“For an hour or so, maybe,” Carrie said. “Then you’ll be done with that.”

“Listen, I don’t have any natural parenting skills. None. God knew what he was doing when I didn’t get to have children.”

“You’d have been an ideal parent,” Lou said. “God’s mistake.”

“Me? Oh, believe me, I know nothing about being a parent and even less about what I can do to help my poor little Ginger while she goes through this terrible time. This is the worst idea Dickie has ever had, and he’s had some real stinkers.”

“No, this is perfect,” Lou said.

“She’s right,” Carrie agreed. “Won’t be so easy on you, but then when our youngsters hurt, it’s awful. Worse for us, I think. But of all the people I know...yes, you’re the one to do it.”

“How can you say that?” Ray Anne demanded.

“I know about some of your tough times,” Carrie said. “I’ve seen you through a few of them since you came to Thunder Point. Money trouble, broken hearts, struggles... There were a couple of times that were pretty awful. You had a mean son-of-a-bitch husband stalk you and you had to run and hide. You had a good friend die—what was her name?”

“Marisa Dunaway,” Ray Anne said, and tears instantly sparkled in her eyes. “She was a good friend for twenty years and the Big C took her, but not until it kicked her ass, made her so sick and weak she was begging to die. Horrible. Horrible.”

“And your parents died when you were little more than a girl,” Lou reminded her as if she needed reminding. She was twenty-two and her parents, both in their late fifties, died so close together, both of cancer. That had been forty years ago. Cancer treatment had come a long way since then, but still, it had taken her best friend ten years ago. “That was a dark time for you. We weren’t friends then,” she added. “I wasn’t there for you.”

“I didn’t even know you then. You’ve been through a lot since I’ve known you,” Carrie said. “But you never indulged self-pity. You grieved hard, but never felt sorry for yourself.”

“Ginger has a right to feel sorry for herself,” Ray Anne said.

“This isn’t about rights,” Lou chimed in. “You had a right to self-pity, too. But you’re a survivor. And you’re a damn good role model. Your cousin is doing a smart thing, sending his daughter to you.”

Ray Anne looked at Lou in surprise. “I didn’t think you liked me enough to say something like that,” she said.

“It’s those shoes I never understood,” Lou said. “And you did steal all my boyfriends until I started keeping them secret from you. But I always admired your strength. You’re a woman on your own, alone, except for a couple of girlfriends and your recent boyfriend, but we don’t count on boyfriends. Women alone have to be smart, strong and durable. We don’t bruise easy. And we can’t waste time and energy feeling sorry for ourselves. We might want to collapse, but we don’t. Probably no one would pick us up!”

“You, too,” Ray Anne said. “When Mac’s wife left him—”

“Ach!” Lou barked. “Alone with three little kids—the smallest nine months old! Practically no money, two low-paying jobs and his only relative was me. I was a full-time teacher. I don’t know how we got through it. And he was a mess! A pathetic, broken mess. Talk about self-pity! Sometimes when you have someone to lead, it’s easier to be strong.”

“What am I going to do?” Ray Anne asked.

“Be yourself,” Gina said, smiling. “Be your wonderful, loving, strong self. Let her talk, push her a little bit, like my mother pushed me when I was a sixteen-year-old mother with no one but her. Get her a little counseling help, bring her around your friends, prop her up with example. Let her see we don’t give up, we work. Sure we cry, sometimes scream, but we take it one day at a time and make every day a little better than the one we just left behind. You’re really one of the best people for the job, I know it.”

“I had no idea you all thought that way about me.”

“Pfft. The only thing I feel sorry for you about is that you just can’t dress yourself properly. You should be in double knits and wedgies like the rest of us over-sixty broads,” Lou said.

“Don’t listen to her,” Carrie said. “The best part about you is you’re unique. As long as you don’t make me dress like a cocktail waitress I won’t make you dress like a gray-haired grandmother.”

Ray Anne couldn’t answer. She felt the emotion in her throat. She’d give anything to be a grandmother. “You really think I’ll be able to help her?”

“If you have trouble...if you have frustrations, we’ll get together and hash it out. We’ve all been through the bitter side of life. It comes with breathing. Giving up was never an option,” Carrie said.

“I have a confession to make,” Ray Anne said. “It’s not like I didn’t feel sorry for myself sometimes. I’ve cried my heart out. Sometimes I cried till I couldn’t stand up straight. It’s just that I never cried like that in front of anyone.”

“I know,” three voices replied together.

* * *

Carrie was having trouble falling asleep. She heard the front door open and close. Then she heard the soft drone of the TV and she rolled over and looked at the clock. Almost one in the morning. She got up and found her robe and opened her bedroom door.

“Did I wake you up?” Rawley asked.

She shook her head. “I was tossing around, not sleeping.” She gave her neck a stretch, tilting her head from side to side, trying to touch her chin to each shoulder. “This is so late for you.”

“That Cooper. He thinks he’s a kid. They went to some party up in North Bend with some of Sarah’s old Coast Guard pals. Sarah had to drive him home.”

“He’ll pay for that.”

“I hope so. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I think too much,” she said.

“Come here, girl,” he said. When she sat beside him on the couch, he turned her so he could rub her shoulders. “Kids okay?” he asked as he massaged.

“They’re all fine. It’s Ray Anne’s kin that’s having trouble.” She told him about Ginger and her need for a change of scenery. “Brings to mind how I always complained so much about how hard my life was when I never lost anything that dear.”