Free Hung Out to Die by Sharon Short Page A

the county into a recreational path.
    I loved to bike or hike on it in the warmer months, starting at the little canal museum just outside of Paradise, where there was a convenient way to access the path. I usually managed to stick out fifteen miles, because at that point was Gratis, a town even tinier than Paradise, and boasting one sole industry: a wonderful ice cream parlor that catered to towpath hiker/bikers.
    But, of course, in November that parlor would be closed. Not many people would want to hike in that weather, as beautiful as it was, especially with the report that another snow and ice storm was on its way. Plus, I didn’t have the proper boots with me.
    I went back to my apartment instead. I thought about calling Owen again, and then thought better of it. Let him call me, I thought.
    Then I considered the wisdom of roasting a turkey breast in my oven while I was at the Burkette’s. My oven had never given me any problems. On the other hand . . .
    I shrugged off my worries. I hadn’t had a real Thanksgiving dinner at Mamaw Toadfern’s. I didn’t really want to stay at the Burkette’s and dine on their leftovers for the evening meal. And I was feeling a wee bit sorry for myself.
    So I occupied my time in preparing the turkey to roast, popping it in my oven, and setting out a few other items from my cabinet for side dishes. So the potatoes would be instant, the gravy from a jar, the green beans and cranberry sauce from cans.
    That made me think about Aunt Nora’s wonderful cranberry relish, and the cranberry stain in Uncle Randolph’s shirt, and I started to feel even sorrier for myself.
    Defiantly, I set my table with a blue Fiestaware plate that I’d just acquired at the McNally estate sale, and stuck a yellow candle in one of my only slightly chipped Candlewick candleholders (purchased at the Antique Depot), and even added a vintage linen napkin to the setting. So there. I didn’t need Owen or the silly Toadferns to have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Right?
    I’d already had a great time with Guy, whom I’d see again the next day at the mysterious meeting at Stillwater, and I’d have a quick maybe half-hour visit with the Burkettes, and then I’d come home to my cozy apartment and have a wonderful dinner for one and curl up with a book and never have to deal with my parents or the Toadferns or my strange feelings of wanting to impress the Burkettes again. A few days later, Owen would be back, and we’d work things out.
    That, at least, is what I told myself my future held, as I left my apartment, already wonderfully scented from the roasting turkey, and headed out to the Burkettes.
    Hey. We’re all allowed an occasional fantasy.
    Rachel answered the door before I even stopped knocking.
    â€œJosie! I’m so glad you’re here!” She sounded positively relieved.
    She took my coat and hung it on a beautiful antique coat tree, then ushered me into the living room.
    This was like a surreal alternate reality to the scene I’d left a few hours earlier at the Toadferns’. The layout to the farmhouse was basically the same, but the living and dining rooms were filled with expensive furniture.
    I could see through the living room to the dining room, and the mahogany table covered with carefully stacked china, ready for the corner hutch, and surrounded with matching chairs. There were no pinecone-and-construction-paper turkeys or Pilgrim candleholders. Just one centerpiece—an elaborate florist’s arrangement of flowers in fall colors.
    There had been no flaming turkey carcasses at their dinner, I was certain. For one thing, the house didn’t smell of singed meat and grease.
    Instead, the living room was pungent and toasty from the blaze in the fireplace, around which the family members sat serenely.
    Effie sat on the couch, working on a needlepoint project. She was, I quickly calculated, probably seventeen years or so older