Purgatory, West Virginia
March 17
Finn knocked on the screen as he walked into the kitchen. May’s home was quiet. He stopped at the kitchen island. The place was clean and tidy; the counters smelled of spray cleaner.
“May?” he called.
He walked through the living room—the throw pillows were fluffed at the ends of the floral couch, the crocheted blanket draped over the back—and down the hall. Framed photos hung covering nearly every available space, a timeline of May’s life with Lennox, their love story. Her bedroom door was closed. No light peeked under the door. He tapped the wood with the backs of his fingers.
“May?”
Turning the knob, he pushed open the door. May was asleep. She was on her back, her hands folded over her chest, rising and falling ever so slightly. Four prescription bottles and a half-full water class sat on the nightstand.
She didn’t open her eyes when she spoke. “I’d ask if you make a habit of sneaking into women’s bedrooms, but I’m afraid of the answer.”
Finn observed her. “You picked a hell of a day to sleep in. I’m stripping the floors.”
“Sorry about that. I was up half the night reading one of Lennox’s spy novels. He loved a good Clancy.”
“May…”
She turned her back to him, opened the nightstand drawer, and replaced the pills. “Bone cancer. Nothing to be done. That quack in Paradise gave me six months to live three years ago.” She slipped into the robe draped across the foot of the bed, covering her flannel nightgown, and tied the sash.
“When it’s my time, I’ll handle things my way.” May cast a brief glance at the pill drawer.
“Now.” She clapped once and stood. “Let’s have some pancakes before we get started.”
By the end of the day, the floors had been stripped and sanded. Finn would stain them tomorrow. May set two place settings while he brought the chicken casserole and the bowl of green beans to the table. She grabbed the glasses. He fetched the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge.
May chuckled. “We’re getting pretty good at this.” Her eyes lit up. “Hold on.”
She moved to the other room and lifted the lid on an old-fashioned record player. An album was poised atop the spindle.
“Can you dance?” she asked.
Finn moved his arms in a stir-the-pot gesture, sank his teeth into his bottom lip, and bounced his head.
“Get over here, you idiot.” May rolled her eyes.
She flicked a switch, and the record dropped. The arm lifted, and the needle hit the vinyl, sending a dull white noise from the ancient speaker. After a moment, a gentle melody filled the room. May lifted Finn’s left arm and grasped it with her right. She placed his right hand on her left hip.
“It’s a waltz, Finn. Forward on your left foot. Up and to the side with your right, then bring your left foot over. forward-side-side, back-side-side. Can you handle that?”
“Well, I have run a marathon. So the whole one foot in front of the other thing seems manageable,” Finn drawled.
“Let’s see if those feet are as smart as that mouth.”
They began dancing. Finn stepped on her toe. “Sorry.”
After a few slow practice steps, he got the gist.
“Now, after three, add a spin and change direction,” she instructed.
By the end of the song, Finn had danced May around the living room. He finished with a dip making her squawk.
Taking her seat at the table, May served Finn a generous scoop of the still steaming casserole. “I haven’t danced in ages. Lennox loved to dance. We used to go every Saturday. That man had some moves.”
“Hey, I was giving you some moves,” Finn defended.
“No offense there, sailor, but you were mouthing forward-side-side the entire time.” She held up both hands. “But with a little practice, who knows?”
Finn pointed at May with his fork. “You’re lucky this casserole is so goddamn delicious, or I would be storming out of here. And since I’m the only dance partner you’ve got, you’d be wise to keep me happy.”
“How bout if I just keep you fed?”
Finn spoke around a huge bite of a sauce-dipped roll. “Deal.”