Sophie nodded to her husband. “Tell me about it. When Bram and I first got married, one of his favorite foods was—”

  Bram cut her off. “My listeners aren’t interested in ancient history, dear.”

  Sophie regarded him patiently, and then continued, “One of his favorite foods was tuna noodle casserole.”

  The woman inside the control booth tossed her head back and laughed, pointing at Bram through the glass.

  “Another American standard,” said Bernice.

  “I wrote to his mother,” Sophie continued, “and asked her to send me her personal recipe. Bram would go into raptures about how wonderful it was. He used the same words to describe it that other people reserve for life everlasting.”

  Bram groaned.

  “I was thrilled the day I finally received his mother’s recipe in the mail. That night, I made it for him. It was going to be one of his birthday presents. I used Campbell’s Cream of Celery soup, just like my mother-in-law said. Mixed it with sour cream. I chopped up onions and celery and sauteed them before adding them to the glop. I covered the mess in orange cheddar cheese and topped it with crushed potato chips. And then I baked it.”

  “I’m ruined,” said Bram, shaking his head, refusing to look up. “No maitre d’ will ever seat me in a four-star restaurant again.”

  “I lit candles. Obsessed over the wine. What does one serve with tuna noodle casserole?”

  “One of life’s imponderables,” muttered Bram.

  “When my husband got home that night, I presented him with the casserole. Was he pleased? Was he?”

  “Yes,” said Bram, about to hit the button and turn off her microphone. “He was.”

  “No,” said Sophie, grabbing his hand. “He wasn’t. And why? Because I’d failed to use the right noodles. I’d bought the flat egg-noodle variety. Bram insisted his mom always used the kind of noodle you could blow through.”

  The woman in the control booth nearly fell off her chair.

  “You make me sound like I’m eight years old.”

  “You are.”

  Bernice was laughing now, too. “That’s a marvelous story. I’d like to use it in my next book. It illustrates my point beautifully.”

  “But back to meat loaf,” said Sophie.

  “This should be a lesson to all you other talk show hosts out there.” Bram rested his chin on his cupped hand. “Never bring your wife on your show. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost control.“

  “We were talking about meat loaf,” said Bernice helpfully.

  “I think we’ve done that topic to death.”

  “But one last comment,” said Sophie. “The Times Register is currently running a special statewide competition. Everyone in Minnesota is invited to send his or her favorite meat loaf recipe to the paper. New or old, it doesn’t matter. The deadline is next Friday. In early September the winners will be announced. We’re giving out a first, second, and third prize, as well as three honorable mentions. The winning recipes will be published in the paper. The winners will spend a weekend at the historic Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul. They’ll be wined and dined at some of the finest restaurants in the Twin Cities, and will be featured with their winning creations on WTWN’s Good Morning with Bailey Brown.”

  “Such a deal,” said Bram, peering at Sophie over the top of his reading glasses. “Now, since we’re doing promos, I’d like to remind my Minnesota listeners that next Monday my show will be broadcast live from the Itasca County fair in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I like to get out of the studio every now and then, and county fairs give me a great opportunity to meet and greet my audience.”

  “I’m sure the cows and chickens are lining up to get good seats,” said Sophie.

  “You’re in rare form today, darling.” Bram cleared his throat. “Now, I think we’d better talk about that book of yours, Bernice. Otherwise, your publicist will have my head on a plate.”

  “I’d stay away from culinary metaphors on this show.” Sophie took a sip of coffee. She was surprised to see Bram pop a couple of antacid tablets into his mouth. She hoped the tuna casserole revelation wasn’t giving him heartburn.

  Bernice jumped in. “Sophie and I were talking about cafe society on the way over here this afternoon.” She glanced around the claustrophobic studio, her eyes drawn to the gray honeycombed soundproofing material covering the walls. “It’s a fascinating topic.”

  “In your new book,” said Bram, “you discuss such subjects as roadhouses and speakeasies in the Roaring Twenties. Cafes in the Jazz Age. Gay cafe society in San Francisco during the seventies.”

  “But interestingly,” Sophie interjected, “you wrote nothing about the role of the cafe in rural, small-town America. That’s always fascinated me.”

  “Me too,” said Bernice. “But that will have to wait for another book.”

  “Actually,” Sophie continued, “since we’re on the subject, I’m planning to feature small, Main Street cafes in my restaurant reviews for the next few months. If anybody out there knows of a great cafe, drop me a line and give me the details.”

  “On that note,” said Bram, acknowledging a signal from his producer, “we need to break for weather and traffic. Steve Hardy, take it away.” Bram removed his headphones and leaned back in his chair.

  The “On Air” light went out.

  “Are we doing okay?” asked Bernice tentatively. “It’s not too boring, is it?”

  “Listening to my wife deconstruct my life is never boring.”

  “Come on,” said Sophie, “I was just having some fun.” Over the rim of her coffee mug, she watched him press a hand to his chest. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just . . . you look like you’re in pain.”

  He coughed a couple of times. “I had a greasy grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. I think it’s stuck somewhere between my lungs and my backbone.”

  The woman in the booth held up one finger.

  “Wait until I tell all my listeners about your wine and popcorn diet,” said Bram. “That was your finest hour.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He made his eyebrows dance.

  The rest of the hour went by quickly. At five, when the local and regional news came on, Bram took the opportunity to walk Sophie and Bernice to the elevators. “Thank you, ladies. That was fun.”

  “It . . . I mean, I wasn’t too . . . dry, was I?” asked Bernice. In high heels, she was several inches taller than Bram, who hit the mark at just over six feet. Tall, plain, large-boned, and string-bean thin. The heavy horn-rimmed glasses she wore made her look even more like the egghead intellectual she so clearly was. Her hair was shoulder length and brown, mixed with a touch of gray, and no matter how hard she tried to style it, wind and humidity always returned it to an unruly mass of curls.

  “No, you were just fine. It was an interesting hour.”

  “Was I fine, too?” asked Sophie, blinking innocently.

  Bram smiled, kissing the top of her strawberry-blond hair. “You’re always fine.” Sophie was as short as Bernice was tall. Short, and—staying with the bean analogy—more of the Great Northern variety. Both she and Bram fought their weight constantly. Bram, however, could hide a great deal more under his suit coats than she could hide in a dress. Most everyone thought he was the spitting image of the more mature Cary Grant. He generally milked the likeness for all it was worth.

  When the elevator arrived, Sophie and Bernice stepped on. “See you tonight,” said Sophie, blowing Bram a kiss as the elevator doors closed.

  When they were finally alone, Bernice said, “You have such a handsome husband.”

  “Bram would agree with you.”

  “Oh? Is he . . . conceited?”

  “Actually, no. A little vain perhaps, especially when it comes to clothes, but he’s really a sweet guy.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Sophie recalled that Bernice had been engaged once, but she’d been in the process of disengaging when they first met. That was ten years ago. As far as Sophie knew, she hadn’t dated much since.

  As they approached Sophie’s silver Lexus, the cell phone in Bernice’s purse gave a beep.

  “I need to take this,”she said, her expression clouding over. “It may be about my father. He had a stroke last week.”

  Sophie hadn’t heard. “I’m so sorry.”

  “My mother and my Uncle Milt have been at the hospital just about round the clock since it happened.” She clicked the phone on and said hello. After a few seconds, she raked a hand through her hair, and said, “Slow down, Mom. I can’t understand you. You say he opened his eyes?” Again, she listened. “Can he talk? What? Just calm down, okay? You need to remember what the doctor said. Take it one step at a time.” She listened a moment longer. “Okay, I’m leaving right away. Maybe I can beat the rush hour traffic out of town. I’ll be there by . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Seven-thirty. Eight at the latest. Tell Dad I love him. And stay strong, Mom. This is a good sign. I love you, too.” Bernice’s hand shook as she stuffed the cell phone back in her bag.

  “Where do your parents live?” asked Sophie.

  “Rose Hill. It’s out near Marshall. Dad’s at St. Matthew’s Medical Center.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine. Just get me back to the paper. My car’s parked in the lot across the street.”

  The radio studio was located north of St. Paul. Once they were on the freeway flying back to Minneapolis, Sophie looked over at Bernice and saw that she was crying. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “No,” she said, sniffing into a tissue. “I’m not. I’m a mess. I’ve been driving back and forth between Rose Hill and Minneapolis all week and I’m exhausted. I’m also scared to death.”

  “But it sounded like good news. Your father opened his eyes?”

  “But he can’t talk. And his blood pressure is still through the roof. It’s not good, Sophie. Even if he survives, he might never—” Instead of finishing the sentence, she broke into tears.

  Hesitating for just a moment, Sophie said, “Why don’t you let me drive you to the hospital? I don’t have anything on my agenda for the rest of the day. Please, Bernice. In your condition, it’s not safe for you to drive.”

  Bernice glanced at her wristwatch again.

  “If we stayed on the freeway and didn’t get off in downtown Minneapolis, you’d save half an hour.”

  Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, Bernice relented. “Maybe you’re right. But I hate to impose.”

  “It’s settled. You navigate and I’ll drive.”

  3

  Mary Washburn hung up the receiver, then turned and rushed down the broad corridor to her husband’s hospital room. As she pushed softly through the closed door, she found her brother-in-law, Milton Washburn, and her son, Plato, standing on one side of the bed. On the other side a doctor bent over her husband, shining a tiny light in his eyes. Mary stood silently in the doorway and watched. “Is it true?” she asked finally. “Is he really awake?”

  “So it seems,” said the doctor. “Can you hear me, John? Can you give us a sign?”

  They all waited, but no sign came.

  Looking up, the doctor continued, “I’ll need to order more tests, but this is good news. We should all be hopeful.”

  Mary sagged against the door and started to cry. Ever since her husband had been rushed to the hospital last Thursday night, she’d been holding so much guilt and fear inside, she felt the weight would crush the life out of her. Now it looked as if he might recover. Or, at the very least, there was hope. And that meant she had another chance to be the wife he deserved, the wife he would need to help him get better. She had to put the last year of her life behind her, no matter what it took.

  “Are you all right, Mom?” asked Plato, rushing to her side. Milton followed, and together they helped Mary over to a chair.

  “I need to go see about those tests,” said Dr. Hoffman, moving around the end of the bed and striding to the door. “But before I leave, I want you all to understand that I need your help. So does John. Now more than ever, it’s important that you talk to him.” He gave them all a stern look. “Read to him. Sing to him. Touch him. Tell him about the weather, the fish you caught this summer, the stock market. Anything you think might engage him.”

  “Of course,” said Milton, casting a glance at his brother’s still body lying under the covers. “We’ll do everything we can.”

  “Mary, will you be all right? Perhaps you should go home. Get some rest. John needs your strength right now more than ever, but if you get sick yourself—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, sucking back her sobs. “I have to stay.” She looked at the cot she’d been sleeping on for the past week. How could she leave now, when her prayers finally had been answered? “I’m just so glad—”

  “We all are,” said Dr. Hoffman.

  He couldn’t understand, Mary thought. He was a young man. His whole life was ahead of him. How could anybody his age truly understand the complex emotions she was experiencing right now? He had no idea what her life had been like.

  After the doctor left, Milton walked back over to the bed. “Hey, Johnny,” he said, taking firm hold of his brother’s hand. “It’s Milton. Your little brother. Mary and Plato are here, too. And Bernice is driving down from the Cities. Can you hear me, Johnny? Can you say something? Come on, just one little insult to let me know you care?”

  Mary got up and went to his side. “I love you, sweetheart.” She kissed his forehead. “John? Do you hear me?” She was startled to see him look straight at her. “John, I’m here.” She glanced up at her son. “He looked at me.”

  “I don’t think he moved his eyes, Mom,” said Plato.

  “No, I saw it. He recognized me.” She took his right hand and lifted it to her lips. “Honey, you’ve come back.” That’s when she felt it. A slight pressure. He was reaching out to her! “He squeezed my hand.”

  Milton and Plato exchanged glances.

  “John, can you say something? Please try. I need to know you’re okay.” Was his mind still intact? Had the stroke taken it away from him?

  This time, his hand moved. It pulled away from her. As it did so, his arm dropped back onto the bed.

  They all watched in hushed amazement as John struggled to move his lips. At first, nothing came out. Then, soft as the brush of a bird’s wing . . . air. He was forcing air out of the right side of his mouth. Finally, closing his eyes and concentrating, he said, “Phh . . . ahhh.”

  “John!” Mary cried. “Oh, John. You’ve come back!”

  “He’s trying to say something,” said Milton, shushing her.

  John moved his eyes. This time, they came to rest on Plato.

  “Dad, it’s me. Sarah and the kids aren’t here, but they’ll come by later. They’ll all be so thrilled to see that you’re awake.”

  John’s gaze rose to the ceiling. “Pah . . . pahh,” he said again, lifting his right hand a few inches off the bed and making a tiny circling motion.

  “He wants his papa,” said Mary, clasping her hands in front of her.

  “He never called our dad Papa,” said Milton, scrutinizing his brother’s face. “He’s saying . . . paper. He wants to write something to us. Is that it, John? You want to try and write?”

  “Here’s a notepad,” said Plato, retrieving one from the vest pocket of his rumpled tan suit. “And a felt-tipped pen.”

  Milton carefully placed the pen in his brother’s hand, the notepad underneath. “Go ahead, John. If you can’t talk, maybe you can write.”

  Everyone waited as John’s hand began to move. Slowly, with great difficulty, he scratched out:

  i dying?

  “No, no,” said Mary, assuring him with great vehemence. “You’re going to be just fine.” She had no idea if that was true or not, but she had to be positive.

  His hand moved again.

  don lie

  “I’m not lying,” said Mary. “Tell him, Milton. He’s going to get better now.”

  “Sure, Johnny, you’ll be fine. Why, before you know it, you’ll be back making those yummy carrot juice cocktails, just like before.” He smiled and shuddered at the same time.

  John turned his eyes on his son.

  “Say something to your father,” said Mary, encouragingly.

  “I . . . ah.” Plato smiled. “It’s hot out, Dad.”

  Mary gave him a disgusted look.

  John’s eyes swung back to Milton.

  “Sorry for that crack about the carrot juice, John. You know how much I hate health food.”

  Again, John’s hand began to move. This time he wrote:

  krby runbek

  “What’s he saying now?” asked Milton.

  “He’s talking about that handyman who did some work on our garage,” said Mary. “The one who died last week in that awful bombing.”

  “Weird,” said Plato, watching his father’s hand continue to move.

  Everyone stared in shocked silence at what John Washburn wrote next.

  4

  “You have a brother, don’t you?” asked Sophie, watching the road ahead, but still enjoying the panorama of farms and fields as they whizzed past. As soon as they’d left the city limits, she’d called Bram on her cell phone. He hadn’t returned to their apartment at the Maxfield Plaza yet, so she left him a voice mail message explaining that she was driving Bernice to Rose Hill and not to expect her back before ten.

  “Yes, his name is Plato,” said Bernice, one hand trailing through the ends of her curly brown hair.

  “Unusual name.”