“Madeline, wait for me,” Arbutus said from behind her, a little breathless. Madeline closed her eyes for an instant, and waited.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, buying that building,” Terry said. “Alex and I wouldn’t buy it now if you put a gun to our heads, so Gladys Hansen better not ever come asking.”

“I’m surprised they’ll have anything to do with you anyway. Your mother was putting out for a quick buck whenever she needed one, everybody knew it,” Tracy said. Everyone around them turned to look. “I guess that’s how you showed Up, a little surprise at the end of the deal. Do you think anybody really wants you here?”

Arbutus gasped. The people near them were murmuring and staring, or else trying hard not to. Madeline gave Tracy York just one brief look. “At least my mother isn’t turning in her grave over how low I’ve sunk.”

It was the best she could do. She checked that Arbutus was right behind her and made her way out of the courtroom. “I can’t believe that just happened,” she said when they got outdoors. “Those women—”

Arbutus shook her head, watching her feet as she pushed the walker across the Uneven sidewalk.

“Is that how people really are? My God. How dare they?”

Arbutus grimaced, looking sorry but resigned. “It’s a very small town, dear.”

Gladys was at the car ahead of them, flushed with victory. Madeline stayed silent in the backseat all the way home, wishing she could go see Walter. Just sit with him and listen to a baseball game. She’d always loved baseball, had been a Cubs fan as long as she could talk, and she’d discovered that Walter was the same way. His team was the Detroit Tigers. He’d get such a happy look on his face when the games came on. He’d look at Madeline, eyes glowing, and she’d return his joyful look with one of her own and they’d settle in to listen. He had a nice radio in his room. Lately they’d been visiting there instead of the sunroom. More comfortable, more like—family.

She yearned to go see Walter, really, to soothe her wounded feelings with his company, but it wasn’t going to happen. Arbutus was shifting in the front seat, sore after spending so long in the car and then in the courtroom, and Gladys was afire with her victory. She couldn’t wait to get home and start reliving it with her friends. Madeline didn’t blame her. She had done a beautiful thing, a wondrous, Unparalleled thing. Madeline didn’t begrudge her the sweetness of that triumph.

“Madeline, dear,” Arbutus began later that night when they were alone. Gladys had walked over to Mabel’s to continue gloating. “I wanted to say, don’t pay too much mind to Tracy York. She lets her mouth run away from her, but she’s not a bad person, truly she isn’t. Smaller in her mind than she ought to be. But not bad.”

“Why do you always have to defend everyone?”

Arbutus bit her lip. After a moment she said, “She’s jealous, dear.”

“Jealous.”

“Your mother was a firecracker. Oh, how the boys liked her.”

“I’ll bet,” Madeline said, thinking, This does not help.

“Tracy was always so plain. I’m afraid there was a rivalry there. Well—not a rivalry, because your mother never paid Tracy any mind at all.”

“Wow. What a great reason. Now I get it.”

Arbutus sighed. “She’s had a lot of disappointments. She was a smart girl, you know. She had a scholarship for college, but her mother took ill. Tracy stayed back to look after her, and then one thing led to another and she never did leave.”

“Yeah, well. I know how that goes, and it’s not an excuse. Turning into this nasty, hateful person—that’s her own choice. Some people are just plain rotten, you know. You don’t have to find the good in everyone.” Madeline kept washing dishes, hating how irritated she was getting with Arbutus. She wanted to destroy something. Something of Tracy’s and Terry’s, specifically. She’d waited on some shady people at Spinelli’s over the years, even got passing friendly with some of them. People who could probably arrange—oh, arson, for example. A nice, Untraceable fire. That would be beautiful.

“But, Madeline, truly, Tracy is just so angry about the way her life turned out. She can’t help herself. She never left and your mother did—”

“She died on the streets!”

“I know that, dear. So to Tracy, your mother wasted her opportunities, an opportunity she herself would not have thrown away. And now here you are.”

“Here I am,” said Madeline flatly.

“And you’re your own person, making your own way, well liked here already, successful despite everything. So Jackie still wins, don’t you see?”

Madeline could not find it in herself to answer.

“You’re very upset.”

“Yeah.” Madeline shot a grimace of a smile over her shoulder.

“Everyone knows she’s just a terrible gossip, no one will pay two cents’ attention.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what gets into her.” Arbutus sounded vexed and troubled, and this only irritated Madeline more. Bitchiness! she wanted to yell. That’s what gets into her. It’s not rocket science. Arbutus sighed again. “You never can believe a thing she says anymore.”

Madeline turned full around. “The thing is, it sounded way too much like the truth.”

Arbutus’s expression was tellingly unsurprised. “Oh dear.”

“Yes, oh dear.” Madeline spun around to lean back over the sink, hide her face, the tears that were brimming. Damn it. Of course it made sense, and of course she wasn’t a child any longer, but somewhere deep inside she had still harbored a faint dream that her mother had loved her father. That they’d been foolish kids in love. That maybe—tiny, far-fetched maybe—he was around here still, and that someone—Gladys, Arbutus, Mary, Mabel, all of them—knew who he was. Maybe one day they’d even see fit to tell her.

“Jackie was a difficult girl,” Arbutus said tentatively, and Madeline slammed a fistful of silverware into the sink.

“I don’t want to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I don’t. I don’t want to hear that she wasn’t bad, or that she was just young, or any of that. I don’t want any more half-stories or evasions or—or—or—omissions. If somebody can’t just tell me the truth, flat out, I don’t want to hear any of it.”

“All right,” Arbutus said.

Madeline bit her lips, tears leaking from her eyes. Oh God, she had yelled at dear Arbutus. But she couldn’t take it back. It was the truth, she did not want to hear the filtered, censored, rewritten bits and pieces. She took a scouring pad to the bottom of a kettle and scrubbed. Oh, she missed Emmy. She was just herself, to Emmy. Her little scaredy-cat who needed a night-light and a story at bedtime. Her artist. Her Cubs fan, her champion spaghetti eater, her best Monopoly opponent, her dear girl. Things here would never, ever be that simple.

Madeline felt a touch on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said to Arbutus without looking Up. “I shouldn’t yell at you, none of this is your fault.”

“I can take it. Talk to Gladys. I think it’s time.” Arbutus rolled away to her room, and Madeline followed to help her into bed.

After Arbutus went to bed, Madeline paced around the house. The scene in the courtroom replayed in her head. Impatient with that, impatient with being cooped Up, she headed outdoors. She’d walk down to the water.

It didn’t help. She tromped away from the shore after a while, back to Main Street. She stopped for a moment outside the craft shop window, thinking sourly of her too-romantic ideas about life. A decent job with benefits, that’s what she needed. Sighing, she went on. There were a dozen cars and trucks outside the Tip Top, and the windows were open, letting the noise spill out into the street. The clamor sounded friendly, lively. People were having fun in there. Eating burgers, drinking beers, listening to music. She pulled open the heavy door. All this time and she’d never been inside. With any luck, Randi Hopkins wouldn’t be working tonight.

The bar’s high ceilings were covered in pressed tin painted dark green. High-backed wooden booths painted the same color lined the walls. Tables were wedged in close to one another, and at the far end was a pool table with a game in progress. A few people turned to look when Madeline arrived, but most went on with their dinners and drinks and conversations. She slid onto a stool and ordered a beer. The bartender was a middle-aged man in a T-shirt and jeans who served it with an automatic, Uninterested smile. Thank God, a lack of curiosity. “That all?” he asked.

“For now.”

He came around again half an hour later—the beer was only half gone, but he offered her another.

“How about a shot of brandy?”

He pulled down a glass and poured the shot.

Madeline swallowed it in one gulp and a wave of relaxation washed over her. “Give me another one of those,” she said, and he pulled another glass down. As easily as that, she was feeling just a tiny bit better.

She didn’t hurry through the second shot. She’d just sit and enjoy the novelty of it. How exciting to see Unfamiliar faces that might just stay Unfamiliar. (And wasn’t that ridiculous? But true.) When this drink was gone, she’d go. Simple.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said in her ear a few minutes later. She swiveled and slipped and found herself almost in Paul Garceau’s arms. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her and then instantly let go. “Careful. What’re you doing here?”

“What’re you?”

“I came to see how the Tigers are doing.” He lifted his chin Up at the TV that hung in one corner. “My set’s on the fritz.”

“So you’re a fan.”

He said yes, he was. He wasn’t overly friendly but he wasn’t Unfriendly either, so that was progress. She’d more than half-cleaned out her savings account to give him some of what she owed him (she didn’t have any idea how was she going to keep paying her bills if the apartment didn’t sell, but this was not the time to think about that), and she would get the rest. When the apartment sold, she would.

“Me, I’m a Cubs fan. Loyal, that’s how we are. Uncle Walter is a Tigers fan like you. I respect that, I do. They’re terrible. Worse than the Cubs.”

Paul ordered a beer and when he asked if she wanted anything—he was so polite, even though he hated her—she ordered another brandy. It was going down so easily.

Madeline ordered a fourth brandy while Paul was still sipping his first beer. She felt nervous, sitting with him, but she wanted to sit with him. Now that she was just slightly tipsy she could admit to feeling a burn of attraction for him. That was inconvenient. But he was very appealing, with that little goatee and that limp. What had caused that? She wanted to ask, but she wasn’t that drunk.

“So how’ve you been?” he asked, and without really planning to she told him about the hearing. She grew very earnest and somber and shared with him a great deal of her sorry little story; her fears and hopes and dreams, the scene in the courtroom, all sorts of things. Toward the end of the last shot of brandy she began having a little trouble getting her words to cooperate.

“How about we take a little walk?” Paul said, pushing her shot glass away and shaking his head at the bartender when she made motions to order another.

“I’m a grown-up! I can order my own drinks.”

“Let’s just take a walk anyway.”

“I’m tired of walking around this stupid town,” Madeline said Under her breath—she thought it was Under her breath—but she let herself be steered out the door.

“I didn’t take you for much of a drinker,” Paul said as they navigated down the sidewalk.

“I drink alone!” This seemed witty and also quite sexy.

“Mmm. Not very often, I think.”

“Hey! I’m not a nun or anything, you know.” She tangled her feet and stumbled.

“I’m thinking maybe this walk idea isn’t working. How about I fix you something to eat?”

“Oh, no way. You’re always working. You gotta get up in a few hours, go down to that prison. Besides, why would you want me in the place? Nope, don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice gruff. Angry, probably. Always and forever angry at her. Well, so be it.

“Not hungry,” Madeline declared. “Hey. We’re at the hotel. Want to come in? I want to show you something.”

“Ah—”

Madeline fumbled in her pocket and brought out Gladys’s key and dangled it before him, then headed around the side to the back door.

She sat Paul down on the horsehair sofa—no doubt Gladys Hansen’s mother’s best sofa once Upon a time, before it was relegated to the attic—and flung herself at him. The moment she leaned in toward him—possibly a kiss would happen, was she crazy to think that?—he shot Up off the couch and dashed down the stairs. She’d followed, suddenly quite a bit more sober. She played it cool at the door.

“Hey, no hard feelings, right? About this I mean. Because obviously you have, and have a total right to, hard feelings about the other—about the truck. Which I will fix. I’m working on getting the rest of the money.”

“I’m seeing Randi, Madeline.”

“What?”

He shifted Uneasily. “I’m seeing Randi. I thought I should tell you.”

She stepped back from him, gave him an imperious, clueless look. “Why? Why should you tell me, particularly? I don’t care.” She closed the door in his face and straggled back Up the stairs, clinging to the banister, the brandy having quite suddenly caught up with her. So you’re with Randi, so what. I’m buying the hotel, what do you think of that? Before she got all the way to the attic she turned around and straggled back down. She was going home. She didn’t want to stay here tonight, drunk and alone.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gladys asked, and Madeline told her nothing. Or rather, noshing. Gladys’s eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes!” Madeline said, suddenly Unrepentant. Yes she was, and she wasn’t sorry, either. She was thirty-five years old, thank you very much, she guessed she had a right to go out and get sloshed every now and then if she wanted.

“Unbelievable,” Gladys said, shaking her head. Madeline erupted.

“Really? And why is that? I mean, considering my mother, why is it so surprising, huh? And Joe? Good old Joe, was he a teetotaler? I doubt it. Emil told me they’d tipped a few back together down at the Trackside. Hard to imagine an old toughie like Joe taking it easy on the booze. Maybe that’s why Jackie was such a—” Even drunk and furious, Madeline could not quite say “fuckup” in front of Gladys. “Mess,” she finished lamely.

“Joe was not a drunk! That’s not true! I’ll not have you saying such things. Why, you’re no different from her. Just say whatever you want to suit your own ends.”

“How would I know what’s true and what isn’t? I’m not so different from her, huh? I wouldn’t know, because no one’s ever seen fit to tell me.”

“Blood tells,” Gladys spat.

“Why don’t you tell? Just go ahead and tell me what happened. Tell me all about it. What are you afraid of anyway?”

Gladys glared at her, her mouth pulled down into a pinched and worried frown.

Finally she got Up and put on her bathrobe, went into the kitchen. For lack of anything else to do she warmed Up a cup of coffee from what was left in the pot on the back of the stove. She drank too much of the stuff, she knew. “Hello there, cat,” she said to Marley when he jumped in her lap, and wondered how she’d ever done without him. Half an hour later she was yawning, thinking of getting back into bed, when a knock came at the kitchen door. What on earth?

She opened the door to find John Fitzgerald, wearing his fireman’s clothes.

“Hoped you might be Up,” he said, his round face creased with worry. “Saw your light. Hate to be bringing bad news, but I figured you’d better know right away.”

“Know what?”

“It’s the hotel. There’s a fire.”

Gladys was dressed and out the door with John in minutes. She couldn’t take in anything he was telling her. Couldn’t get past those first words.

The fire was out by the time John got her there. Someone coming out of the bar had seen flames in the attic window and called the volunteer fire department. There was really, thank goodness, very little damage. A curtain had caught fire and led the flames Up the wall to the ceiling. The old wallpaper was burning, and the lathe beneath the plaster was getting hot, and things were just about to explode when the fire department got there.

The damage was contained to the attic sitting room. Right now everything was dripping and smoky, but it could be fixed, John said. There was no structural damage. They hadn’t even broken any windows because the front door had been open. Setting it all back to rights would be an Unholy mess, but it could’ve been so much worse. The whole place would’ve gone Up like a tinderbox once it really got going; the volunteer firemen with their one small pumper truck would never have been able to put it out.

Gladys felt shaky at the thought of it. It was August, hot and dry, the whole town might have caught fire. “But I don’t Understand,” she kept saying. “How did it start? The place is empty. I haven’t been in there in weeks.”

“Ah, well. Someone has, though, you see. Someone had candles burning.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Kids broke in, maybe,” John said. “Or maybe not kids. Not with the front door wide open. No booze bottles lying around, either.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

John looked very troubled. “There’s pictures propped against the walls. Canvases, like. Paintings. Those anything of yours?”

Gladys couldn’t answer. She felt as if all the air she’d ever breathed had just been sucked out of her. Madeline couldn’t have done this, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. But in her heart Gladys knew that she had.

“Gladys?”

“I want to see for myself what the damage is.”

“No. You are not going in there right now and that’s final.”

“But I am. It’s my place.”

“No one’s going Up those stairs Until we know full well the fire is one hundred percent out and there’s not going to be any problems with the propane or anything else. Don’t argue with me about this.”

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

“I’ll take you back home,” John said, gently then. “I’ll come by later and let you know what the situation is.”

“I’ll wait here.” Gladys crossed her arms over her bosom and stared Up at the attic windows, and John let her be.