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“Deke first popped the question almost a year ago. I put him off, saying it was too soon after his
wife died, and it would cause talk. As time passes, that has become less effective as an argument. I
doubt if there would have been all that much talk, anyway, given our ages. People in small towns
realize that folks like Deke and me can’t afford the luxury of decorum quite so much once we reach a
certain, shall we say, plateau of maturity. Truth is, I liked things fine just the way they were. The old
fella loves me quite a lot more than I love him, but I like him plenty, and—at the risk of
embarrassing you—even ladies who’ve reached a certain plateau of maturity aren’t averse to a nice
boink on a Saturday night. Am I embarrassing you?”
“No,” I said. “Actually, you’re delighting me.”
The dry smile. “Lovely. Because when I swing my feet out of bed in the morning, my first thought
as they hit the floor is, ‘Might there be a way I can delight George Amberson today? And if so, how
shall I go about it?’”
“Don’t exceed your brief, Miz Mimi.”
“Spoken like a man.” She sipped her iced coffee. “I had two objectives when I came here today. I’ve
accomplished the first. Now I’ll move on to the second so you can get on with your day. Deke and I
are going to be married on July twenty-first, which is a Friday. The ceremony will be a small private
affair in his home—just us, the preacher, and a few family members. His parents—they’re quite
vigorous for dinosaurs—are coming from Alabama and my sister from San Diego. The reception will
be a lawn party at my house the following day. Two P.M. until drunk o’clock. We’re inviting almost
everyone in town. There’s going to be a piñata and lemonade for the little kiddies, barbecue and kegs
of beer for the big kiddies, and even a band from San-Antone. Unlike most bands from San-Antone, I
believe they are able to play ‘Louie Louie’ as well as ‘La Paloma.’ If you don’t favor us with your
presence—”
“You’ll be bereft?”
“Indeed I will. Will you save the date?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Deke and I will be leaving for Mexico on Sunday, by which time his hangover will have
dissipated. We’re a little old for a honeymoon, but there are certain resources available south of the
border that are not available in the Sixgun State. Certain experimental treatments. I doubt if they
work, but Deke is hopeful. And hell, it’s worth a try. Life . . .” She gave a rueful sigh. “Life is too
sweet to give up without a fight, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes. So one holds on.” She looked at me closely. “Are you going to cry, George?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that would embarrass me. I might even cry myself, and I don’t do it well. No one
would ever write a poem about my tears. I croak.”
“How bad is it? May I ask?”
“Quite bad.” She said it offhandedly. “I might have eight months. Possibly a year. Assuming the
herbal treatments or peach pits or whatever down Mexico way don’t effect a magical cure, that is.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you, George. Expressed to a nicety. Any more would be sloppy.”
I smiled.
“I have another reason for inviting you to our reception, although it goes without saying that your
charming company and sparkling repartee would be enough. Phil Bateman isn’t the only one who’s
retiring.”
“Mimi, don’t do that. Take a leave of absence if you have to, but—”
She shook her head decisively. “Sick or well, forty years is enough. It’s time for younger hands,