Vivian Bellamy had never been afraid of love. She had been afraid of bad lighting, cheap perfume, and women who wore white shoes after Labor Day, but love itself? Never. In fact, Vivian considered herself something of an authority on the subject. She had been married twice, engaged three times, and had what she referred to as “a colorful collection of almosts.”
Martie referred to them as “mistakes.” Lou referred to them as “character development.” Vivian preferred “romantic history.”
So when Vivian woke up Monday morning with a strange little flutter in her chest, she knew exactly what it meant. She was falling in love. She sat straight up in bed. “Oh, Lord.”
Across the hall, Lou was still asleep. Downstairs, Martie was already banging cabinet doors.
Vivian placed one hand dramatically over her heart. “No.” She climbed out of bed, walked to the mirror, and studied herself. She had silver hair that she kept carefully styled, bright blue eyes, and a collection of scarves that had once belonged to her mother and now belonged entirely to Vivian. She tilted her head. “Surely not.” She turned sideways. “Well…”She turned the other way. “Why not?”
There was no reason a woman couldn't fall in love at seventy-eight. People fell in love at all ages. She had read about it. Probably in a magazine.
She opened her closet. Twenty minutes later, she came downstairs wearing a pale pink blouse, pearl earrings, perfume, and lipstick.
Martie looked up from the stove. “What are you dressed up for?”
“Nothing.”
Lou wandered into the kitchen wearing one blue sock and one yellow sock.
She looked at Vivian. “You smell like trouble.”
“I always smell like trouble.”
“No,” Lou said. “This is different trouble.”
Vivian sat at the table. “I need to tell you something.”
Martie sighed. “That sentence has never ended well.”
Vivian leaned forward. “I think I may be in love.”
Silence.
Lou slowly pulled out a chair. “With who?”
Vivian looked toward the window. Across the street, Art was standing in his driveway. He was wearing an old flannel shirt, jeans, and the expression of a man who had already encountered three problems before breakfast. Vivian smiled. “With Art.”
Martie dropped the spoon. Lou's mouth fell open. Then she grinned. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Vivian said.
“You just said you're in love with him.”
“I said I think I may be.”
Martie stared at her. “Vivian, you've known that man for about two weeks.”
“Three.”
“That doesn't make it better.”
“I know men.”
Martie folded her arms. “You don't know Art.”
“I know enough.”
Lou leaned across the table. “What do you know?”
Vivian counted on her fingers. “He's kind.”
Martie nodded. “True.”
“He's handsome.” Martie shrugged. “Depends on the light.”
Lou nodded thoughtfully. “He likes dogs.”
“Yes.”
“He likes fishing.”
“Yes.”
“He likes my cooking.”
“He likes everybody's cooking,” Martie said.
Vivian ignored her. “He laughs at my jokes.”
“He laughs because Lou says strange things.”
Lou smiled. “I am very funny.”
Vivian continued. “He trusts us.”
Martie softened. “That part's true.”
“And,” Vivian said quietly, “he's lonely.”
The humor slipped from the room for just a moment. Martie looked down. Lou stopped smiling. They all knew it. They had seen it in the quiet moments. The way Art sometimes stood on his porch after dark. The way he looked at the old photograph of Margaret. The way he had started leaving his front door open during the day. The way he now crossed the street without being invited.
Vivian sighed. “I think he needs somebody.”
Martie looked at her. “He has us.”
“I know.”
Lou nodded. “He has three of us.”
“That might be enough to scare anybody away,” Martie said.
Vivian smiled. “I don't think he's scared anymore.”
Across the street, Art looked over. The three women immediately waved. Art stared at them. Then he shook his head. “What in the world are those women thinking about now?” Lou waved harder. Art raised one hand.
Vivian pressed her hand to her heart. “Oh, he's definitely in love with me.” Martie groaned. “Good Lord.”
By ten o'clock, Vivian had developed a plan. This was not unusual. Vivian developed plans the way other people developed allergies. She had decided she would spend more time with Art. Not too much. Just enough. She would be charming. She would be feminine. She would remind him that she was, as she put it, “still a woman.”
Martie listened to this while peeling potatoes. “You're seventy-eight.”
“I know.”
“So is he.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like you're trying to catch a college boy?”
Vivian put her hand on her hip. “Because romance doesn't have an expiration date.”
Lou, sitting on the counter, nodded. “That should go on a pillow.”
Martie pointed the potato peeler at them. “I'm just saying, don't make this weird.”
Vivian looked offended. “I never make things weird.”
Both sisters stared at her. “You bought a mannequin because you thought it was lonely,” Martie said.
“That was different.”
“You named it Geraldine.”
“She needed a name.”
“You took her to the grocery store.”
“She needed groceries.”
Lou raised a finger “And she wore a hat.”
“She looked good in it.”
Martie shook her head. “Just don't hurt Art.” Vivian's expression softened. “I wouldn't.”
She looked across the street. Art was sitting on his porch with Hank at his feet. He was reading a book. For the first time, Vivian didn't see an attractive older man. She saw someone who had lost his wife. Someone who had lived alone for years. Someone who had finally begun letting people into his life. Her smile faded. “I don't want to hurt him.”
Martie nodded. “Then don't confuse friendship with romance.”
Vivian looked at her. “What if it is romance?”
Martie smiled. “Then you'll know.”
Lou hopped off the counter. “How?”
Martie thought about it. “You'll stop trying to make it happen.”
Lou nodded solemnly. “That sounds difficult.”
“It will be for Vivian.”
That afternoon, Vivian decided to take Art a pie.
Martie caught her at the front door. “No.”
“I made a pie.”
“You didn't.”
“I supervised the pie.”
“You stood in the kitchen and told me how much sugar to use.”
“Exactly.”
Lou appeared behind them. “What kind?”
“Chocolate.”
Lou's eyes widened. “Take me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm going alone.”
Lou frowned. “Why?”
Vivian lowered her voice. “Because I'm trying to see if Art might have feelings for me.”
Lou nodded. “Should I spy from the bushes?”
“No.”
“Upstairs window?”
“No.”
“Behind the mailbox?”
“Absolutely not.”
Lou sighed. “Fine.”
Vivian crossed the street carrying the pie. She knocked. Art opened the door. He looked at her. Then at the pie. Then back at her. “What did I do?”
Vivian laughed. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you bringing me food?”
“Because I like you.”
Art stared at her. Vivian immediately realized how that sounded. “I mean—”
Art smiled. “I know what you mean.”
“Oh.”
She handed him the pie. “I thought you might enjoy it.”
He took it. “Thank you.”
Vivian waited. Art waited. Finally he said, “Was there something else?”
“No.” She smiled. “Have a nice afternoon.” She turned around. Then stopped. “Art?”
“Yes?”
“You look nice today.”
He blinked. “I'm wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday.”
“Well,” Vivian said, “they look better today.” Then she walked away.
Art watched her cross the street. Hank came to the door. Art looked down at him. “What was that?”Hank wagged his tail. “I don't know either.”
Vivian entered the house like a woman returning from battle. Lou was waiting in the foyer. “Well?” Vivian smiled. “He smiled.” Martie looked up from the kitchen. “People do that.”
“He took the pie.”
“People eat.”
“He said thank you.”
“That's generally considered polite.”
“He looked at me.”
Martie put down the dish towel. “Vivian.”
“He looked at me differently.”
Lou gasped. “Did he wink?”
“No.”
“Touch your hand?”
“No.”
“Kiss you?”
“No.”
“Ask you to marry him?”
“Lou!”
“What?”
Vivian sat down. “I think I may have embarrassed myself.”
Martie sat beside her. “What happened?”
“I told him he looked nice.”
“That isn't embarrassing.”
“I told him his clothes looked better today.”
Martie thought about it. “That one's a little strange.”
Vivian groaned. “He probably thinks I'm ridiculous.”
Lou sat on the floor. “I don't.”
Vivian looked at her. “Why?”
“Because Art likes you.”
Vivian's face brightened. “He does?”
Lou nodded. “Sure.”
“Romantically?”
Lou thought for a moment. “I don't know.”
Vivian's face fell.
“But he likes you as a person.”
Martie smiled. “That may be better.”
Vivian looked toward the window. Across the street, Art was sitting on his porch eating a slice of chocolate pie. He looked over. Saw Vivian. Raised the plate.
She smiled. He smiled back. Then he held up a fork.
Vivian put her hand over her heart. “He's eating my pie.”
Martie shook her head. “No, honey. He's eating my pie.”
Vivian looked at her. “That's not helping.”
That evening, the sisters sat together on their porch. The sun was sinking behind the trees. Art sat across the street with Hank. Nobody spoke for a while. Then Art called over. “Hey!” All three sisters turned. “What's for dinner tomorrow?” Martie smiled. “Why?” Art shrugged. “Just wondering.”
Lou whispered, “He's hooked.”
Vivian laughed.
Art heard her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Vivian called.
Art shook his head. “What in the world are those women planning now?” This time, there was no irritation in his voice. Only affection.
Vivian watched him for a moment. Then she leaned back in her chair. Maybe Martie was right. Maybe she didn't need to make anything happen. Maybe love wasn't always butterflies and roses and dramatic declarations. Maybe sometimes it was a chocolate pie. A man eating it on his porch. A dog asleep at his feet. And three sisters across the street who had somehow become the family he hadn't known he needed.
Vivian smiled. “I still think he likes me.”
Martie laughed. Lou nodded. “He does.”
Vivian looked pleased. “See?”
Lou grinned. “Just probably not the way you think.”
Vivian threw a pillow at her. Lou ducked. Art watched the commotion from across the street. Hank lifted his head.
Art smiled. For the first time in years, he realized something. He wasn't watching the women across the street anymore. He was watching his people.