Greg sat back in the easy chair and stretched out a bit. Monday evening had begun to cast its shadow over the deck; from Bramble's kitchen he smelled sausage, red beans and rice, while on the radio Bessie Smith sang about a pigfoot and a bottle of beer. His own brew was fresh and cold, spilling a few beads of condensation on the low table next to his chair.

I could get used to this. He'd taken a chance coming here, but it had paid off unexpected dividends. He had a place to stay as long as he wanted it—the other half of Bramble's house. "No one's asked about coming down for festival season," she'd said with that hesitant smile he remembered from years ago. "Might as well have someone keeping the place in use."

And he had Bramble on hand. She'd aged pretty well, all things considered. At some point she'd lost a fair amount of weight. It revealed a decent figure with a long waist, despite the effects of gravity over forty years. She'd cut her hair in a short crop that suited her. Her eyes were the same cornflower blue, with laugh lines around the corners. And she sported a tattoo on her right bicep—a semicolon in the shape of a hummingbird. He intended to ask her about that later.

Unbidden came the memory of the kiss they'd shared so many years ago. She'd allowed him to touch her, a sign of tremendous trust he hadn't earned; he'd been apprehensive about wounding her further, and ended up leaving when it was the last thing he'd wanted to do. Now . . . He pulled his mind away from speculation. It was too soon after everything that had happened over the last two years—Cuddy, prison, his false death and Wilson's real one. And why would she still want him? A used-up, crippled felon . . . any woman would cringe at the thought.

"Hey." Bramble plopped into the chair next to his and set a beer on the table. "Dinner's ready." Greg looked her, brows raised.

"You actually consume alcohol?"

"I do now." She put her feet up, reached for the bottle and took a long swallow.

Realization struck forty years late. "Of course. You don't have to worry about letting the truth slip out."

She nodded. "Worthing died a few years back. Before that some of his older students had accused him openly of rape and abuse. He stroked out during the inquiry and ended up brain-dead for a couple of months before his wife finally pulled the plug."

Greg sipped his beer. He wasn't about to tell her he'd had a hand in getting the information to light. "You didn't participate."

"Yeah, I did. My parents were both gone by then and I didn't care what the rest of the family thought." She looked off into the distance. "He deserved what he got. Back in school I should have left him to find another teacher, but those were different times. Girls were supposed to put up with whatever got dished out." There was no bitterness in her tone.

"Your parents never knew."

"No, I didn't tell them. It was pointless and would have caused them immense pain. I didn't want to make them go through that. It's enough that I know." She glanced over at him. "Your turn."

"You said you owed me an exchange," he reminded her. She smiled, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the young woman he remembered.

"Okay, good enough." She got up. "Dinner's getting cold."

Over a plate of sausage, red beans and rice he said "'Good enough' means you were gonna tell me something else."

Bramble added some sausage to her plate. "Yes."

"Go on, spill."

"Then you'll owe me." She hesitated. "Are you up for that?"

"I'm better than I look." He finished off his beer and rose to get another one, gripped the table as his thigh gave a warning spasm.

"Sit. I'll get it." Her brisk manner didn't fool him, but he allowed her to bring him another beer. When he'd opened it he drank half of it, belched and handed her his plate.

"More."

She lifted her chin in that way he'd always secretly enjoyed, but he saw the humor in her gaze as well. She'd mellowed a bit over the years, good to know. He watched as she piled on a second helping, handed it back and settled into her chair.

"So tell." He took a huge bite of sausage.

"Yeah, okay." Bramble folded her arms and looked at him. "Do you remember when we—the last time we saw each other?"

He chewed and swallowed. "Can't say I do."

She rolled her eyes. "Liar. Anyway—when you kissed me . . ." She was silent for a few moments. "That changed things. You were the first boy to do that—kiss me. After what happened with Worthing I thought no one would ever . . . You showed me I was wrong."

Greg lowered his fork. "I'm not a social worker."

"I know. You didn't mean it that way, I get it. That's why it was so important." She picked up her beer. "Your turn. If you're not ready—"

"My best friend died."

They sat in silence for a while. "I'm sorry." Her voice was so soft he almost couldn't hear her. When Greg looked at her, she watched him with that steady gaze he remembered from their time together—no pity or sympathy, just that quiet understanding he realized now he'd relied on back in school. "Tell me about him, if you want."

They ended up in the living room. Bramble turned on a lamp and settled in the easy chair she seemed to prefer, while he took the recliner. Once he was more or less comfortable he felt reluctant to open up the subject. She started them off. "I'm guessing your friend's name was Wilson."

Greg shot her a glance. "Good guess." He drank some beer. "Ironic that cancer killed him. He was an oncologist."

"How long did you know each other?"

"Seems like forever. We met here at a convention years ago. Bailed him out of jail after he broke a mirror in some bar."

Bramble didn't speak right away. "You worked together." Greg gave a single nod. "A long time, then."

Her acumen shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. "Another educated guess."

She looked down at her hands. "You're supposed to be dead. An explosion in a warehouse or something like that. Dylan sent me the news article." She hesitated. "If Doctor Wilson died within the last six months, that means you probably spent the time with him. I can't see you giving up everything unless it was for a close friend."

Greg eyed her with grudging respect. "So you thought I was dead."

"Yes, of course." Her tone was neutral, but he sensed emotion behind the reply.

"You don't sound that upset about it."

"I'm not now." Her smile glimmered in the soft light.

He knew then his decision was made. He would stay, at least for a while. And he had a puzzle at hand. Forty years to catch up on-in particular, those years Bramble spent shacked up with someone else.

"You know, I can hear the wheels turning in that head of yours." She regarded him with mild amusement. "You gonna hang out?"

"Maybe."

"You'll have some explaining to do when Dylan stops by."

For some reason he hadn't expected that. "You two still see each other after all this time."

"Yeah, we do." Bramble finished her beer and got to her feet. "We play poker now and then too, usually when he's just come into some money."

"Good to know." He watched her walk to the kitchen. She moved with care, as he'd expect from someone with stiff joints. Once more he took in the living room. It was comfortable, furnished with shabby, well-made furniture. Some of the pieces came from her childhood home, no doubt. There was plenty of light available from floor and table lamps; the small fireplace looked as if it was used occasionally. There was one on his side of the house too. The worn oriental carpet, the crocheted-lace curtains faded to ivory, shelves full of books and music . . . they spoke of a good life made of equal parts work and enjoyment. She'd overcome difficulties and created a home where anyone could feel welcome.

The last few months of Wilson's life had been a slow, unavoidable slide into a nightmare, something they'd both known would happen eventually. That hadn't made it any easier to go through, along with the loss of his best friend. He'd planned to follow Wilson into oblivion until he'd remembered that line in the article about the class action lawsuit: 'Ms. Bramble, a resident of New Orleans…' and for some reason he'd decided to take a chance. Now he was glad he'd followed his impulse. He could rest and heal here, then move on when he'd worn out his welcome.

"You're looking thoughtful." Bramble resumed her seat and settled in with a soft sigh.

"Your pain levels are up." His were too, and he was getting low on Vicodin.

"The weather doesn't help." She rubbed her left knee, an absent gesture. "I'm using medical marijuana now. You might want to give it a try if you have a lot of chronic pain."

The fact that she hadn't asked about his leg reminded him she owned far more tact than he would ever know. He shook his head. "Opioids are my drug of choice."

"Tough to get here legally." She paused. "You have a decent ID? One that could pass some digging?"

"Probably." He wouldn't want to put it to the test, though. The mere thought of returning to prison in New Jersey made him shake inside.

"Okay. Well, if you try for opioids you'll run into trouble eventually. Cannabis is easier, though it costs more." She reached for something on the stand next to her—the tv remote. She leaned over and handed it to him. When her fingers brushed his palm he felt a spark, an odd sensation. "Something to consider, anyway."

He knew she was right, but he'd hold out for a little longer. "Think you're so smart." He turned on the tv and began a search for a game.

"I know what works." She gave him a sidelong look, that gleam of amusement evident once more. "You do too, better than I do."

When he retired to his side of the house later, he dug around and found a few remaining Marlboros tucked away in his backpack, along with a lighter. He went out on the rear porch, a bit apprehensive that he'd be attacked by hordes of mosquitos. But the night was cool and quiet and pest-free, aside from a dog barking off in the distance. He sat in the old patio chair, lit up and contemplated the evening sky as he exhaled stale tobacco smoke. Through the screen door he could hear Bramble in her kitchen, putting away dishes before she set things up for breakfast the next day. The homely sound eased a little of the grief he was still unable to face.

I'll stay. Just for a while, til I get bored or she gets fed up. He wasn't ready for a long-term solution to his situation, wasn't sure there even was one he could live with. But he was here now with someone who knew a little of his past and was willing to put up with him, at least for the moment. It was enough.

Wilson would have liked her. The thought hurt, but he let it stand. He got up, put out what was left of his smoke, and went in to bed. Time enough to think about a plan, if he needed one. He'd consider her idea of using cannabis instead of Vicodin; he'd cut back so much in the last month that he'd probably find it easier now to quit. If pot worked for him, he'd get things set up.

For a long time he lay in the big comfortable bed, listening to the night sounds of the neighborhood as memories drifted through his mind, until sleep finally stole him away, bit by bit.

'Just What I Needed,' The Cars