He slides out of bed and pads straight into our bathroom, so I head to the one downstairs to clean up. When I return, he’s making the bed.

“That was a good way to wake up,” I say shyly, staring at my bare feet.

He strides over and kisses the top of my head. “The best.”

“Do you want to have a cup of Sanka with me? In the nook?”

His face twists. “I wish I could, baby, but I have to work today.”

“It’s Sunday!”

“I know. This first month is vital, Joanie. I’m playing catch-up with the other agents. I need to show the locals I’m worth their money. That means working harder.”

Slow Henry appears and rubs against my leg, purring loudly. His glossy fur is so comforting to the touch, but I don’t want to pet him, not when I’m frustrated. Deck wasn’t home all yesterday. I went to bed without him, didn’t even have a chance to tell him about the Paulie Aandeg story.

Deck notices my expression. “Don’t be mad, Joanie. I’ll be back for dinner. We can watch television just like nights back in Minneapolis. All right?”

“Fine.”

“Joan, you’re still pouting.”

He’s right, so there’s no point in replying.

“You should make some friends,” he says, his voice suddenly hard, the playfulness gone. “I can’t be your only social life here.”

But you are, I want to protest, and you should be because it’s your fault I’m here. But then I think of my complicity in the move, and Regina, and her kindness. “I did meet a woman about our age.” I don’t tell him that she works at the bar or that she’s from Canada in case he takes her for a hippie.

“Wonderful, baby! You should have lunch with her.”

I have nothing on my calendar other than stopping back by the Purple Saucer Motel.

“I think I will.”

I’m timid walking into Little John’s. It’s foolish how I hold the wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches in front of me, all but yelling I’m not here to drink. Thankfully, Regina is working, and even better, she seems pleased to see me.

“Tell me those are bologna,” she says when I seat myself at the bar. The dim room contains more people than I’d expected at noon on a Sunday.

“Close,” I say, nudging one toward her. “Fried braunschweiger. Do you like it?”

“Is that the liver sausage stuff?”

“Pretty similar,” I say. “I put pickles on it, too, but you can peel those off.”

“Far out!” She unwraps the sandwich. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A Tab?” I say, louder than required.

She smiles, holding the triangle of sandwich with one hand and turning a glass right-side up with the other. “Heard it’s warm out there,” she says.

It is. The middle of May, and it’s already a simmering day begging for rain. “What time do you come to work?”

She’s chewing. She hands me my soda, swallows her bite. “We open at ten a.m. for our shot-and-a-beer regulars. I’m here sometime before then.”

I glance around the bar. Eight people, all men, none of them sitting together, all of them with a sweating drink resting in front of them. The radio is a background hum, describing a world apart from Lilydale. “Is this a typical Sunday crowd?”

She shrugs. “I suppose. Hey, you smell really good. What is that?”

“Shalimar,” I say, offering my wrist. She sniffs and smiles, but then, what? A chasm lies between us. We don’t know each other, but we want to. At least, I hope she wants to. “Where were you and your boyfriend headed when you came through here?”

She smiles, her overbite and dimples creating an immediate welcome. Elbows on the bar, she finishes her sandwich, filling me in. They hadn’t had a destination in mind. Possibly California. Maybe New York. There’d been talk of a big folk festival in one or the other. Mostly she wanted to cut loose from her parents, who didn’t approve of her lifestyle or her boyfriend.

“They were right on that last one,” she says with a wink. “How about you? What brings you to Lilydale?”

I surprise myself with the truth. “A low point.”

She howls with laughter, sees I’m serious, and waits for more.

“My boyfriend grew up here. He’d been asking me to move back with him for a while. Then all in one week I lost a dream job I never stood a chance of getting, Dr. King was assassinated, and I was mugged at knifepoint.” I hadn’t meant to tell anyone but Ursula about the mugging, but something about Regina puts me at ease. “I was desperate to run away. By the time I calmed down, I’d already promised Deck I’d move.”

An old man makes his way to the bar, raises a finger. Regina pulls him a beer, glancing back at me the whole time.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks when she returns. “Something wild?”

A delicious tickle travels up my spine. “Sure.”

She scans the room. The closest customer is ten feet away. She turns up the radio anyhow, and then leans across the bar. “This place is weird.”

I raise my eyebrows, the thrill rippling through me. “In what way?”

“Everyone is just so . . . nice.”

I’m waiting for more. When it doesn’t come, I burst out in laughter.

She scowls, and I rush to apologize. “I’m so sorry!” I tell her. “I know what you mean. I was just expecting something a bit darker.”

She wipes the bar with a dirty rag. “It’s weird, is all. Everyone has a please and a thank-you, asks how you’re doing. Do you know some grim-faced lady stopped by my apartment when I first moved in to ask me if I needed any clothes or food?”

“Catherine the Migrant Mother,” I murmur.

“Huh?”

“Catherine Brody. She lives next door to me. Head of the welcome committee.”

“Whatever. It seemed intrusive.”

I take a sip of the Tab. It’s crisp and sweet, perfect for a hot day. “I can see that. Like me getting in trouble for drinking here the other night. People seem to keep an exceptionally close eye on one another here.” I think back to my phone call with Ursula, her scolding me like a child for thinking poorly of Lilydale. “I think it’s part of the charm, though,” I tell Regina, feeling only a twinge of guilt. “Every town has their own culture.”

She sighs. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Except . . .”

“What?”

“Have you noticed there’s not a single bum in Lilydale? Railroad tracks run right through it, converge over by the dairy plant, and I’ve yet to see a single person out of place. Everyone here is so perfect and so uptight, like they were all manufactured at the same damn factory. Sometimes I feel out of place, like I might haul off and take a shit on the sidewalk.”

I belly-laugh at this. “How about we promise to look out for each other. Either one of us feels the need to shit in public, we call the other. Deal?”

She holds out her hand, her dimples back. “Deal.”

That evening, Deck and I are sitting on the couch, watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, a show that comforts me because I used to watch it with my mom. Deck and I are seated near one another but not touching, Slow Henry curled on my lap, purring loudly. A bowl of pretzels rests nearby on the television tray, and Deck is drinking a beer. It’s cozy.