Free Porch Lights by Dorothea Benton Frank

sit around drinking for that long.”
    “Oh! My goodness! You’re right! Ha! I didn’t think that one through very well, did I? Well, anyway, we need little napkins too. I’ve got some adorable ones in the buffet drawer that I bought . . .”
    My mother was a connoisseur of paper cocktail napkins that proclaimed popular wisdom and witticisms.
    “I got it, Mom. Why don’t I set it all up and then you can check it out. How’s that?”
    “Perfect!” she said, then added in a whisper, “Wait until Deb hears that Steve’s coming for dinner! She’ll just die! She’s got a little crush on him, you know.”
    “She does?” Like you don’t, I thought.
    “Yes, she most certainly does. She’d deny it, of course, but I know that woman like the back of my hand. I’m going to set the table now. I think I’ll just use the everyday bistro dishes because we’re having steaks. I don’t want steak knives cutting on my mother’s good china.”
    “God, no.” Bistro dishes? What qualifies a plate as bistro ?
    “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking I’m an old fussbudget, but when you inherit my mother’s china and it’s in mint condition—”
    “You’re right! I’ll appreciate the care you took of it.”
    “That’s right!”
    “I knew this Italian girl in my building, and she used to call her mother a pignoli.”
    “You mean those little nuts you use in pesto?”
    “Yep. It’s Italian slang for fussbudget.”
    “Well, it’s not nice to call your mother a nut!” she called out, as she scurried away like a little mouse that had just caught a whiff of cheese.
    I ran the brush through my hair one last time and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked all right. I didn’t need a flowered sundress and prissy little sandals to prove anything to anyone. Earlier, Mom had coyly dropped the bomb that Steve was a widower, which was too bad, but what was I supposed to do? Get all gussied up like Ruby taking her love to town? I don’t think so. Besides, Mom was the one who had it going on for him, not me.
    I gathered up all the bottles of liquor and wine, glasses and setups, and arranged a bar on the weathered old trestle table on the porch. After I satisfied myself that it looked just fine, I spent a few minutes lost in the panorama of the nearly deserted beach. Its personality was constantly changing. In the morning’s rising sunshine, high-energy dogs and joggers were at play. Later, the sun worshippers arrived en masse, stretched out on blankets or chairs, reading novels and prone for hours, cooking their skin, soaking in the song of the ocean and all the vitamin D they could absorb. But the end of the day was the time I liked best, when the sand cooled, the light changed to a softer rose hue, and a kind of peace settled all over the island. It was nearly six o’clock, and farther down the shore, the last stragglers of the day were gathering up their towels and coolers, making their way toward home. Tomorrow they would go back to their jobs and resume their lives. It suddenly seemed as though everyone belonged somewhere except me. I was in an actual limbo. So many decisions needed to be made about my future. Was I really finished with my military career? I thought, Yes, I am. I never wanted to be that far away from Charlie again. I decided then not to dwell on it too much. It was too soon. Like Scarlett, I’d think about it another day.
    Maybe the future would present itself like a limousine. A brand-new white stretch would mysteriously pull up to the curb; I could just climb in, slide across a beautiful leather seat, and go for a ride along the years. That was a cowardly thought if I’d ever had one. Since when had I ever invited someone or something to take over my life? But in that moment, the thought of not having to worry about every single detail of every single day held some mighty powerful appeal. And that , I reminded myself again, was why I had come home—to not worry so,