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glanced that way. The woman who came in had stringy brown hair that hung to her shoulders, wore a soiled and stained quilted coat. Despite the bulkiness of the quilting, she looked painfully thin. She went to the grocery counter and began talking to the storekeeper in low tones. Alix couldn’t make out the words, only the rhythm. The thin woman had an accent. Texas, perhaps—someplace like that. Her voice faltered and trailed off; then the storekeeper spoke in gruff tones that carried to where Alix stood.
    “I told you the other day. No more credit. You and Hod are two months behind.”
    “I know that, Mrs. Hilliard.” The words were soft, helpless.
    A pause. Then the Hilliard woman said, “Can you give me something on account? Twenty dollars?”
    “Ten is all I have. . . . ”
    “Oh, hell. What do you need?”
    “Milk. Bread. Eggs—a dozen.”
    “All right. That all?”
    “We can get by on it. And I’m grateful—”
    “Just give me the ten dollars, Della.”
    The thin woman, Della, fumbled in the deep pocket of her coat and produced a pair of crumpled five-dollar bills. Alix’s basket was full again, so she moved toward the counter. At close range she could see that Della’s complexion was sallow, her fingernails nicotine-stained and bitten to the quick.
    Mrs. Hilliard took the two five-dollar bills, rang open the old wooden cash register, and put them away. Then she said to Della, “Go pick out your groceries. And take some oranges, too—they’re cheap, and good nourishment.”
    Within a few minutes, Della had finished gathering her meager groceries and was bagging them herself, under Mrs. Hilliard’s watchful eye. When she’d finished, the storekeeper held out the copy of Sunset to her.
    “I’m done with it. You want it, you can have it.”
    Della started to reach for it, then withdrew her hand and put it into her coat pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Hilliard, but I don’t think I want it.”
    “I won’t charge you for it.”
    “It’s not that. I’d just rather not.” Delta picked up her grocery sack and quickly left the store.
    Now what was all that about? Alix wondered. The woman wasn’t averse to buying food on credit, but she wouldn’t take a free magazine . . . ? Oh, of course—it would be painful looking at all that rich food, all that affluence, when times were bad.
    Della, Alix decided, was a sensible woman.
    Jan had emerged from the hardware section carrying a handful of tools, glass cleanser, and metal polish. He motioned at Alix’s list. “Help you with that?”
    “Sure.”
    She tore off the bottom half and handed it to him. The faintly surprised look on Mrs. Hilliard’s face made Alix smile. The woman might not be curious about their tenancy at the lighthouse, but their domestic arrangements seemed to hold a certain interest for her. Apparently the men in Hilliard didn’t share the household duties with their wives.
    When the last item on the list had been crossed off, their purchases filled six large cardboard cartons. Jan took the first and went to move the car closer, while Alix counted out twenty-dollar bills into Mrs. Hilliard’s square, blunt-fingered hand. Just as she finished, the bell above the door tinkled again and two men—a lean one in a brown parka and a stockier one in a pea jacket similar to her own—came inside. A medium-sized dog—red, like an Irish setter, but obviously of mixed ancestry—followed them, circling and jumping up on its hind legs in an effort to get some attention. The men’s faces were ruddy from the cold, and they gave off a faint fishy odor. Fishermen, probably, already done with the day’s work.
    “Pack of Camels, Lillian,” the lean one said.
    The lines around Lillian Hilliard’s deep-set eyes had tightened. “Mitch Novotny, I told you before about that dog. Get him out of here.”
    The man brushed limp brown hair off his forehead and smiled disarmingly. “Now, Lillian, Red’s not hurting anything.”
    “Not yet, but any minute