The old cabinets had been replaced with new ones with painted plywood doors. The countertop was made of Formica—he knew what it was now—and the edges curved up and then down. Wichita had come to Meddersville. "Dad redid it just before he died," Cat said. "Now it's old again." "Long time, no see, huh?" Cat didn't answer. She set two cups of fresh decaf on the kitchen table, one for Ethan and one for Heather, and sat down to glare at Ethan. He had been nine years old that summer. That made him thirty-four now. She had been sixteen. Now she was forty-one. She had seemed so much older than Ethan then, and she still did. What was there about crossing the forty-year line that felt like stepping off a cliff? Why did it seem that her life was virtually over while Ethan's was still in its prime? "So," she said, "what brings you back to town?" "Aunt Flo called my show. She wanted to know about the Proost boy." "What did you tell her?" "Nothing." Silence hung in the air, heavy and musty, like a wet carpet hung out to dry.
