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aged eighty-four, was hardly housebound. She drove a 1967 Cadillac all over the place, including to weekly poker with Elmer, Judge Forrest, Burt Crandall and Sam Cussler. Myrna was the oldest player and most frequent winner.
    “Call her and tell her I’ll be right out,” June told Charlotte. “I need a change of scenery. And tell her I’ll bring scones from the bakery.” June began to walk away.
    “Didn’t you already have a bear claw today?” Charlotte asked.
    June stopped, looked back over her shoulder and peered at her nurse. Charlotte was past pleasantly plump, and June had never known her to be slender. She, on the other hand, was whip thin, one of those pathetic creatures who’d drunk supplements to put on weight in high school. Yet Charlotte kept track of June’s food intake as though she had an eating disorder. June lifted her eyebrows questioningly.
    “You won’t always be young,” Charlotte said, and turned her back on June.
     
    June sat in her Jeep behind the clinic, door open, and wrote down in a little notebook she kept in her bag afew questions she wanted to ask John Stone, a few things she wanted to remember to tell him.
    “My heavens above,” she heard a man say, and she jumped in surprise. There, leaning against her opened door, was Jonathan Wickham. He pounded his fist against his chest. “Look at you! What’s the occasion?”
    She didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then remembered she had dressed up just a little. Gaberdine slacks with creases as opposed to jeans and boots. Skirts and dresses were fine for city docs, but out here, when a call might come from a logging site or farm, it was more sensible to be prepared than to slip in the mud wearing a thin-soled slipper and end up with your skirt over your head.
    “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I’m interviewing a potential new doctor this afternoon. What’s that on your cheek, Jonathan? Looks like you got slapped.”
    He frowned, touched his palm to his cheek, then realized she was probably kidding, and smiled at her.
    Jonathan was one of those men who had a shot at being handsome, and spoiled it with ridiculousness. He was tall and slim, a bit over six feet. His labors were spiritual as opposed to physical, so his body was not muscular, but neither was he frail. He had a strong chin, square jaw and slightly rosy cheeks. His teeth were strong and straight, but unfortunately for him, his smile always seemed forced. And then there was that little problem with baldness. As was typical, if he’d just let it go, it would be so much better. But no, he had to try hair pieces, wigs, and now these foolish plugs.
    “Well, you look ravishing,” he said to June. “You would tempt the very saints.”
    “That’s great, Jonathan, so long as I don’t tempt you.” She turned the key and started the ignition.
    “Ah, June, I am but a mortal—”
    “Didn’t I see Mary Lou Granger storm out of the church this morning…right after Clarice stormed in? It almost seemed as though they might’ve had a disagreement.”
    He had to think about this for a moment, and June realized that Tom was right. It was hard to look at those silly plugs and keep a straight face. Jonathan was such a notorious flirt, and so bad at it, too. But there was something about June’s demeanor, she knew, that held him at bay, as though he knew, instinctively, that if he ever touched her, she’d break his arm.
    “I can’t recall what that might’ve been about,” he said. “Probably some misunderstanding.”
    “Probably,” she said, putting the Jeep in reverse. “Jonathan, I have to get going. I’m running late. Was there something special you needed, or are you just casting out compliments to see if you catch anything?”
    He laughed, backed away from the car and said, “You know me too well, don’t you? I was on my way to the clinic to ask for a handout. I’m all out of that cream you gave me for the dry skin.”
    She pulled her door