Free Firefly Summer by Nan Rossiter

I want that? ” she asked, sounding annoyed.
    There was a pause while they read each other’s minds. “Okay,” he said resignedly. “Have fun. Give your sisters a hug.”
    â€œI will,” Birdie said more cheerily, feeling briefly emancipated from his judgment.
    â€œCall if you change your mind.”
    There it was again. “Okay,” she said to appease him, but as she limped to the kitchen, she muttered, “I won’t change my mind, and if you remember correctly, I’m not the one who backed into the lamppost.”
    She checked her bag to make sure she had everything, eyed her crutches, decided she didn’t need them, slipped the bottle of pinot grigio that Alec, the new owner of the package store, had described as “crisp and elegant with hints of apple and citrus,” and the bottle of “PM” he’d said was “all the rage” into her bag. “It’s from the Patagonia region,” he’d said. “You’ll love it!” and although Birdie was old enough to be Alec’s grandmother, he was just so darn cute, with his short blond hair, blue eyes, and those stylish rectangular glasses— and so passionate about his recommendations—that she believed he could talk her into buying Boone’s Farm!
    Birdie limped toward the door, trying to balance everything, and realized Bailey was waiting expectantly. “Oh, hon,” she said, kissing her sweet forehead. “You have to stay home with Dad tonight.” The old Lab gazed at her solemnly. “I know you want to come,” she explained, “but I’m not going to Piper’s. I’m going to Sailor’s . . . and Chloe’s not going, either, so don’t look so sad.”
    Bailey folded her old limbs, clunked heavily to the floor, and put her head between her paws. “I’m sure Dad will take you for a walk, though,” Birdie consoled. Then she called through the ceiling, “Please take Bailey for a walk!” She listened to her husband’s muffled reply, assumed it was yes, and said, “See, I told you . . .”
    She opened the door. “I’ll be home soon,” she said as the Lab’s forlorn eyes followed her out the door. “Next time, Bay, I promise.” Bailey sighed heavily and Birdie shook her head as she limped toward her ice blue MINI Cooper Clubman with the license plate that read: SNWOWL. “Even the dog knows how to make me feel guilty!” she muttered, looking heavenward. “My life is just one big guilt trip, Lord. I should’ve been born a Catholic.”
    On a normal day, Truro was a twenty-minute ride, give or take, from Orleans, but as Birdie pulled onto the rotary and turned onto Route 6, she groaned—traffic was bumper to bumper. “Who are all these people?” she mumbled, and then she remembered it was the Friday before the Memorial Day weekend. She heard her phone beep and looked down. Piper had texted: Want me to pick you up? She merged into the right lane, stopped in the barely moving traffic, slid her finger across the screen, and started typing: Already left. Traffic is . . . She heard a loud honk behind her and looked up. The car in front of her had moved all of ten feet and she hadn’t kept up. As she rolled forward, she looked in her rearview mirror, gave the man behind her a wilting look, and resumed typing: terrible. See you th . . . There was another long, impatient honk, and when she looked up, she saw they’d moved another ten feet. She looked back down, finished typing her message, hit Send, and then looked in her rearview and held up her middle finger. As they continued to creep along at a snail’s pace, she looked back to see how the disgruntled driver behind her was doing, decided he was on the verge of blowing a gasket, and took her almighty sweet time the next time, too. She was sixty-seven, after all, and she deserved a little respect. . . and