The sky over Shreveport glowed hazy and strange, sinking into the inky horizon as Matthew guided the car down the vacant highway back to Roe. Adele turned over her shoulder to ensure Buddy was sleeping soundly in his champagne stupor, and that's when she saw the city winking out like a great theatre light. It was closing the cover on the last euphoric pages of a magical fairytale, and Adele's spirit glimmered in the lingering spell of the evening. Always, there was the notion the night would end eventually, and all the dancing girls would go home and slather their faces with cold cream, the blue lady would sink into her faded wingback chair and soothe her golden pipes with hot tea and honey, and Adele would help Buddy into bed, removing his jacket and damp socks, and then she would thank Matthew for a wonderful evening in the most ladylike fashion, before withdrawing to her little blue room to dream before dreams ever came. There was the notion, but Adele regarded it as natural a passing as Mother's crow's feet and the inevitable day when Buddy would announce he was back off into the world beyond Baskin. It would happen, no doubt about that, but Adele did not allow the inevitable to dull the platinum gleam of the hours. Each mile brought her closer to the end of the adventure, and so she savored each mile all the more. "I hope Buddy doesn't get sick in Mother's car," Adele said. "Our man can hold his liquor," said Matthew, curt and confident. "He's held much more than champagne in the years I've known him." "And you?" asked Adele. "Oh, I do fine. But I'm really not much of a drinker." "Oh, really," Adele said, unconvinced. "Quite true," Matthew said. "Buddy will learn sooner or later, there is much to miss if one is sufficiently inebriated." Adele felt a tremor in her stomach, recalling how she and Matthew danced together for the rest of the evening, neglecting to pause for a drink or a breath. On more than one occasion, one of the diamond girls led her partner near Matthew and Adele, flashing a coaxing smile to cut in, but Matthew was oblivious, and he held onto Adele as if she'd spin out of his arms is he loosened his embrace for a moment. In the car, she was separated from his body by a full two feet on the front seat. How oddly appropriate, yet only an hour ago, she'd been close enough to him to feel the warmth of him through his vest and jacket. "Why aren't you married, Adele?" Matthew asked abruptly. "I've never been compelled," she said, and a string of suitors paraded through her mind: Clifton Nowles, who spent three-quarters of the day on a tractor; Lonnie Abshire, who couldn't get away from his mother long enough to finish a two-minute conversation; Pete Owen and Merle Owen, who got into a fist fight in the middle of the livestock judging because each insisted Adele would be his date for the awards ceremony, though Adele had agreed to accompany neither, for she'd already assented to Kelsie Herbert's request, who she also eventually rejected, because he couldn't keep his hands out of her clothes. "That's quite the uncommon thing in Roe, isn't it? Aren't most girls your age already married and mothering?" "I suppose so," Adele said blandly. "Does your mother press you?" Adele smiled. "No, she never has. I think she's content as I am." "So, you're content?" The question hung in the darkness for a long time. Adele traced the hem of her skirt with her fingertip and watched the tree shadows blur by out the window. There were a dozen romantic scenarios poised on the edge of her imagination, and she felt them there like does at the treeline, mirror-eyed and ghostly, waiting for the slightest flicker of movement before they bounded off like soft lightening back into the blind forest. Adele was not a disenchanted woman. She didn't reject the idea of the love and passion of youth, and she'd never gone out of her way to prevent its manifestation in her life. Adele was a patient woman; she was faithful and quiet-spirited. There very well may have been a white, ringing day for her in the future, but a day of that kind was not an altar at which she lay her heart day after day as her youth slipped away. If the day would come, God would grant it. And if the day never did, then there must be some greater, grander design for Adele Rosalind Cavanaugh. She recalled these things, these affirmations she'd embroidered upon her sleeve since Mother first attempted to explain the meaning of love between a man and a woman. She calculated through the plusses and minuses of her formula so quickly, she was no longer conscious of all the steps of rationality it took to get from Point A to Point B. She recalled these things, and she was gravely startled by the realization the "formula" no longer felt important. That familiar sense of order seemed to have delicately plucked its roots from her mind and simply floated up into the atmosphere, evaporating with a sigh. Is this impulse? she thought. Adele knew impulse like she knew what Washington must look like from the window of a clattering train. It didn't feel like impulse. Impulse was scorching and direct. Impulse was certain and damning. Wasn't it? She might've upbraided herself for being gushing and silly. But she didn't feel silly. She didn't feel awkward or undone. On the contrary, her faculties were in good working order; she was indeed completely collected. But something about the very moment felt as if a hard-packed dirt road ended, and she stood on a narrow pier overlooking a most placid, inviting sea, one that would not carry her off and swallow her up in its gray-green tempests and choking swells. No, one that would send her along on whisper-light currents and breathe cool marine kisses against her cheeks when dusk enveloped her in its silk-lined bosom. Buddy snorted in the backseat, and Adele turned again to see that he was comfortable. She wondered then if Buddy was as content that Adele had never married, and she was all at once admiring he loved her so, and mildly bitter he never asked before Matthew did. She moved her eyes to Matthew's face, at the way the shadows so bravely clung to his features, the way a loving fingertip might if he were sleeping. She studied the strong slope of his nose, how it arched and dipped into the heavy bow of his lips, how sharp his chin angled back to the firm ridge of his jaw, and the delicate ear, the clean hairline, the glorious banded pillar of his neck. Matthew did not repeat the question, and Adele wondered if he might know in what handsome detail she sought the answer. The next morning, Adele wakened to the sound of Buddy gagging in the bathroom. Our man can hold his liquor, Adele thought wryly. Apparently, even Matthew Eaton was apt to err. The piquing aroma of sausage gravy and fresh-baking biscuits filled the house, and Adele anticipated the cheerful percolation of Mother's stern morning coffee. She shrugged into her robe and went to the bathroom door, through which she could hear Buddy spitting and choking into the bowl. She rapped lightly on the door. "You alright, Buddy?" "Fine, Mother. I'm fine," he said. Adele laughed and opened the door. "It's not Mother, you nut." She shut the door behind her and took a clean washrag down from the linen cabinet. She soaked it with cool water then knelt on the floor next to him, swathing his mouth and chin. Buddy shook his head, but before he could protest, another wave of sickness washed over him, and he hunched over the water emptying more of his insides. Serves him right, she thought, but how she did ache to see him suffering. Nursing Buddy back to relative health was something she'd always done when he was at home, and even though it had been years since she was called to the duty, she took it up again as if no years of separation had gone by. Who took care of him if she didn't? Mostly likely Matthew, but Adele wondered if Matthew knew Buddy didn't like for you to rub his back when he was in such a state, that he didn't want you talking to him, that a tender hand on the back of his head made him feel a little better. Buddy must've really grown up out there in the world, no chores to attend to every morning but Sunday, no legs falling asleep during Sunday morning service when Reverend Wells found himself particularly inspired, no helping Helen's father with his cotton or horseshoeing, no driving Adele back and forth to town for school or choir practice. Out there, Buddy attended to no one but himself, but even then, he had Matthew to help him. Adele pitied her brother. It occurred to her he couldn't possibly have grown up as much as she'd like to think. A man couldn't grow much without a woman, whether to keep his edges sharpened, or to stand vigil while he recovered from one defeat or another. Buddy spit a last time and took the rag from Adele's hand. He leaned back against the bathtub and breathed deeply. Adele stood and squeezed a dollop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "C'mere, Buddy," she said, helping him to his feet. "You'll feel a lot better after you brush your teeth." Buddy did as he was told, and Adele left him for the kitchen. "Mornin', Mother," she said. "Mornin', Dellie," Mother cooed as she set a pan of steaming biscuits onto the stovetop. "You have a nice time last night?" Her crow’s feet multiplied as a smile spread across her face. "Wonderful time," said Adele, and she kissed Mother's cheek. "The biscuits smell heavenly." "Always do after a night on the town." She waved to the coffee on the back burner. "Coffee's done if you wanna help yourself." Adele took three cups and saucers down from the cabinet, filled them to the brim, and dropped two cubes of sugar into each one. She poured cream generously into her own cup, but for Buddy and Matthew, she left them stout and black. "No need to keep one o' those for Matthew," Buddy said as he walked into the kitchen. Adele's heart fell. "Where'd he go off to?" Mother asked. "Went walkin', I suspect." "Walkin'?" asked Adele as she set a cup of coffee in front of him. "Where to? Not much to walk to out here, if you don't know your way around." "Oh, don't worry 'bout him. 't's just his way." "His way," Mother repeated, raising her eyebrows and casting a furtive glance at Adele. Matthew's way. Somehow, Adele understood. She peered outside into the citrus April morning, at the bluejays and cardinals trimming the pear trees with their Venetian feathers, at the bumblebees hovering over the clover, and the cheerful swaying of the azaleas. To a Rosalind who was so accustomed to a narrow easterly view of this tiny patch of yard, a humbly ornamented morning like this was easy to overlook. Now, of all the Baskin mornings Adele had greeted and dismissed, this morning was singularly radiant. "Well, I'll keep the pot on for 'im anyway," Mother said. “He's likely to wander in here before breakfast is through. Can't no man pass up a fittin' breakfast after goin' ta Shreveport." "There can," groaned Buddy, pressing the wet rag into his forehead.