The Winding Road Home by Sally John

removing her coat, she had a partial view of the living room. It looked like a packed house. She spotted Britte Olafsson and cringed. Before she could retreat, Adele hailed her.
    â€œKate! Come on in. Ladies!”
    The conversation died and eight pairs of eyes zeroed in on Kate.
    Adele continued, “I’d like you all to meet Kate Kilpatrick.”
    As one, the group stood, gathered around her, and cheered.
    â€œGood job!”
    â€œGreat job!”
    â€œNice writing!”
    â€œIt’s perfect!”
    They shook her hand, introducing themselves, patting her on the back. Their names went in one ear and out the other.
    Overwhelmed, Kate finally managed to say something. “What are you all talking about?”
    Adele replied, “Your article about Britte and Joel!”
    Of course. Copies of the Times were already available in the stores and vending machines. She had placed them there herself. Evidently while she was eating pizza with Rusty, eager readers were already out buying the weekly.
    â€œKate.” Britte beamed, no longer resembling the shellshocked Nordic. “Thank you. We look like a couple of lovesick teenagers in the photo, but you did such a nice job of making the event sound sane rather than idiotic. I still cannot believe he called you.” She shook her head.
    â€œThat makes two of us.”
    Kate accepted their invitation to join their book discussion. Pass up a roomful of potential sources? She didn’t think twice about finding a seat.
    Later that night she thought of Adele’s description of the group. They referred to themselves as Club NEDD, an acronym for nurture, eat, and dabble in discussion. It was an accurate name. She had eaten and discussed. And although she knew the article was pure fluff, the women’s response to it had, beyond a shadow of a doubt, nurtured her.
    Lying in her bed, she smiled at the ceiling, warmed at the image of the loving group. Their nurturing had jiggled loose a buried thought. God had created in her the mindset and the passion to be a reporter. In all her fussing over the internship, that gift had gone dormant. To recount life’s journey for others was what gave her breath, and she had been suffocating. It was time to start breathing again.

Seven
    Midafternoon Friday Adele walked across the large open space of Fox Meadow’s lobby. It was a hub of activity with people milling about, many of them in wheelchairs. There was a big-screen television, lots of chairs, and a table laden with baked goodies some church women had provided. Windows lined the front of the brick building, providing an unhindered view of the parking lot.
    Sunshine glinted off a shiny black limousine, catching her attention. She watched as it parked on the circular drive just outside the entry. She knew immediately it was Rand Jennings. Only someone who had the ability to pay before even asking the price of admission would arrive in a limo.
    Would Graham be with him?
    She tried to ignore the tickle of anticipation in her stomach and hurried to grab a nearby communal wheelchair from the receptionist’s office. As she pushed it toward the door, she noticed the chauffeur unloading one from the car’s trunk. Naturally someone arriving in a limo would have his own. She smiled to herself and wheeled hers back.
    Adele went outdoors to greet them, something she tried to do for newcomers whenever possible. Waiting on the sidewalk, she wrapped her cardigan closely and crossed her arms against the cold. Graham stood beside the open back door, bent at the waist, holding his arm toward the interior. He wore sunglasses and, again, no coat over a sweater and cords.
    The man emerging from the back seat was familiar. He resembled all men over age 70 whose bodies had been ravaged by cancer and its treatments, men who spent their last days down the hall from her office. He was thin and he was bald, facts she knew despite the black winter dress coat and fur cap he