Free The End of The Road by Sue Henry Page A

room to sit comfortably on opposite ends of the sofa, Stretch padding along after us to lie down again on the hearth rug.
    “Here’s to better days,” Harriet said, reaching to clink glasses with me.
    “I certainly agree with that,” I told her.
    “I figured you were fed up with calls when I got a busy signal twice, then your answering machine,” she told me. “But I decided you were most likely hiding out instead.”
    “You know me too well,” I said, and laughed. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, and what you’d do as well, I suspect.”
    “Right you are. Did you notice that the snow on the mountains across the bay isn’t termination dust anymore? It’s all the way down now, thanks to yesterday’s storm.”
    “I did notice. But I’m glad it’s warm enough to melt most of it here in town. We’ll have more soon anyway.”
    She nodded. “I saw your list on the table, including a tire change. I was going to take my car in to have its winter ones put on, but the place was mobbed. So I went to the liquor store for the wine instead. The roads won’t be slick for a while yet, so my old Galloping Gertie can wait a few days for studded shoes.”
    “You’re right, but . . . ,” I told her, then hesitated a moment before going on. “While cleaning out my upstairs closet I was thinking that I might run away from home for a day or two, go to Anchorage—do some Christmas shopping.”
    “Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. “I’d love to go with you if I didn’t have to work. Are Joe and Sharon still planning to come for Christmas?”
    “Oh, yes. And you’ll be glad to hear that they’ve solved the problem of living in two cities in different states by both moving to Portland, at least temporarily. Joe’s already lined up a forensics job there. They’re going to wait to get married until next spring. And they want to do it up here.”
    “Terrific. I figured Joe would get his act together and work it all out somehow. I’m really happy for them.”
    “So am I. They’re not churchgoing sorts, so they’ll want something small and informal, and this house isn’t big enough. Got any ideas?”
    “Well—you might ask Becky about Niqa Island. You know my niece was married out there and it was great. People came across the bay in their boats or by water taxi. The ceremony and reception could be on that big deck at her sister Gretchen’s lodge above the east cove, or inside if it rained. She’s set up for numerous guests, if they wanted to stay over, but most of Joe’s friends here probably have their own boats and would go back to town instead.”
    “That would be perfect,” I told her. “I’ll ask Becky about it. Joe said Sharon would call me soon, so I’ll suggest it to her, but I know they’ll agree that would be grand.”
    “The two of them could stay in Mark’s tree house. I’m sure he’d be happy to loan it.”
    A number of years earlier, Mark, an Anchorage-based architect and family friend, had built a spectacular tree house high above the west beach of the island between three huge spruce trees and periodically loaned it out to friends when he wasn’t using it himself. It added to the limited amount of space available in the original houses that had been built on both south-facing coves through the years after the family homesteaded on the island across Kachemak Bay from Homer. The rest of the island was BLM land, so no one else could build or live there.
    “I’ll ask, but I know they’d love it,” I responded to both Harriet’s suggestions.
    We ignored the phone and let the answering machine take care of calls while we chatted for the rest of the afternoon, making plans I could offer Joe and Sharon when they had moved successfully and things slowed down for them. I knew Sharon would call and it was nice to have options to offer for the following spring.
    I made sandwiches and heated soup for a casual dinner. We finished the wine and it was close to seven o’clock