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he confessed, but he saw her as well.
    “Are you’re saying she’s a ghost?” she asked.
    “No,” he answered. “I’m just sayin’ she don’t want me to be alone.”
    “Is she here now?”
    Tuck peered over his shoulder. “Don’t see her, but I can hear her puttering around inside the house.”
    Amanda listened but heard nothing other than the squeak of the rockers on the floorboards. “Was she around… back then? When I knew you before?”
    He drew a long breath, and when he spoke, his voice sounded weary. “No. But I wasn’t trying to see her then.”
    There was something undeniably touching, almost romantic, about his conviction that they loved each other enough to have found a way to stay together, even after she was gone. Who wouldn’t have found that romantic? Everyone wanted to believe that endless love was possible. She’d believed in it once, too, back when she was eighteen. But she knew that love was messy, just like life. It took turns that people couldn’t foresee or even understand, leaving a long trail of regret in its wake. And almost always, those regrets led to the kinds of
what if
questions that could never be answered.
What if
Bea hadn’t died?
What if
Frank hadn’t become an alcoholic?
What if
she’d married her one true love? Would she even recognize the woman who now looked back at her in the mirror?
    Leaning against the car, she wondered what Tuck would have made of her musings. Tuck, who ate eggs and grits at Irvin’s every morning and dropped dry-roasted peanuts into the glasses of Pepsi that he drank; Tuck, who’d lived in the same house for almost seventy years and had left the state only once, when he’d been called to serve the country in World War II. Tuck, who listened to the radio or phonograph instead of watching television, because that’s what he’d always done. Unlike her, Tuck seemed to embrace the role that the world had laid out for him. She recognized that there was probably wisdom in that kind of unflinching acceptance, even if she’d never be able to achieve it.
    Of course, Tuck had Clara, and maybe that had something to do with it. They’d married at seventeen and had spent forty-two years together, and as Tuck talked to Amanda, she’d gradually learned the story of their lives. In a quiet voice, he’d told her about Clara’s three miscarriages, the last of which came with serious complications. According to Tuck, when the doctor informed her that she’d never be able to have children, Clara had cried herself to sleep for almost a year. Amanda learned that Clara kept a vegetable garden and had once won a statewide competition for growing the largest pumpkin, and she saw the faded blue ribbon that was still tucked behind the mirror in the bedroom. Tuck told her that after he’d established his business, they built a small cottage on a small plot of land on the Bay River near Vandemere, a town that made Oriental seem like a city, and they spent weeks there every year, because Clara thought it was the most beautiful spot in the world. He described the way Clara used to hum to the radio when she was cleaning the house, and he revealed that every now and then he used to take her dancing at Red Lee’s Grill, a place that Amanda frequented during her own teenage years.
    It was a life, she eventually concluded, that had been lived in the middle ground, where contentment and love were found in the smallest details of people’s lives. It was a life of dignity and honor, not without sorrows yet fulfilling in a way that few experiences ever were. She knew Tuck understood that more than anyone.
    “With Clara, it was always good,” was how he’d once summed it up.
    Maybe it was the intimate nature of his stories, or maybe her growing loneliness, but over time, Tuck became a sort of confidant to her as well, something Amanda could never have predicted. It was with Tuck that she shared her pain and sadness about Bea’s death, and it was on his porch that she