The End of The Road Read Online Free PDF

time, too,” I told him as he released me.
    “Trust Grant Aviation—they’re seldom late,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the ticket counter and lifting his free hand in a wave to the ticket agent, a girl he had known and dated in high school.
    There are times that, with a turn of the head or a tone of voice, Joe reminds me so much of his late father that it makes me catch my breath and takes me back all those years to the time when I fell in love with and married Joe senior. What lovely and precious gifts our children give us when, all unknowing, just by being themselves, they remind us of times and people that have mattered most in our lives.

    By shortly after six the gathering was completed when Lew Joiner arrived last, handing me a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag as he came in the door.
    “Here’s one for your wine cellar,” he said. “And here,” he continued, pulling two fat paperbacks from a pocket of the coat he had hung on one of the hooks by the door, “are a couple I hope you haven’t read yet.”
    “I’ve not,” I told him, examining the titles: Rise to Rebellion and The Glorious Cause by Jeff Shaara—both labeled as novels of the American Revolution. “But the author’s name is familiar.”
    “His father, Michael Shaara, wrote a Civil War book I know you’ve read.”
    “Oh, yes. The Killer Angels .”
    “That’s the one. Jeff’s written these two like fiction and you won’t be able to put them down,” Lew told me. “They’re the whole war from the viewpoints of key figures like Washington, Adams, Frank lin, Revere, Cornwallis, Lafayette—you get the idea.”
    “Sounds good. I’ll read them right away. Just finished the book I was on and was in need of another. Thanks, Lew.”
    We had moved to the counter that separates my kitchen from the dining area, where I laid the books down and handed him a glass of Merlot.
    “Yes, thank you, Maxie,” he said. “Now, where’s that son of yours?”
    I was not surprised that Lew had brought me books, for we have shared a love of reading for years and often trade books back and forth, knowing each other’s preferences well. It’s an addiction we share with many others, for there are a lot of readers in Homer. When winter sets in seriously, probably close to half the town is reading on any given evening, if they aren’t watching television.
    I stood for a minute, looking around the large room that contains both living and dining areas—fireplace and comfortable seating at one end, table and chairs at the other. There is little I enjoy more than having friends and family gather for a meal at the house that was built by my first husband, Joe senior. Except for John Walker, everyone in this particular group had been guests of mine many times in the past and took pleasure in one another’s company.
    Lew had gone directly across the room to where Joe stood talking to John, and, introductions made, the three of them turned to examining the books that filled the shelves that rose on either side of the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire glowed.
    Marty and Joyce were seated on the plump sofa that faced the fir e, talking with Harriet, who occupied an easy chair at right angles to them. She had been a friend of Marty’s mother, now deceased. Always a sort of adopted aunt to him, I knew she would be catching up on the welfare of his two small children and his job with the Sea Life Center in town.
    Stretch, I noticed, was in his element, curled up on the middle cushion of the sofa, his chin on Joyce’s lap to make it easy for her to give him pats and rub his favorite spots—ears and under the chin.
    He switched to Marty when Joyce, noticing me looking in their direction, stood up and came across the room to join me.
    “What can I do to help get food on the table, Maxie?” she asked. “If you’re ready to ring the dinner bell, that is.”
    She was not kidding about the bell. Above the counter between the kitchen and dining area