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pay.
    “Margie,” I said, resolving to ease the tension by seeking immediate absolution. “I’m sorry. I guess I just got caught up in your story.”
    Her eyes lingered on me before she acknowledged, “Well, I suppose we all get carried away at times.”
    The corners of her mouth ticked upward in what I hoped was the beginning of a smile. “Yah,” she uttered, “go ahead and put these on the counter there. It’ll serve as our buffet table tonight.”
    I exhaled in relief. My apology had been accepted, at least to some degree, and that made me feel a whole lot better. As I said, I needed to get along with Margie to finish my job. But more than that, I’d developed warm feelings toward her and didn’t want her angry with me.
    Nevertheless, my opinion of her brother hadn’t changed. I was one-hundred-percent certain he was a murderer. Margie just didn’t need to know that. Yep, some things were better left unsaid, a rule of journalism I’d always had trouble following. But, hey, I was trying.
    Handing me the stack of plates, Margie repeated herself. “Take Ole and Lena, for instance. No two people ever loved each other more.”
    She stared off into the distance. “Years ago, Lena would sometimes take supper to Ole in the field, and she’d come back with her hair all messed up and her clothes all disheveled. I’d tease her, and she’d get so embarrassed.”
    She refocused on me. “But it wasn’t all fun and games. Lena worked hard both here and on the farm. And Ole expected no less.” A few loose hairs fell against her eyelashes and twitched with each blink. “She was his best beet truck driver, don’t ya know.”
    She grabbed a plastic bin of silverware and carted it to the counter. “When it’s time to harvest beets, ya need to work ’round the clock to get ’em out of the ground fast. And one of the toughest jobs is drivin’ a fully loaded truck through a field at night after a rain. Ya gotta avoid the wet patches, or the truck will sink so deep in gumbo you’ll need a tractor to pull it out. Now, that takes time, and ya don’t have time, so ya can’t get stuck. Lena never did.” Her smile was now unmistakable. “She just knew where to drive.”
    Margie ambled back to the prep table. “My point is that Ole and Lena truly loved each other. They shared dreams and worked hard to make ’em come true. Yet, look what happened. Ole turned fifty and got down on himself. The tramp saw her openin’ and did her ‘woe is me’ routine, knowin’ he’d wanna help. And after he did, she thanked him by callin’ him her ‘hero’ and encouragin’ him to join her in the horizontal rumba.”
    She opened the recipe box and retrieved something from behind one set of index cards. “See this picture? It’s Ole and Lena not quite six years ago, just before things went bad.” She handed me the photograph. It was wrinkled along the sides, but the center, where Ole and Lena stood in front of the café, remained undamaged.
    In the picture, Ole was tall and lanky, his hair fine and light, like his sister’s. Lena, on the other hand, was dark and tiny. She only reached Ole’s chest but didn’t seem overpowered by him. No, they stood side by side, his muscular arm draped over her shoulder, and they appeared very happy.
    As I stared at the photo, I found myself wanting to ask a question. Not wishing to ignite any more controversy, I carefully searched for my words.
    Margie took note. “So what’s goin’ on in that brain of yours now?”
    Because my search wasn’t over, I didn’t reply.
    “Oh, for land sake,” she exclaimed, “speak your peace. It’s bad for your digestion to hold things in. Say what ya want. I promise I won’t bite your head off.”
    She winked, putting me at ease enough to talk, even though I wasn’t certain how to ask what I wanted to know. “I just don’t understand how … I don’t get …” I paused and then tried again. “Well, um … Margie, why did Ole have an affair in