’d received as they stuffed themselves on George’s mature cheese and Irene’s squash chutney along with Hilda Jo’s spicy biscuits. Crisped to perfection, was the comment most bandied about. She’d had several glasses of wine by this point, but she was almost a hundred percent certain they’d been talking about the chutney and not the biscuits.

I think the cleared plates were the giveaway. Hilda Jo examined her fingernails which were perfectly coordinated with her hair and lips as though she were headed for a night on the town and was waiting for a stretch limo to pull up outside.

Irene shook her head. She shouldn’t bite; she promised herself each morning when she opened her curtains and saw Hilda Jo’s curtains still closed, that she wouldn’t bite again, that she’d allow the woman’s words to wash right over her and act like she hadn’t even heard them. Then Hilda Jo opened her mouth and somehow, she couldn’t stop herself being sucked right in. The pumpkin pie plates were all cleared too.

The birds have to eat something, poor little dears.

I love both pies, Sylvia said, her gaze flitting between the two older women. I’ll take a slice of both with cream and brown sugar. Dad will too.

You’re a honey. Hilda Jo blew her a kiss. Maybe we should set ourselves a little competition. See whose pies get eaten the fastest. She arched her perfectly tweezered eyebrows. What do you say, Irene?

Bring it on. Irene had heard the phrase used by the Perez kids; she wasn’t entirely sure if it was appropriate right now, but it seemed to fit the purpose, and the words were out before she could stop herself.

Sylvia chewed her bottom lip. Will there be a prize for the winner?

Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something, Hilda Jo said.

Perhaps I can make a crown for the winner. Irene was thinking of a whimsical ring made from dried grasses and twigs, pretty daisies and tiny, blue cornflowers woven amongst them. The headdress conjured up childhood images of fairies and sprites, toadstools and wishing wells, and the magical cupboard that led the Pevensey children to Narnia.

I have just the thing. Hilda Jo smiled at them. She’d still not set foot inside the barn as if the pumpkin scent had created an invisible barrier preventing her from coming any closer. It’s the cutest tiara once worn by Grace Kelly in an old 50s movie.

Irene puffed up her cheeks and then, when she realized that Sylvia was watching her, tried to smooth the action into a smile. How do you know it was worn by Grace Kelly?

My ma bought it from a vintage shop. It came with a written guarantee.

So do a lot of things, Irene mumbled.

It sounds awesome. Sylvia was still wide-eyed.

You’ll be helping me make the pies? Irene asked her now.

If it meant the younger woman got to feel like Grace Kelly for a night, she supposed it would be worth allowing Hilda Jo her moment to gloat over the tiara. Come to think of it, Irene wasn’t even convinced that Hilda Jo made her own sweet potato pies. She claimed the recipe had been handed down to her by her grandma, but the woman claimed a whole lot of things that were equally as unbelievable; what did she do with all those rings and bracelets while she was elbow-deep in flour?

Sure, Sylvia said, sounding even less sure than she’d been when they first arrived at the barn. I was going to ask if you’d teach me how to make corn husk dolls for the table too.

Irene’s shoulders relaxed a little, and she smiled at the young sandy-haired woman. If her fingers weren’t covered in pumpkin pulp, she’d have hugged her right about now. It would be my pleasure.

Hilda Jo eyed up the basket and the remaining pumpkins scattered around the two women. Here’s an idea, she said. Why don’t we combine the end-of-fall feast with a Halloween celebration? We could carve pumpkins—if you can spare some of course—and, Sylvia, you could help me make some lanterns to string around the picnic area. We could all dress up in costumes. I have the most authentic witch’s cloak you ever did see in a trunk in my attic. I once played a sexy witch in a stage production of—

I was going to suggest a Halloween celebration myself, Irene interjected.

Well, then, I’m glad I beat you to it. It’ll be so much fun. Hilda Jo was still grinning as she left the two women in the barn and went to retrieve the promised costume from her attic.

Three

At home, Irene was in her kitchen preparing the pumpkin for the pies. She’d been replaying in her head, the conversation between her and Hilda Jo that occurred in the barn, still trying to figure out how the woman had manipulated yet another situation to make it seem that she was the creative one. Had she overheard Irene and Sylvia discussing Halloween? No, she couldn’t have because they were still carrying the pumpkins into the barn at that point, and there was no way Hilda Jo would’ve kept quiet for so long before she felt the need to interrupt them. She must’ve noticed that Irene had set some of the smaller fruits aside for Halloween decorations. That was it. Irene only had herself to blame for not speaking up sooner. It was the story of her life.

She opened the cabinet above her head and located a small glass jar, right at the back of the shelf. It was her secret ingredient. Cardamom. Unlike her neighbor’s fanciful stories about family recipes and tiaras worn by real-life princesses, this trick had been handed down to Irene by her mother-in-law. It would’ve worked a whole lot better if she could get hold of some fresh vanilla pods, but there was nothing she could do about that. Her only consolation was that, if she couldn’t get vanilla, neither could Hilda Jo.

Irene’s husband Bill used to love her pumpkin pie. Maybe that’s why the recipe was so precious to her. She smiled to herself and inhaled the spicy aroma with the freshly added ingredient. Her husband would come home from work, walk into the kitchen, and close his eyes in anticipation when he realized that his wife had been baking. She closed her own eyes, remembering.

They say that if you want to sell a house as a home to a prospective buyer, you should have coffee brewing and a pie baking in the oven when they arrive to look around. There had to be some truth in that, she thought. Even though she’d not yet put the pies in the oven, she could already smell the sweet aroma and was instantly transported back to when her son David was a growing lad.

He was into his sports and athletics. He never stopped moving. Fidgeting, climbing, running, spinning around. When he was at kindergarten, Irene had worried that he might have an underlying condition, ADHD, or something similar; not that she wanted to put a label on it, but he simply found it impossible to keep still and his attention rarely lasted longer than a few minutes unless he was performing a physical activity. She’d gotten him into every sports club that she could afford to send him to, and he excelled at everything.

She remembered how proud of himself he’d been when he won his first medal in gymnastics. I’m going to compete in the Olympics when I’m older, he’d said, his beautiful face already smiling at the image of him standing on a podium, receiving his gold medal.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed loudly, dabbing her face with the hem of her apron. He was eleven when he was hit by a car. Too young. His left leg was shattered, and they’d had to pin it back together again with metal plates and steel pins. He always joked that his leg set off the alarms in the airport whenever he traveled; he even carried his medical records around with him to prove that he wasn’t trying to smuggle an illegal item onto the flight. It didn’t stop him though. He transferred his passion to sailing.

Irene slid open the second drawer of the cabinet beneath the floury counter and pulled out a picture of David standing beside the two-person sailing dinghy he was traveling in when the apocalypse hit them. He was with Gabe, his best friend from middle school who’d remained his closest friend all through high school, and college, and beyond. They were traveling around the Bahamas.

She traced her son’s face with her fingertip. She’d not even worried when he announced their plans for the summer. He’d been sailing competitively for around ten years at that point, since he was fourteen, and he’d traveled further than the Bahamas on his own, so when he told her that Gabe was going with him, she imagined a summer of island-hopping, one spectacular panorama to another. Beach parties spent chasing the sunsets. Snorkeling. Scuba diving. Swimming with sharks. She’d kissed them both goodbye without ever knowing that would be the last time she’d see them.

Would she have acted differently if she’d known?

If someone had said to her "Irene, you’ll never see David again, so what do you want to say to him?" would she have begged him not to go?

She didn’t think so. But David was the reason why she’d never left Silverdale. What if he came back tomorrow and discovered she was gone? He’d have no way of tracing her, and she’d never be able to live with that. She had to live in hope—what else did they have?

Sometimes, she saw the way some of the others watched her, especially when they came together as a community and reminisced about the days before everything changed. She didn’t need anyone to spell it out. She knew the chances of David returning were slim, but they were not zero. Even if they were, she’d still be here, she thought, but her neighbors didn’t need to know that.

The spores that killed most of the world’s population circulated around the planet from the ocean. She wasn’t in denial. She’d avidly followed the news her entire life, taken an interest in politics, in world affairs, in climate change. So, when ecologists announced that they’d developed a fungus to clean up the oceans of oil spillages and the tons of plastic that was killing marine life, she’d spent hours poring over articles baring the pros and cons of the procedure. Scientists declared that it was harmless to marine life and humans. Not entirely without risk, but was anything? They’d tested the fungus. The results were nothing short of miraculous, although they were vague about the figures, the different media outlets providing conflicting information aimed to confuse the general public. Until the miracle became something else. The new miracle, one that the scientists hadn’t predicted was that, out of a population of almost 350 million, only a couple of thousand people possessed a natural immunity to the spores that drifted inland from the ocean. Everyone else died from the subsequent respiratory infections. Her husband Bill was a casualty of the apocalypse. Same as Hilda Jo’s third husband Dirk.

Yet Irene and her neighbor were both immune. They had no way of discovering what made them any different to the people who died, but Irene clung desperately to the hope that whatever she had was genetic and that she’d passed it onto David. He had his dad’s eyes, that was undeniable, but he’d inherited every other feature from his mom. Each morning, before she climbed out of bed, Irene kissed the framed photograph of David that sat on her bedside table and prayed that he’d inherited her immunity. Please, God, she whispered, if I gave him anything, please let it be that.

Most people had migrated away from the coastal areas, hoping to avoid the toxic spores inland. But Irene stayed. Hilda Jo stayed because she refused to leave her horses behind; the woman had a heart buried somewhere beneath the glitzy sweaters and the delusions of grandeur. The others stayed because … well, Irene guessed they all had their reasons. Some she could guess at; others were less obvious. Nonetheless, they’d all come together as a community in a way they never had before the end of the world as they knew it.

Irene had read many dystopian books in her time, all predicting that, in the event of a catastrophic, global pandemic, humans would turn against one another in a final struggle for power. As if trying to survive would not be difficult enough. But in Silverdale, they’d gravitated together, joined forces to see this thing through, drawing on each other’s strengths and skills, and learning to get along with one another. It was all about gratitude. They were grateful to still be alive. Grateful for what they had. Some, more than others maybe, but she could ignore petty squabbles when she thought about her son.

There was no one to man the power stations when the apocalypse wiped out the nation’s population, so they’d reverted to the old ways of cooking over wood-burning stoves and powering their homes with individual solar generators. Their cell phones had still worked until they’d not been able to charge the batteries.

So, she had no choice but to stay here and wait for David. Even if she was the last woman standing, she’d still walk down to the marina each evening before sunset and scan the horizon for a glimpse of a sailboat before whispering to the moon to bring him home safely.

Four

Wow, you’ve been busy, Irene. Andrew admired the jars of brightly colored squash covering the large pine table in Irene’s kitchen.

He was a gently spoken man. Good looking, Irene had always thought, especially with the early silver creeping into the stubble on his chin. He and David would get on well if they ever got the chance to meet. She fancied that Andrew was in the wrong profession; he should’ve been a nurse or doctor rather than a contractor. Now, he carried out all the maintenance around town, and was everyone’s first port of call if they had a problem that they couldn’t solve themselves. She never once heard him complain, and he had a way of speaking to people that made them feel like they were important, like they had his sole attention.

He’d make someone a great husband someday.

She smiled at him. I like to keep busy.

They carried the first jars out to Andrew’s red pickup which he’d backed onto Irene’s drive. Irene stopped on the back porch when she saw Hilda Jo beckoning to him over the fence separating her yard from Irene’s. What was the woman wearing? It looked like a kaftan, the hem swishing across the ground and the purple and silver robe separating to reveal Hilda Jo’s slim legs as far as her thighs. She wore silver sandals, and her toenails were also painted scarlet. Irene prayed that the woman was actually wearing something beneath the robe, although she wouldn’t put it past her to be stark naked underneath, hoping to give Andrew a glimpse of what he was missing.

The woman’s German shepherd, Mitch, came bounding towards the fence behind her. Although he was large enough to leap the fence with no effort, he’d never cross the boundary between the two houses without permission, as though he respected Irene’s personal space, but she still flinched whenever his large paws appeared on the top of the fence, as they now did. The dog’s mouth broke into a wide smile as Andrew stroked his head and snuck a biscuit out of his jacket pocket.

Andrew! Hilda Jo tossed her red curls over her shoulder. She must’ve been freezing, Irene thought, not that anyone would notice with the amount of makeup she was wearing. Just the man.

Andrew settled the armful of jars that he was carrying into the back of the pickup and went over to the fence. Hilda Jo, he said. How can I help you?

It’s my bed.

Irene almost dropped what she was carrying but quickly covered up her snort by pretending to trip over a rock on the driveway.

Your bed? Andrew asked innocently.

It’s developed a squeak and it’s keeping me awake at night. I wonder if something needs tightening.

Irene rolled her eyes. Straightening, she glanced at them standing either side of the fence, Hilda Jo twisting the string of pearls she was wearing around her fingers. Any moment now, Irene thought, she’s going to wrap that string around his neck and drag him into her lair, and he’ll never be seen again. She mentally shook herself at the vivid images in her head. Maybe she should stop reading fantasy for a while and pick up some cozy mysteries next time she visited the library.

I’ll pop in next time I’m passing by, Andrew said.

He went to walk back to Irene, as the other woman caught his hand and said, Do you not have time right now? I left the bed unmade just in case.

Give him his due, Andrew smiled right back at her like she’d just told him she’d popped the kettle on to make a coffee. I promised Irene, I’d help her shift the last of the food into the town hall basement.

Oh, Irene can manage without you. Hilda Jo dismissed her neighbor with a wave of her hand. Strong as an ox, that one.

Irene didn’t hang around. She went back inside and loaded as many jars as she could carry into a cardboard box. It wasn’t that Hilda Jo made it sound as if being strong was a negative quality, it was more the blatant disregard for the fact that what she and Andrew were doing benefitted the whole community, and not only Irene. Whereas, fixing the squeak in her bedsprings was only going to benefit one person, as far as Irene was aware, anyway.

When she went back outside, she was pleased to see that Andrew had remained safely on the ground this side of the fence. Hilda Jo had moved even closer and was practically pouring herself into his arms; one wrong move on Andrew’s part, and he’d be finding out what was underneath that kaftan whether he wanted to or not.

Irene slid the box onto the back of the pickup. They were practically the same age, she and Hilda Jo, so why did she feel like she was old enough to be the other woman’s mother when she behaved this way? Was it because Hilda Jo still acted like a teenager, flirting with every man she ever met? Or was it the way she dressed like she was still on the stage?

Hilda Jo had been married three times. She never spoke about her first two husbands other than to say the first one wasn’t wealthy enough, and the second was too wealthy. The comments were always accompanied by a sly smile and a dismissive wave before Hilda Jo changed the subject, so it was impossible to know if she were telling the truth, or if this were simply a line she’d adopted before she met husband number three and it had stuck. What did it even mean, the second was too wealthy? Had she divorced him for the settlement? Irene wouldn’t put it past her. But why did she insist on still wearing such impractical clothes when there was no one left to impress?

This was it now. They had no idea how many other people were out there, but in the years that had passed since the apocalypse, no strangers had ever passed through Silverdale. No one had come looking for them. No one had arrived to tell them about other communities like theirs and to ask if they wanted to join forces. So, when Hilda Jo lost husband number three, she’d probably kissed goodbye to any further marriage ceremonies.

Irene left them to it. She was carrying the final load outside when she saw Sylvia walking along the road toward them. Her cheeks were pink, and when she raised her eyes and spotted Andrew and Hilda Jo chatting over the fence, she swiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers before fixing a smile in place. Irene raised a hand to wave to the young woman, but she must not have spotted her behind the truck because she walked straight past the house and joined Andrew at the fence.

Irene felt as though she was watching a scene from a movie. Andrew straightened, putting some distance between him and Hilda Jo. He smiled at the young woman as if genuinely pleased to see her. Good, Irene thought. Not because she wanted to see her neighbor put in her place, but because she’d noticed that Sylvia’s dad mostly gave her a hard time these days. Sure, he’d lost his wife to the apocalypse, but Sylvia had lost her mom when she was only a teenager. All the things a girl her age should’ve been going through were ripped right out from under her. She never went to college. She never graduated, or got a job, or a boyfriend from what Irene had seen, and all the while, her emotions and hormones would’ve been all over the place, and she didn’t even have her mom to talk to about it. Meanwhile, her dad drank himself into a stupor most nights, finding his own comfort in the bottom of an empty bottle. For a few hours at least.

Irene wished the man would open his eyes and see what was right in front of him rather than dwelling on what he’d lost. She’d tell him, too, if he ever gave up the drink and became a little more approachable.

I’m going to decorate the picnic area for the feast, Sylvia said to Hilda Jo. Do you want to come and help?

Have you carved pumpkins? Hilda Jo asked.

Uh-huh.

What about candles? Did you collect as many as you could?

Yep. Sylvia looked brighter already.

Stay right there, Hilda Jo said. I have something to show you. She disappeared inside her house and left Sylvia and Andrew by the fence, both looking rather awkward in each other’s company.

Irene had never noticed this before, the way they looked at each other without their eyes ever seeming to graze the other person, like magnets drawn together and then repelled before they could make contact. She felt hot inside her own clothes just watching them.

Raising the back of the pickup, she walked towards them, her boots crunching across the gravel. Sylvia faced her, startled. How are the corn husk dolls coming on? Irene asked.

Yeah, great. Sylvia composed herself and managed a smile. Thanks to you. We’re going to decorate the picnic area for the feast.

Irene turned her attention to Andrew who was shuffling dirt around with his boots. I can manage shifting this stuff if you want to go along and help out.

This seemed to give Andrew the kickstart he needed to get back on track. No, I promised I’d help move this stuff and that’s what I’m gonna do.

Hilda Jo returned then. Like the actress she said she used to be, she’d made a quick costume change while inside the house and was now wearing an Aztec-print all-in-one suit, in shades of fiery orange, burnt umber, and sunny yellow. Even her hair had been strategically scooped behind her head and was draped across one shoulder, the curls thick and glossy in a way that Irene’s short, brittle hair had never been. Irene caught herself staring, openmouthed, and clamped her jaw shut.

I found the costume I was telling you about. Hilda Jo handed a silky black cloak and a broomstick to Sylvia. I used to have a long black wig to go with it, but, you know, I think we can work with your own hair. She reached across the fence and teased Sylvia’s sandy locks over her shoulders, plumping up the bangs around the younger woman’s face. Yes, we can work with it.

Andrew’s gaze flitted between the two women. So, are we having a Halloween celebration?

Yes, I thought, why the heck not, Hilda Jo said, claiming all the glory for the idea. Celebrate whatever we can, while we can. Her eyes slanted suggestively. I’m sure I can find something for you to wear in my costume trunk.

I … wow … Andrew swallowed. You have a whole trunk full?

Irene cleared her throat, offering him a lifeline, before it became painful to watch. Shall we go?

I … Yeah, sure. The man’s eyes came back into focus, and he headed back to the truck closely followed by Irene. He turned the key in the ignition. I never know if Hilda Jo is being serious or not, he said.

Join the club. Irene watched Hilda Jo watching them as they drove away.

Five

"I apologize for Hilda Jo’s behavior." Irene waited until they were out of sight before she spoke, as if her neighbor might have super-human hearing.

Last I checked, I don’t think she was your responsibility, Andrew said, grinning at her.

I know, but I can’t help thinking that maybe I should say something.

Don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy, Irene. I think I can take care of myself.

Irene stared out of the passenger window. She knew that, but she guessed it was the maternal instinct in her that wanted to protect him from the other woman’s feminine wiles. Maybe when she looked at Andrew, she saw David instead. Was he big enough to take care of himself, or did he still need his mom’s help? What about David? Was he waiting for her to find him or to get a message to him somehow? Had she even done everything in her power to find her son since the apocalypse? Not that she could hop onto a plane and fly to the Bahamas. No gas. No one to control the flight paths or man the airports. It wasn’t even as if she could take a dinghy and sail singlehandedly across the ocean—Irene and boats simply had never seen eye-to-eye, which was ironic considering she lived so close to the water. On a stormy day, she only had to stand on the end of the pier for her stomach to start churning.

Andrew’s thumb tapped a beat against the steering wheel. There were no radio stations to tune into since everything changed; another thing that Irene had taken some serious coaxing to get her head around was that the CDs she still owned were probably the last she would ever get to buy. Before he left, David had tried convincing her to download music rather than keep spending money on bits of plastic that would be obsolete before she knew it, but she was glad she’d stuck to her convictions. Now, her old CDs, especially her favorites—Joni Mitchell, Celine Dion, Bon Jovi, Meatloaf—were what got her through the endlessly lonely evenings. Sometimes she slept on the living room couch with the music still playing. Even though she and her husband had vastly different tastes in music, the songs made her feel like he was still there, his arms wrapped around her, spooning her while she slept, and whispering in her ear that she was not to give up hope. David would come home soon.

They were quiet the rest of the journey, comfortable in their silence. They were taking