“It was Dad’s idea. He loved it. It’s strange, but it actually kind of fits my brother. He’s a philosopher at heart, an odd guy. He worked in banking for years. He and his family lived in a house right across from Lake Calhoun. Very posh. Between you and me, I lusted after it from the day they moved in, but it was too ritzy for my limited budget. Then about five years ago, his wife, Sarah, got a bee in her bonnet that they should buy a hobby farm and leave Minneapolis behind, raise their two boys in the country. Plato didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about it at first, but he eventually quit his job and they moved to a ten-acre place just south of Rose Hill. The local paper, the Rose Hill Gazette , happened to be up for sale at the time, so Plato bought it and became a journalist—or publisher, as Sarah insists everyone call him. Odd transition, if you ask me, but then my brother never felt comfortable in banking. He said it was just a lot of men sitting around in suits trying to fake each other out.”

  “Does he have any training as a journalist?”

  “None. He majored in philosophy at UMD, minored in political science. I can’t say that he seems particularly happy with his new profession, either. Quite honestly, I don’t know what would make my brother happy.”

  “How old is he?” asked Sophie.

  “He’s forty-four. Three years older than me.”

  “Are you two close?”

  Bernice thought about it. “Not really. I mean, we don’t talk about what’s really important in our lives. The personal stuff. Feelings. We discuss ideas a lot. Politics. Current events. But never our hopes and our disappointments. I suppose it’s kind of sad. I love my brother, and I know he loves me, but I’m not sure who Plato confides in. His wife, I guess. He doesn’t have many friends.”

  Sophie adjusted the air-conditioning, making it a little cooler inside the car. Outside, the sweltering summer heat baked the fields. It had been an unusually dry summer. Good for vacationers, bad for farmers. “Sometimes I think emotional stoicism is a cultural thing. Bram calls it the Minnesooota Mule Manifesto: stubborn and silent; don’t moan and for God’s sake, don’t brag; just suck it up and keep going. Bram has a sign above his desk that says ‘Thou shalt not snivel.’ ”

  Bernice laughed.

  When Sophie glanced over at her, she saw that her friend’s good spirits were only temporary. She was back to chewing on her lower lip again.

  “You’re still very worried about your dad, aren’t you.”

  “I’m worried about a lot of things,”mumbled Bernice.

  Sophie got the impression that the problems in the Washburn family ran deeper than John Washburn’s recent stroke.

  Sighing, Bernice continued, “My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer a year and a half ago. It’s been a tough battle, but she’s healthy now. I’m terrified that my father’s stroke could change all that. She’s suffered so much—the radiation, the chemotherapy, the hair loss, the nausea, and the fear that she’d never get better. Nobody who hasn’t been through it could understand. That’s why Dad asked Uncle Milt to come stay with them. He needed help with Mom. Uncle Milt’s wife, Aunt Doris, died many years ago, so he was able to drive up from St. Louis right away. He’s been staying with my parents ever since.”

  “Your Uncle Milton is your mother’s brother?”

  “My father’s. He’s part owner of Home Built Inc., a St. Louis company that builds and sells trailer homes. Believe it or not, it’s made him a millionaire many times over. He ran the company until he retired in ’97. Way back when, Milton convinced my dad to buy stock in Home Built. It’s made my parents’ retirement a lot more comfortable.”

  “He sounds like a great guy.”

  “He and my dad are so funny together. They’re always insulting each other. Uncle Milt’s been good to have around. He keeps everybody laughing . . . well, at least part of the time. Before the stroke, Dad had become terribly moody and out of sorts.”

  Sophie glanced at a sign that said Rose Hill was seventeen miles away. “Do you know why?”

  Bernice shrugged. “I asked Mom, but she said she didn’t know.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re not sure you believe her.”

  Again, she sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sophie pulled the Lexus up to the curb across from St. Matthew’s Medical Center. “Seven-forty-five. We made good time.” She left the motor running.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Sophie. Really.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  Bernice hesitated. “Look, why don’t you come in? I’ll see how Dad’s doing. If everything is as hopeful as Mom says, and if you don’t mind waiting a bit, maybe I could buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do. There’s a cafe down the street. What do you say?”

  Sophie rarely had to be cajoled into eating, especially when her stomach was already growling. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  Once they’d pushed through the glass front doors, Bernice led the way. “Dad’s on the fourth floor in a private room.”

  “Looks like the hospital is pretty new.” The white ceramic walls gleamed.

  “The building was completed four years ago, while my father was mayor.”

  “I didn’t know your father had been the mayor,” said Sophie, folding up her sunglasses and slipping them into her shoulder bag.

  “He spent most of his life in sales, on the road selling sunglasses for Midwest Optical. But, yes, after he retired, a bunch of his friends talked him into running. He served one term.”

  Standing at last before the closed door to her father’s room, Bernice’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll be back out in a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable in the lounge. The coffeepot’s always on, so help yourself.” She nodded to a small waiting room directly across the hall.

  When Bernice pushed through the door, Sophie caught a glimpse of the people inside. Everyone was sitting around the bed. Since there was only one woman in the room, Sophie assumed it was Bernice’s mother, Mary. She was an attractive older woman, with a pretty, oval face and short, platinum hair. Her eyes seemed enormous, set against her pale face, and she looked exhausted. She was also terribly thin, no doubt a result of the cancer therapy.

  The older man in the room, the one Sophie figured was Milton, was stocky and almost bald, with a full salt-and-pepper beard. He was dressed in a blue oxford-cloth shirt, rolled up at the cuffs, and dark-brown Dockers. Sophie guessed the younger man with the moon face was Plato. He appeared hot, wilted, and uncomfortable. His thick, overweight body was packed sausagelike into a wrinkled, tan summer suit and his shaggy blond hair was in need of a good wash and cut. In fact, everything about him seemed bloated and sagging.

  Seeing Bernice in the doorway, her mother got up, pressing a finger to her lips.

  Sophie retreated to the other side of the hall as Bernice disappeared inside.

  “We have to keep our voices low,” said Mary, drawing her daughter into her embrace, then nodding to the empty chair next to Milton. “Your father’s asleep.”

  Before Bernice sat down, she bent over the bed, gave her dad a soft kiss on his cheek, then took a moment to study him. He looked exactly the same as when she’d seen him only two nights ago. Her mother insisted on combing his thinning gray hair straight back from his high forehead, the way he used to wear it when he was on the road. In the last ten or so years, he’d started to part his hair on the right side, because he thought it made him look younger. Bernice also noticed that the cot was still in the room, which meant that her mother was spending her nights at the hospital.

  “I want to know everything,” Bernice said, sitting down and dropping her purse to the floor, then leaning forward, her arms hugging her stomach.

  “He’s out of the coma,” said Plato. “But he can’t talk.”

  “But . . . is he out of danger? Will he get better?”

  Plato shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  Her brother seemed so restless tonight, Bernice thought. Usually, he was calm to the point of inertia. He could sit for hours in a chair, staring at the wall, never moving or uttering a sound. Tonight, one leg was twitching nervously and he kept crossing and uncrossing his arms. The strain was obviously getting to him, just as it was to everyone else.

  “They did another MRI,” said Milton. “Dr. Hoffman wants a specialist to look at the results.”

  “His vital signs are strong,” said Mary, her eyes fixed on her husband’s face. “We should know more in the morning.”

  “The left side of his body seems the most affected,” continued Milton.

  “When he was awake, did he understand what you were saying to him?” asked Bernice. “Did he try to communicate?” When no one jumped in with an answer, her gaze shifted from face to face. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me. If you know something I don’t, tell me!”

  “It’s nothing like that, honey,” said her mother, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s just, we don’t know anything for sure. And we’re all so very tired.”

  “But, did you try to communicate with him? If nothing else, maybe he could blink his eyes. Once for yes. Twice for no. I’ve seen people do that in movies.”

  “This isn’t a movie,” muttered Plato.

  “Your father did try to communicate with us,” said Milton. “It’s just . . . it didn’t make any sense.”

  “Are you saying his mind is gone? Is that what you’re afraid to tell me?”

  “Bernice, please,” said her uncle. “Whatever we tell you, it’s only a guess. We’ll know more when the test results come back.”

  “How long was he awake?” demanded Bernice.

  “Not more than half an hour,” answered her mother. “I know your father, and I know he wanted to stay with us, but he couldn’t. He was too tired. Dr. Hoffman thought he’d sleep through the night.”

  They’d answered her questions, but Bernice still felt frustrated, as if they were holding something back.

  “Listen, Mary,” said Milton, placing a hand on her back. “I think I should stay here tonight instead of you.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Mary, her voice firm. “He’s my husband. I can’t leave. I want you to go home, Milton, before that thunderstorm they’ve been predicting hits. You too, Plato. Get a good night’s rest. Bernice can keep me company for a while.”

  “What storm?” asked Bernice.

  Plato squirmed in his chair, then stood and walked to the windows, looking up at the sky. “We’ve been under a tornado watch all afternoon. About an hour ago, the warnings started to pop up due west of us, so it’s bound to get here sooner or later.”

  Bernice thought of Sophie. How could she send her off in the middle of a tornado? “Look, Mom, a friend of mine drove me down. She was planning to head back to the Cities after we had a quick dinner, but now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask her to stay overnight at the house. She can follow Milton home, use the spare bedroom.”

  “By all means,” said Mary. Hesitating just a moment, she added, “Is something wrong with your car?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” Bernice didn’t want to worry her mother with the state of her emotions, not when her mother’s were so fragile, so she added, “My friend Sophie is the new restaurant reviewer at the Times Register. We had some business to discuss, so she offered the ride and I took it.”

  Plato stepped away from the windows. “Let’s get going. I don’t like the looks of that sky.”

  “We have some food in the house, don’t we, something Sophie could have for dinner?”

  “The refrigerator is packed to the gills,” replied her mother. “Friends and neighbors have been bringing hot dishes, salads, and desserts over all week, but nobody’s been home to eat it.”

  Bernice stood. “Then I’ll just tell Sophie about the change in plans.”

  “Fine,” said Mary. Rising from her own chair, she moved closer to the bed and gazed down at her husband.

  In just those few seconds, Bernice could tell that her mother was already a million miles away.

  5

  After parking her car on the grass next to the Washburn’s garage, Sophie slid out of the front seat and followed Milton past the clothesline and a wide patch of vegetable garden to the back door. Walking up the three steps, she glanced at a woodpile stacked in front of what looked like a small addition to the back of the house. The white stucco and green trim made her think of her grandparent’s home in Grand Rapids. Luxuriating finally in the cool stillness of the kitchen, Sophie was grateful for the central air. Outside, the evening was thick with heat and humidity, just the kind of summer night likely to spawn a storm.

  While Milton switched on the lights, Sophie scoped out the lay of the land. A long living room dominated the downstairs, with two picture windows capping off either end. Toward the front of the house, an archway opened onto the front hall. Peering into the dimness, Sophie could make out a beautiful old wooden stairway leading up to the second floor. It hugged the far wall, a remnant of the house as it had once looked, before the interior had been modernized. The furniture in the living room seemed comfortable and functional, neither antique nor modern. None of the furnishings were particularly tasteful. Two brown plush recliner rockers faced the TV, as did a nondescript gold-and-green couch. The dominant colors in the room were gold, green, and brown, with orange accents scattered here and there. Family photos and oil paintings of flowers lined the brownpaneled walls. All in all, the house seemed homey. It smelled of coffee and contentment.

  Sophie didn’t really want to spend the night in Rose Hill, but she saw the wisdom in not heading back to St. Paul in a potential storm. Still, she hated to impose on the Washburns, especially at a time like this. She could easily have found a motel for the night, but Bernice wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Hey, Sophie,” Milton called from the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

  “Sure,” she said. She found him bent over with his head in the refrigerator. The small, round breakfast table behind him was overflowing with opened Tupperware bowls. The spread looked like a church basement feast, everything from deviled eggs to potato salad, coleslaw, fried chicken, carrots and green peppers pickled in a tomato sauce, Jell-O with canned fruit and Cool Whip, pickled cucumbers, tuna macaroni salad, cornbread, tiny bran muffins, the ubiquitous “overnight salad,” and a cold ham loaf. Sophie did a double take at the couscous salad. Someone in town was clearly a budding gourmet. On the counter next to the table were paper plates filled with brownies, chocolate chip blondies, lemon bars, spice bars, two homemade berry pies, seven-layer bars, a rhubarb crisp, and slices of pumpkin bread.

  “Help yourself,” said Milton, handing her an uncapped beer bottle, then chugging half of his before he sat down. “Just thought I’d get out a few things for us. I’m famished.” He pointed to some paper plates and plastic forks on the counter, then bit hungrily into a chicken leg.

  Sophie heaped a small plate with food. She sat down on the other side of the table and took a bite of a deviled egg. She’d always loved them, but rarely ate them anymore. Nobody did these days, what with eggs in general being frowned upon by the nutritional powers that be. Perhaps people in small towns weren’t as impressed by “experts” as their fellow city dwellers.

  “I’m beat,” said Milton, scooping out some potato salad and pickled carrots.

  “Have you been spending long hours at the hospital?”

  “And then some. I’m worried about Mary. She’s pushing too hard.”

  “Sounds like her husband made some major progress today.”

  Milton’s eyes flicked to her, then away. “Yeah. At least he’s out of his coma. Funny, you’d think that if anybody would have had a stroke, it would have been me. My eating habits are deplorable. Always have been. By all rights, I’m the one who should be lying in that bed, not John.” He shook his head, then added, “He’s worth two of me, Sophie. John was the good brother, the responsible one. He settled down with Mary, raised a family, and became a pillar of the community. I got lucky in life, but John made his own luck.”

  He seemed to want to talk. Sophie was more than happy to let him. “Are you from Minnesota originally?”

  “No, Indiana. John and I were both born in Kokomo, but we moved to South Bend in ’47 when my father changed jobs. John moved in with a buddy of his in Minneapolis after kicking around Indiana for a while. His first real job was here. He sold Camel cigarettes. Mary grew up in Marshall. They met at a party and were married a year later, in the spring of ’58. That’s when they bought this house. They’ve been living here ever since.”

  “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “I kicked around a lot, too, when I was young. I didn’t really settle down until I was in my forties. That’s when I met my wife, Doris. I used to call her the mother superior. She really straightened me out.” He laughed. “But sadly, she died a few years back, so I’m on my own now. John called me right after they got Mary’s cancer diagnosis. I told him I’d do anything to help. A few months later he called again and asked if I’d come stay with them for a while. John was having a hard time dealing with Mary’s illness. I think maybe his age was starting to catch up with him, not that any of us are that old. But the idea that he might lose Mary made him face his own mortality and . . . well, it was too much. On top of that, he had to take her to the hospital three times a week, do all the shopping, make all the meals, clean the house, hold everything together. Mary was too sick to help. And he had to stay positive, for Mary’s sake. He tried to be a good soldier, but by the time I arrived, I could see he was in terrible shape. My brother’s always been an in-charge, can-do kind of guy. He takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  Milton glanced up at a cupboard above the sink. “Look at this,” he said, rising and opening the cupboard door, revealing shelf after shelf of vitamin and mineral supplements. “And this,” he continued, bending over and opening a lower cupboard. “In case you’re wondering, that big machine is a juicer. John began making vegetable juices for everyone in the family about a year ago, insisting we all drink it. He stopped eating regular food and started on a diet of organic raw vegetables, fruits, and supplements. No meat. No dairy. No sugar. No salt. He was going to get healthy. Live forever. He’d lost control of Mary’s life; he wasn’t going to lose control of his.”