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dirt to build his house, to now, four sons, one daughter, and twelve grandchildren later.
    The land has been part of Rupe since he was a youngster, running tractors, using the backhoe to haul dirt, and the dump truck to move it. Corville is his town and he never wants to venture past it, doesn’t see any reason why a person would want to leave when everything he needs is right here. He’s gone to Revere once or twice to look at used equipment and he went there to get snipped, but there’s too much traffic, too many people, too much noise. Why would a person want to live like that? House on top of house, crowded, dirty, loud, no room to breathe or think. He likes wide open. And family. That’s all he needs, not some stranger bagging his groceries or sticking letters in his mailbox. He wants to know who’s doing it, who their father is, where they live, even how many children they have. Personal, that’s what he likes.
    It’s taken Evie a bit to get used to the friendliness of Corville. It seemed too much for her at first, especially the busybodies like the Gimble sisters who parade up and down Main Street digging for snippets of gossip about any newcomer. Everybody wanted to know about Evie Arbogast, where she’d come from, not just the town, but the house, apartment? Who were her parents, how had she landed in Corville? The last was just polite inquiry, because the whole town knew the story of how Mabel and Burt Burnes took in the young girl whose mother died at Corville General Hospital. What they really wanted to know was the history of Evie Arbogast. Where was her father, what had he done for a living? Was he a factory worker, union or not? Was he a big city executive, maybe at a bank, or Rothford’s Department Store? And the mother, what about her? Why had she only had one child? Had there been miscarriages or was it by choice? The answers were important, necessary. If Evie’s mother had suffered the loss of a child in her womb, all the women in Corville who knew that pain would be instant sympathizers. But, if the single child was by choice, those same women who lost their own babies might look on Evie with bitterness, anger even, convincing themselves that her mother’s choice was wrong and selfish; therefore, the mother was wrong and selfish and by attrition, Evie would be the same. And now Evie was in their town and would spread that selfishness to the community. Poor Rupe. Poor, poor Rupe.
    But Evie never told them much; her father died when she was very young, hadn’t she said five?—and her mother had gone to work in the basement of Rothford’s Department store, sewing men’s suits, girls’ dresses, and women’s skirts and gowns from 7 to 4, five days a week. No aunts, no uncles, no siblings, and no house.
    The town swarmed around Evie when they heard the news. How tragic to be all alone in the world with nothing and no one. Corville would be Evie’s town, her family, too. And when young Rupe started escorting Evie around town in his brand new Ford Ranger, they all knew their daughters had lost their chance, but still, they drew the girl in, welcomed her. She had nowhere to go, no one waiting for her, no home, nothing. They would give her a home, a place to belong, a family. And they have.
    Rupe appreciates it, says the world is full of people who don’t want to know your name or what you do for a living, other than to fit you in an income slot for telemarketing. Not Corville. These people care.
    Quinn will go away to school. Rupe knows that, knows too that chances are good the boy won’t come back, at least not until he learns for himself that every place doesn’t welcome strangers, hold out a hand and offer them a cup of coffee. Every place isn’t Corville.
    Evie knows that.
    Evie. Rupe turns down the street to his home and thinks of the necklace he’s given her. She seems to like it, the initials and all, and the heart. He’s done good. He lets out a long sigh. He never meant to slap her,