The moving truck arrived at 9:17 on a Tuesday morning, which was unfortunate for Arthur Caldwell because Tuesday was supposed to be the quiet day. He had specifically chosen Tuesday. Not Monday, because people were coming back from the weekend. Not Wednesday, because that was the day the garbage trucks came through. Thursday was out because of the lawn service at the house next door, and Friday was entirely too close to Saturday. Saturday was when people had yard sales.
And Arthur Caldwell had made it very clear to himself that he was finished with yard sales, neighborhood gossip, unnecessary conversation, and people who thought it was perfectly acceptable to knock on your door simply because they happened to be standing near it.
Tuesday was supposed to be quiet. He had checked. Unfortunately, Arthur had not checked across the street. Had he done so, he might have reconsidered the entire move.
Across the street stood a two-story white bungalow with a wide front porch, green shutters, and a magnolia tree so large it appeared to have been planted sometime shortly after the Civil War. Three women were sitting beneath it. They were watching him.
Arthur stopped unloading a box.
The oldest woman lowered a pair of binoculars and placed them on the table next to her sister, Martie, who quickly picked them up. Martie stopped eating her sandwich. The youngest woman smiled. Arthur stared at them. They stared back.
Finally, the youngest woman lifted her hand and waved.
Arthur looked behind him. There was nobody there. He looked back. She was still waving. Arthur slowly lifted one hand. Not to wave, but to shield his eyes from the sun.
The youngest woman smiled even wider. "He's waving!" she announced.
"He is not waving," said Martie, the middle sister.
"He's shy."
Martie replied, "He's old, Lou."
"That doesn't mean he can't be shy," snapped Lou.
Vivian Bellamy reached over and took the binoculars from her sister. "Give me those." Martie handed them over reluctantly. Vivian raised them to her eyes. "Oh, my."
Martie sighed. "What?"
"He's handsome," said Vivian in her sweetest southern drawl.
"He's unloading a refrigerator." said Martie, while rolling her eyes
"That doesn't make him less handsome," drawled Vivian. Lou leaned forward. "Does he have a pet?" Vivian adjusted the focus. "I don’t know, but he is cute."
Martie snatched the binoculars. "Good Lord, Vivian. He's our age."
"Exactly,"laughed Vivian.
"You're seventy-eight."
"And?"
"And you just called a seventy-something-year-old man handsome."
Vivian smiled. "Honey, I have eyes."
Lou nodded thoughtfully. "I think he looks sad." Martie lowered her sandwich. "How can you tell from across the street?" "I can tell," said Lou. How?" questioned Martie.
Lou shrugged. "Sad people look sad." Vivian looked at her youngest sister. "That's surprisingly profound." "I read it on a greeting card," said Lou.
Martie rolled her eyes again.
Across the street, Arthur set down the box he was carrying. He looked at the three women again. They were still watching him. He stared for another moment. Then he muttered to himself. "What in the world are those women doing?"
And that was the first thing Arthur Caldwell ever said about the Bellamy sisters. It would certainly not be the last.