Forty years later . . .

Beth settled into her easy chair with a sigh. It was a cool rainy night, typical for New Orleans at this time of year. Her joints protested the damp, as they always did. It was warm in the living room though, and she was comfortable in general; good enough to go on. She'd cleaned house and her other chores were done, so her weekend was free. If the weather cleared she'd go to the market in the morning and bring back some groceries.

She'd just picked up the tv remote when someone knocked at the front door. Her takeout order was a bit early for once—unusual for a Friday evening, but that was fine by her. She levered out of the chair. "Hang on, I'm coming!" On the way she took a generous amount of tip money from the petty-cash jar in the kitchen. Whoever was out on delivery tonight deserved a few extra bucks.

The knock sounded again as she reached for the handle. "Yeah yeah, just a minute!" When she opened the door, whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips.

He stood there in the bright gleam of the porch light, a backpack slung over his shoulder. His jacket was soaked through, hair plastered to his skull, two weeks growth of beard, and he was so thin he was nearly insubstantial . . . but she knew him. Though much had changed, his gaze hadn't. It was pinned to her, defiant and yet almost pleading.

"Greg," she said softly, stunned to her core. Then she gathered her scattered thoughts and did the only thing that made sense-she opened the door wider and stood aside. He didn't respond for a few moments. When he finally entered her home, she got the second shock of the evening. He moved with a slow, hard limp, aided by a cane that had seen better days. She remembered him running across the quad, long legs pumping, and swallowed on a sudden lump in her throat.

What happened? It was a question she knew she couldn't ask, not now anyway. Without another word she guided him into the living room and took his jacket. He shivered, clearly chilled through; he smelled as if he hadn't cleaned up in a while. Beth eased him into the recliner and took the comforter from the back of the couch, draped it over him. "I'll get you some coffee," she said quietly, and went to the kitchen to make a pot. When she returned she offered him a mugful diluted with plenty of sugar and some milk. He folded back the quilt, took the mug and held it in both hands as he sipped.

"Thanks." His voice was rough and deep, but it held an echo of the young man she remembered. There was a knock at the door and he glanced up at her. She struggled with a powerful sense of disbelief at the sight of him sitting there. "You've got company."

"Dinner delivery. I'll be right back."

She created a buffet of sorts on the coffee table and brought in a tv tray for Greg's use, along with a plate. "There are enough sandwiches and sides here for two people, so take what you want."

Greg stared at her. "So that's it. No questions, just invite me in for coffee and supper after forty years of silence."

Beth unfolded her napkin and hoped he wouldn't see her hands shaking. "Eat first, questions later." That earned her a reluctant, rusty chuckle.

She let him choose first and put the tv on local news. He ate an enormous pile of food in the time it took her to get through half of her sandwich. When he was done he sat back on a sigh and brought up the quilt. Within a minute or two he was asleep. Beth watched him as she held her po'boy. She was tempted to pinch herself; the situation was utterly surreal, to say the very least. This could be some strange waking dream she was having in her chair . . . A low snore shook her out of that idea. She studied the sleeping figure while she ate the last of her dinner. It was clear he was worn to the bone; she couldn't turn him back out into a rainy night. Intuition warned her he'd been close to some sort of desperate decision before he turned up here; she understood that frame of mind all too well. At least she could offer him some help, if he wanted to accept it.

When she was done she rose and went over to the other side of the house, to return a bit later later and find Greg still asleep. She stopped next to the recliner and with some hesitation, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jerked awake and winced. "Wilson—"

"No, it's Beth—Bramble." She remembered he liked to use last names. "You can't sleep in the chair. Come with me."

Slowly he sat up. It was clear he was in pain but he said nothing, only took his cane, got to his feet and followed her. When they reached the connecting doorway, he stopped. "Two houses."

"It's a double shotgun. I bought it thinking I'd knock out the middle wall and make it one place, but it's proved pretty useful for guests so I left it alone." She offered him a slight smile. "It's a bed for the night, anyway."

He leaned on his cane and glared at her. "You don't know what I've been up to since we last saw each other. I could be a murderer on the run, a bank robber, anything. And here you are offering me your guest house."

Beth tilted her head a bit and surveyed him. "Do you have clean clothes in your backpack? I can wash up what you have on, and your jacket."

"Oh, great. You don't think I'm capable of doing any of what I just told you." Under the exhaustion he looked offended. "I'm tempted to go out and knock off a gas station just to prove I can."

She couldn't help but smile. Clearly some things hadn't changed. "Come on, let me show you around."

Once he was in the shower she put his backpack on the bed, hesitated, then opened it. There were extra clothes, wadded up and in dire need of a wash. She dug around and found a tee shirt and what looked to be a pair of flannel bottoms at the bottom of the pile, both folded and reasonably clean, and left them out for use. The rest she took with her to her side of the house. She'd wash everything in the morning. After that she made one last trip to leave a carafe of water, a glass and a plateful of cookies. There'd been several bottles of meds in one of the backpack's pockets; he might need to take them with food.

It was the work of a few minutes to put away the remnants of the takeout, stack the plates and silverware in the dishwasher, and head off to bed. But once she was snuggled in under the quilt, Beth found she couldn't settle. To have Greg of all people show up at her doorstep on an ordinary weeknight, years after he'd left her with a kiss . . . Months ago she'd seen a news report stating he'd been killed in some sort of explosion—and now here he was, alive enough to eat most of her takeout and claim her extra bed. Somehow it was exactly what she should expect from him, and yet she wasn't sure how she should feel at all. She'd always thought she'd never see him again.

What the hell happened to him? He looks like ten miles of bad road. And that name he'd mentioned . . . a wife? Lover? Favorite dog? Maybe he would tell her tomorrow. That was if he was still in residence. She had a suspicion he would leave her life once more without a second thought . . . To her disgust her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away and cursed herself for being a sentimental idiot. On that thought she finally drifted into sleep.

Beth woke to the sound of a piano. Confused, she glanced at the clock—three a.m., more or less. Slowly she sat up as comprehension trickled in. After a moment she pushed aside the covers and stood, took her bathrobe from the foot of the bed, and went into the living room.

Greg sat at the piano. In the soft light of the reading lamp he looked a little better, but wore an expression she remembered well from their college days, a combination of melancholy and vulnerability that suited him somehow. He looked up when she came in, his gaze keen. After a few moments he paused and moved over a bit to make room for her on the bench. She accepted his offer and watched him resume playing.

"No comments about stealing your piano." He executed a complicated riff.

"By now it's expected." She smiled a little at his chuckle.

"Need to get in a tuner." He hesitated. "No violin in evidence."

For answer she held out her hands. Crooked fingers told their own tale. "I can get in about half an hour before my pain levels start going up. I still teach violin and piano but don't play anymore." She put her hands in her lap. "It's what I've got left now, but it's enough. And I had the piano tuned a couple of months ago. Wet weather causes problems."

"And you moved to a hot humid climate because it's so good for you."

"I came for the music. It's everywhere. I love it. That's a fair trade."

He didn't speak right away. "You were here for Katrina."

Beth shook her head. "I bought this place two years after. Mom left me her house in the will, but the winters are so damn cold in Michigan . . . I sold it and used the money for the purchase. I got this place cheap because it needed some work. It's pretty decent now."

"There's a whole backstory there you're gonna tell me someday." He finished the tune and sat up, eased his right leg out straight. Beth felt a curious sense of elation at the implication he might stay, as well as concern about his pain levels. She knew better than to say anything about the latter, however. If he stayed long enough she'd find out what had happened to him.

"How about an exchange? I owe you one anyway."

He turned a bit to face her with a quizzical expression. "Explain."

She felt her cheeks grow warm and regretted her impulse. "Not now. Later this morning." She stood. "Do you need something to help you sleep?"

"That sounds like an invitation." The mocking tone caught at her. She felt an old familiar pain, set it aside.

"Just for breakfast." She hesitated. "I've got a good sleep med you can try, if it won't interact with anything you might be taking."

Greg shook his head. "They don't work. This—" He gestured at the piano. "This does."

Beth nodded. "Okay." She turned away.

"You haven't shacked up with anyone." It was a statement, not a question.

"We'll talk after breakfast." And she left him there.

It felt odd but good to sleep in. Usually she was out early on Saturdays to shop at Rouses before it got crowded, but today she'd go later on. She watched watery sunshine fill her window and thought of the day ahead. Eventually she rose and started the process of waking up.

She'd just put the second load of laundry in the washer when Greg came into the kitchen. In silence he stumped to the coffeemaker, took the empty carafe and held it up, brows raised.

"Coffee's in the cabinet next to the fridge, help yourself."

That earned her a grunt, but he did as she directed. Soon enough the fragrance of fresh brew filled the kitchen. Greg poured a full mug and took a seat at the table. Beth left the washer to its work and went to get her own cup. "I've got bacon, eggs and some bread for toast."

He nodded but didn't speak. Beth felt again that strong sense of the surreal. Greg is sitting in my kitchen. She turned to the fridge and opened it, began to take out items. "How'd you find me?"

"You're listed in the phone book." When she shot him a glance he gave her an innocent look. She almost laughed aloud at his teasing; for just a moment she was back in college.

"Dylan told you." She set the skillet on the burner and adjusted the flame, lay bacon strips in the pan.

"A few years ago he mentioned you might be around here somewhere." Greg took a long swallow of coffee. "You graduated, I take it."

Beth nodded. "I worked in the school system teaching violin and piano until budget cuts took away anything beyond the basics." She drank some coffee before she spoke again. "Where did you work? After school, I mean."

"Several places. Princeton, at the end." He studied her. "You've never been with anyone."

She turned the bacon with care. "Actually I have."

Greg set down his mug. "Get the hell out."

"No, really." She moved to the fridge and took some eggs, then retrieved two plates from the cupboard. "We were together for four years. He wanted to move back to New York, I didn't." She paused, unsure if she should ask. "You-you've been with someone?"

"Yeah."

They ate at the kitchen table, with WWOZ playing softly in the background. "I'll go to the market later this morning. If you plan to stay, let me know what you'd like."

Greg gave her that level stare she remembered well. "I can stay."

"Of course—"

"There's no 'of course' about it!" He sounded almost angry. "I left you behind, we haven't talked for forty years!"

Beth looked down at her plate. "I know all that. But as you say, that was forty years ago." She lifted her gaze to his. "I think you need a chance to catch your breath from whatever happened to you before you came here. I'm willing to give you that chance because we were—were friends. Maybe we still are. If you're okay with finding out, so am I."

He continued to watch her, his eyes bright in his ravaged features. "'kay," he said finally, and returned to devouring his breakfast. Beth felt that strange sense of joy once more.

We'll see how things go, she thought, and made a mental note to get some beignets for Sunday breakfast.

'Hey Pockey Way,' the Meters