Free The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren Page A

speed of molasses, and even then, I saw two cars in the ditch, one of them facing the opposite direction. Both were abandoned. I kept looking for Kevin, but to my great relief, I never saw the red Honda.
    I didn’t stop at the EMS station or even the school. I had looked up the address in the community phone book and knew the area well enough to know exactly where I needed to go.
    I took a right off the highway and headed north, to County Road 53. From there, I hung a left and followed it to Overlook Acres.
    I’d only been to the trailer park once in my life, in high school when my mother brought dinner to an ailing member of our church who lived in a tiny mobile home somewhere in this conglomeration of single-wides. Old cars and an occasional snow-covered sofa attired some yards, while well-groomed holiday decorations festooned others. I drove slowly, reading the numbers.
    I had nearly given up when I spotted a simple trailer perched back from the complex; it was white and rusty, a rickety porch leading to a door. A doghouse sat covered in snow some feet away, but nothing stirred from the dark opening. I noticed that someone had already shoveled the walk to the porch and wondered if maybe Bud really was up and about. Confirming the house number, I kept the engine running as I got out and opened the back end of the SUV. I’d packed everything in a cardboard box, so I slid it out and somehow managed to not fall and break a hip as I muscled the dinner up the walk.
    I couldn’t make out a doorbell in the dim light, so I knocked on the door rather awkwardly, holding the box on my hip.
    A light flickered on over the porch. A frozen geranium lurched and crumpled in a green snow-filled planter on the rail. Snow drifted across brown plastic furniture.
    â€œHello? Who’s there?”
    I wasn’t sure what to expect, if Bud could even get up, but I grinned in warm welcome as Marge Finlaysen wrestled with her flimsy metal door. She wore a house robe, the kind that zipped up the front, and no makeup. Her hair stuck up on one side, as if she’d been sleeping.
    â€œHello, Marge—it’s me, Marianne Wallace.”
    She scoured me with her eyes without a smile. Snow found my bare neck and ran down my spine. I shifted the box into both arms. “How are you tonight?”
    She said nothing but gave my box a once-over.
    I felt like an interloper on her misery and had the urge to drop the box and run. Instead, I held it out. “I brought you something.”
    â€œWhat is it?” She peered over the edge to the inside.
    â€œThanksgiving dinner.”
    Her surprise made both of us offer tentative smiles and then search for someplace else to look. What had ever possessed me to think this might be a good idea?
    â€œFor us?”
    â€œYes. I know you’ve been taking care of Bud, and I didn’t know if you’d had time to get out and shop—so, well, I don’t have anyone to eat this, so . . .”
    Marge stepped out into the cold now, openly peering inside the box. “You Wallaces have some sort of guilt complex?”
    I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I shook my head. Well, at least none that had anything to do with her.
    â€œWell, thanks,” she said, reaching for the box. I unloaded it into her arms. She backed toward the door, which I held open.
    â€œHow’s Bud?” I asked as she got halfway inside.
    â€œHe needs a heart transplant,” she said, then looked inside and lowered her voice. “But he only works three-quarter time at the school, so he doesn’t have any health insurance. And his Medicaid doesn’t kick in until next year.” She lifted her shoulder in a half shrug.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    Marge smiled now, a real smile, for the first time. “This smells real good. Thanks for thinking of us.”
    She was shutting the door when an idea hit me. “Hey, Marge?”
    She looked back at