Chapter 7: Hands on Me

On Sunday night the club ate dinner at Mae's bar, the way it did every week.

The lasagna sat on the counter all day, and neither of us touched it.

At noon Rhett stood in the kitchen doorway with his keys in his hand.

"Dahlia knew the storm and the road," he said. "She knew the cabin."

"She did," I said.

"If she's Jo, she knows one more thing that I never told anyone. I'm going to ask her, when the time is right."

He didn't say Jo's name the way he had said it the night before.

He said it like a question, and I didn't give him an answer.

I had planned to stay home.

Rhett said the thirty days started with being seen, so I put on my jeans and my leather jacket and walked in beside him at seven.

The room went quiet in one long wave, table by table.

Dahlia sat at the long table with Morton, in a seat three down from the head.

Rhett's seat.

She waved at me, small and friendly, and I waved back because I had no idea what else to do.

Mae slid a plate of meatloaf in front of me without a word.

Underneath the plate was a folded napkin.

I opened it in my lap.

Mae had written in pencil: Nobody here signed it.

I folded it back up and put it in my pocket.

Halfway through dinner a big gray-bearded rider at the end of the table cleared his throat.

"Hey, Prez," he said. "No offense. People are asking how this works."

"How what works?" Rhett said.

"Her. Dahlia. Your wife." The rider waved a fork. "Who's riding home with who?"

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