The End of The Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

wouldn’t rise until approximately nine o’clock and would set at three in the afternoon. Having been in the Southwest for the previous two winters, I found myself noticing and readjusting to the seasonal darkness I had accepted as normal all my life. It was an odd feeling—almost learning to be at home again.
    After a quick wake-up shower, I ate a leisurely breakfast as I enjoyed watching the light grow over the mountains to the south through the sliding glass doors that lead onto the deck, which would soon be covered with snow. Then I washed up the few dishes before assembling the ingredients for the stew I intended to simmer slowly through the day.
    Before putting it together, I called the Driftwood Inn and asked for John Walker, having made up my mind about asking him for supper that evening.
    “Just a minute,” the woman who answered told me. “He’s right here having coffee. I’ll put him on.”
    “Yes?” he said a few seconds later, sounding a bit hesitant and oddly cautious.
    “Good morning, John. This is Maxie,” I told him. “The woman you met on the spit yesterday.”
    “Oh, yes—my savior from the storm. Hello, Maxie.”
    “I’m having a few friends for supper tonight and wondered if you’d like to join us,” I told him.
    “I must assume you don’t mean that literally,” he said with a chuckle. “That they are to be served supper, not served up for it.”
    This bit of humor assured me that he would fit right in with the group I intended to invite.
    “Well . . . ,” I teased back. “Not being a cannibalistic sort, I hadn’t considered the latter, but have beef for the stew I’m about to make.”
    “With that assurance, I’d be pleased to come, and thank you for the invitation.”
    “Good. My son, Joe, is fly ing in from Seattle about noon for the weekend. I’ll send him to pick you up about five thirty, if that works for you.”
    “It does, but I can take a taxi if you’ll give me the address.”
    “Not necessary. Joe’ll be glad to come.”
    “I’ll look forward to meeting him,” John said. “And thanks again, Maxie.”
    Joyce Berman was also happy to accept my invitation and to hear that Joe was arriving from Seattle. She was originally from Helena, Montana, and had met her husband, Marty, when they both attended the University of Montana in Missoula. He had been a grade school and high school classmate of Joe’s. They had been fast friends then and still were, so I knew Joe would be pleased to have them at my table.
    I reached my friend Harriet Christianson at the library and was pleased to add her name to my list before making the last phone call, to retired fireman Lew Joiner.
    Lew was a respected local character who had always been an avid fis herman and now spent the summers ferrying halibut hunters on his small charter boat. He was a cheerful soul and loved books about the sea almost as much as he loved fishing, so I thought he and John would probably get along fine.
    My list of guests complete, I went to make the stew, after which I buttered and wrapped the French bread in foil so it was ready to warm in the oven later. With the stew simmering gently on the stove, I took Stretch for a quick walk up the road and back, then settled comfortably in my big chair near the fir eplace to, as John had suggested the afternoon before, read the rest of the morning away —or, at least, until it was time to head for the airport to meet Joe’s flight from Anchorage.

    Leaving the edges brightly gilded, the sun was already slipping behind a bank of clouds on the western horizon when Grant Aviation’s compact Cessna Caravan arrived on time at five minutes after one that afternoon. Son Joe got off with six other passengers and came striding into the airport waiting room with one small carry-on bag, already looking for me.
    He crossed the room with an eager grin and gave an enthusiastic hug to his mother.
    “Hey, Mom, I’m home,” he said in my ear.
    “So you are. And right on