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To J. B., perhaps you’ll see yourself in this.

She threw that into the bag, along with a scissors, needle and thread.

—FROM “MOLLY WHUPPIE” BY WALTER DE LA MARE

Prologue

As the snow started to fall in thick, feathery flakes, Betsy Peterson, seated in front, checked the tension in the seat belt against her collarbone, clutched her purse to her chest, and peered out through the headlights into the dark night. Marcia Lawson was a good driver, but a fast one. She seemed to be under the impression that just because she was driving a four-wheel-drive Kia, an older and decidedly dilapidated model, she didn’t need to worry about road conditions.

It wasn’t that Betsy was particularly concerned about the snow. Eighty-plus years of living through Minnesota winters had seen to that, but she had a healthy respect for ice, and that was the problem. A week of unseasonably warm temperatures had been followed by freezing rain, leaving a thick layer of ice coating the small country road that led to her farm. And she was right to be worried. As they approached the turnoff on Grange Road, Betsy knew Marcia was going far too fast. They skidded past the turnoff and came within inches of taking out a pair of mailboxes before finally coming to rest on the shoulder of the road.

“Sorry about that,” Marcia muttered, slamming the gearshift into reverse and shooting back onto the narrow ribbon of iced-over pavement. “It’s times like this when four-wheel drive comes in handy.”

Betsy said nothing. Now that a combination of cataracts and macular degeneration made it impossible for her to drive anymore, Betsy had to count on the kindness of friends and relations to get her to and from wherever she needed to go. For decades Marcia had been Betsy’s hairdresser. Once Marcia closed up shop and retired, she came to Betsy’s home once a week to do her hair while also supplementing her meager retirement by ferrying people around and running errands as needed. In this case, she was driving Betsy home from Monday Night Bingo at the local VFW.

Monday Night Bingo, along with her lifetime membership at Bemidji’s First Lutheran Church, were Betsy’s main social outlets. She went to church on Sunday, Bible study on Tuesday, and Prayer Group on Wednesday. On Fridays she had Marcia come do her hair before the VFW’s weekly evening fish fry. At bingo and at the fish fries, Betsy allowed herself a single sloe gin fizz. After all, those were her only purely social activities.

As far as bingo was concerned, it didn’t hurt that her old high school beau, Howard Hansen—still Dr. Hansen, even though he no longer practiced, and now a widower twice over—came to both bingo and the fish fries, with a group bused in from the Sundowner’s Assisted Living Center. He teased her about being too stubborn to give up living alone and dropped hints that it would be slick if she’d consent to taking up residence in his two-room “suite,” always allowing as how he’d be willing to marry her if need be in order to keep her from living in sin. She liked the twinkle in his eye when he said those things.

Other people in the room might think he was just joshing her, but she knew there was more to it than that. Yes, he was teasing, but he also meant it. After their high school romance came undone, they had both gone on to love and marry other people, but the connection forged by young love remained a glowing ember in both their lives.

“I’m sick and tired of these Minnesota winters,” Marcia was saying. “My one daughter keeps inviting me to come live with her in Florida, but I don’t think I could handle all that heat and humidity. Besides, she takes care of her four grandkids when her daughter is at work. I definitely couldn’t handle living in that kind of chaos.”

Again Betsy said nothing. Her own son, Jimmy, was a dentist right here in Bemidji, but she wouldn’t live with him on a bet, not ever, because living with him would also mean living with his wife, Sandra—never to be referred to as Sandy, by the way—who could charitably be referred to as a ring-tailed bitch. That was one reason Betsy didn’t want to move into assisted living in town. Being in town meant that she would be living that much closer to Jimmy and Sandra, giving them that much more opportunity to stick their very unwelcome noses into her business.

Betsy’s granddaughter, Athena, had made it clear that Betsy was welcome to come live with her family in Sedona. Betsy adored Athena, and her husband, Chris, was clearly a treasure. Their twins, Colin and Colleen, were cute as buttons, but when it came to living with little kids, Betsy was on the same page as Marcia. Having grandkids and great-grandkids come to visit was great—twins were especially good when it came to bragging rights over bingo cards—but living under the same roof with them? Nope, that wasn’t gonna happen.

“I’d hate it if you moved away,” Betsy said. “If I didn’t have you to take me back and forth to bingo, I wouldn’t have any idea about what’s really going on in town.”

For Betsy, playing bingo was the least important part of going. Gossip was the central purpose of those Monday night gatherings: whose kid had been sent to jail or gotten out of jail; whose grandson had joined the Marines; whose granddaughter had staged a big church wedding even though her baby bump was clearly visible to all concerned; whose daughter had been picked up for dealing drugs in Minneapolis. All those little tidbits were grist for the bingo gossip mill.

“It’s a shame about Tess Severson’s older son,” Marcia added. “This has to be the fourth or fifth time he’s been through rehab. Maybe this time it’ll take.”

“I hope so,” Betsy said. “It’s got to be tough on his wife and kids.”

“I’ll say,” Marcia agreed. “Why his wife sticks with him is more than I can understand.”

With that, Marcia turned onto Last Road, the one that led to Betsy’s farm. For a long time their road had been the last road, but the name had become official only a few years earlier when all the country lanes, most of which had been nameless before, were assigned names. Sometime after that, the intersecting road was extended as far as the new gravel pit. At that point, Last Road had stopped being last, but the name stuck.