Bitsy shook her head and made motherly clucking sounds with her tongue. “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

“It’s not so bad. He probably got someone to take him home and didn’t realize the purse was on the floor. I’ll just go home and call the hospital. Maybe someone there can get in touch with him.”

Bitsy unlocked the door to her BMW, motioned for Chris to get in, and plunked her own small body into the plush red seat. At forty-three she was still slim and graceful on ice, moving effortlessly with her students through difficult choreography. On land she was an ox. On land she stomped and plunked and stumbled with unconscious abandon.

Bitsy turned the BMW onto Little River Turnpike. Half a mile up the road the two women simultaneously spotted Chris’ abandoned tan hatchback on the far shoulder. They gave it a cursory glance, as if it belonged to some unknown person, and continued on to the next light.

“Old news,” Chris said finally-her thoughts returning to the car.

Bitsy was familiar with the Chris Nelson philosophy of car care. “Time to buy a new one, huh?”

“Five weeks too early. I have my money tied up in a savings bond that doesn’t mature for five more weeks.”

Bitsy gave another series of clucks. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled into Chris’ subdivision and rolled to a stop in front of her house. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing to the blue pickup parked at the curb. “Is this the phantom truck?”

“Oh no! What’s he doing here?”

Bitsy chuckled. “I imagine he’s in there having tea with Aunt Edna.”

“Just what I need. Edna’s convinced I should remarry. Remember poor John Farrell? And last week she arranged a date for me with the guy who came to read our electric meter. Edna’ll take one look at Ken Callahan and think she’s gone to matchmakers’ heaven.”