"And your captain wanted to retire her."
"The captain," Cal said carefully, "watched her fall down her back steps in October, because he was the one who drove out when she called. She lay there for an hour on the cold concrete before she could get to the phone. Broke her wrist. Wouldn't let him take her to the hospital until she'd changed her stockings." He shook his head. "He's fond of her. We all are. He figured if he got a turkey and the boys cooked it, she could come and sit and be fussed over for once, and she wouldn't have to lift a twenty-pound bird with a wrist that's still healing."
"And instead she lifted it out of your hands in the middle of Kessler's."
"Out of both our hands," he said, and smiled at the windshield. "Don't forget that part. You had a very good grip."
She laughed despite herself.
Up ahead the Oldsmobile turned onto Laurel Hill Road, signal blinking patiently, and began to climb. The road ran up through bare oaks and stone walls, and the snow lay smooth and unbroken on it, and the big car's tires made two dark lines that Cal followed precisely. Near the top, a small white house sat back from the road behind a picket fence. There was a light on in the window, a single lamp, and a wreath already on the door, though it wasn't yet December. The Oldsmobile turned in. Cal pulled up at the curb and left the engine running.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll carry it in for her."