I stifled a snort, then immediately felt bad. “Sorry,” I murmured.
She tittered again, the noise sounding less alien this time, and folded her hands across her thick puffy jacket. “Seems impossible to you, I’m sure, but it’s true. We wore a path between our houses. Probably would have stayed best friends, too, except for me stealing her boyfriend.”
I whipped my head back to study her. “So the rumors are true? When was it, like in eighth grade or something?”
She raised her eyebrows above the thick glasses. “Do you really have such a poor opinion of me that you think I’d bother with a pre-pubescent boy? No, dear. College. I stole her boyfriend the summer after our freshman year of college.”
I tried to imagine Mrs. Withers being young and plucky enough to go after Gigi’s boyfriend, but came up empty. “She never told me.”
Mrs. Withers laughed. “Of course she didn’t! She didn’t treat Gary right, but for me? He was perfect. We married, raised our children, and lived a good life.” She paused. “He had a massive heart attack when he was fifty-eight.”
I gasped. “So young. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “Yes, well. Shirley and I had managed an uneasy truce after her second marriage, but to not even call or come by after my Gary died? It was unforgivable.”
“So the two of you, what, declared war after that?” I prompted. “But I still don’t understand what any of that has to do with now.”
She took a deep breath and seemed to gather herself. “When a woman’s husband dies, it’s…it’s unimaginable.”
I looked at her. “No shit,” I said flatly.
Her eyes widened, then she recovered. “I wasn’t finished. Do you remember me coming? To the visitation?”
I searched my memory, trying and failing to recall the old woman anywhere. The entire week of Jason’s death was hazy. “I don’t. You were there?”
She nodded. “I was. You were in such a state, poor dear. To lose him so young, in such a tragic way, it was…well, like I said, it was unimaginable.”
I swallowed hard. When I spoke, my voice was thick. “Thank you for being there. I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”
She waved my apology away. “Shirley was furious I’d come. Thought I was trying to make the whole thing about me, which I honestly didn’t understand. But the point I’m trying to make is that I had to sell. My dad passed shortly after Gary, and my mom went into hospice, and there just wasn’t any money to pay the bills. So I sold it.”
Realization dawned. “The house.”
She nodded. “Broke my heart, losing it. Went through owner after owner, none of them treating it right until finally the owners who have it now. But they’re older, their kids are grown…this whole neighborhood is full of old people or nearly old people.”
I chuckled and gave her a pointed look. “Got something against old people, Mrs. Withers?”
She laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound that I would have bet my life savings I’d never hear out of her. “No, but I think this neighborhood deserves younger people. Like you.”
“So that resolution,” I started.
“Was designed to ensure that you would stay. No matter how bad things may get, you always have a home,” she finished.
I sat back in the chair, letting her words sink in. “I thought this was some hare-brained scheme to get control of the house so you could do who knows what with it.”
She harrumphed. “No. If anything, this was the only way I could figure to apologize to Shirley in a way that she might finally forgive me.”
Oh, wow. I reached my hand over to grip hers.
Before Mrs. Withers could respond, Betty’s voice floated from next door. “Is that cantankerous old woman bothering you? One word, Devon, and I’ll call Sheriff Peterson to get her off your property.”
Mrs. Withers rolled her eyes. “I honestly don’t know how I have the reputation I have.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Withers.”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Okay, maybe I do. But calling the sheriff on me?” She sniffed. “Completely unnecessary.”
Betty made her way down the steps and over to the yard. She clomped up the stairs, her gardening clogs wet with morning dew, and glared at Mrs. Withers. “You have some nerve showing up here and harassing sweet Devon. What’s next? You formulated a plan to kick her out and wanted to tell her in person?”
Mrs. Withers stood and faced Betty, her spine ramrod straight and her jaw tight. She was clearly ready to do battle.
I stepped between them, trying to contain my amusement. “Ladies, back to your corners.” Both of them muttered, and the laugh burst out.
Betty wrung her hands together. “Guess you don’t need my help anymore. Is she your best friend now?”
My god, she was precious. I bit back another laugh and reached to squeeze her hand. “No, Betty. And as for Mrs. Withers,” I glanced at her and found she was still glaring at Betty like her very life depended on it, “she was explaining some things to me.” I squeezed Mrs. Withers’ hand as well. “And I’m grateful for it.”
Betty’s shoulders dropped a smidge, but she held Mrs. Withers’ glare and gave as good as she was getting. Finally, Betty turned her gaze to me. “You sure you don’t need me to give her a good wallop?”
I snorted, then covered my mouth. “No, Betty. No. Thank you.”
Mrs. Withers stepped forward. “Devon.” Her voice was soft, kind. “Promise me you’ll stay.”
Instantly, panic flared inside my chest. “I—I can’t promise.” As good as it was to understand the reason behind Mrs. Withers and the historical society’s efforts, it didn’t make staying any easier. And I still didn’t agree with them, either, no matter their good-hearted intentions.
Her eyes widened. “But if you don’t stay, then what was all of it for?”
“I didn’t ask for any of it,” I said, trying to stop the shaking in my voice. “And I can’t promise to stay.”
