The Older Woman Read Online Free PDF

and forth to the fancy blue-and-gray ceramic bird feeder, all of them vying for a perch. He stood and watched the no-guts-no-glory chickadees out maneuver the larger birds for more than their fair share of the sunflower seeds. What they lacked in size they made up for in speed and audacity. There was a lot to be said for both qualities, and he longed for the time when he might regain at least one of them.

    Look and learn, he thought, his mind immediately going to his grandfather. The old man used to say that all the time.

    Look and learn.
    Listen
    and
    learn.

    Live and learn.

    Pop Doyle had believed that life’s lessons were everywhere if a man had enough sense to stop and pay attention—which had amused his grandson in a way that only a smartass punk kid could be amused. Doyle knew the truth of it now, though. Now when the old man was long gone, and he couldn’t tell him so.

    Doyle had stood in one place too long, and he maneuvered himself slowly down the brick patio steps. He definitely could have used Meehan’s shoulder to hold on to.

    In spite of the pain, he opted for the long way around the hedge and headed down Meehan’s driveway to the street. It was slow going, his progress accomplished in fits and starts and nothing like the days when he went running at six-thirty in the morning no matter what.

    He missed it, damn it! He once had a sense of accomplishment, and he had taken such pride in being one of the best. It was so hard to give it all up.

    No. It was so hard to have it all taken away.

    A passing car honked, and he caught a glimpse of a rolled-up, OD camouflage sleeve waving out the open window as it disappeared around the corner. Somebody who knew him, Doyle guessed. Or knew of him. Somebody who still had legs that worked like they were supposed to and who was lucky enough to have somewhere to go and something to do.

    He took a deep breath and fought down the self-pity that threatened to overwhelm him. One foot in front of the other, that’s all it took. Pop Doyle and his drill sergeant said so.

    Doyle had worked up a sweat by the time he reached Mrs. Bee’s back door. He expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t. Mrs. Bee was awake and busily ironing pillowcases in the still-cool, wide central hallway. He expected the third degree, too, but she only smiled and kept ironing.

    “You’re a good boy, Calvin,” she said when he was halfway up the stairs.

    “Yes, ma’am,” he said dutifully. “That would be me.”

    Mrs. Bee still didn’t ask him anything about his mission of mercy, so he kept going. Not that he had much to report. Meehan had been dumped—which Mrs. Bee likely already realized if she’d witnessed even half as much of the scene next door as he had. He’d have to hand it to his landlady, though. She said she only wanted Meehan in out of the rain, and that accomplished, she apparently didn’t need to know whatever sordid details he might have uncovered or why he was just now reporting in.

    He made it to his quarters eventually. Unlike the downstairs hall, the apartment was hot and stuffy. He switched the air conditioner to high and stood in front of the cold blast of air, staring at nothing. The morning stretched endlessly before him, as did the afternoon, the week, the rest of his life.

    He fried some bacon, then didn’t eat it. He maneuvered painfully to the floor instead and did an altogether impressive number of stretches and “ab crunches” just to keep the physical therapist happy. Then he showered and dressed in the uniform of the day—PT-gray running shorts and T-shirt—and running shoes that were hell to get tied.

    As a reward he picked up his guitar and managed to strum what might pass for an actual melody. Then he refined it. Embellished it. Sang along.

    And didn’t let his mind go anywhere near Rita Warren.

    He was getting better at playing the guitar, helicopter crash or no helicopter crash. He had never had much of a singing voice, but he didn’t