Forty-five minutes later, after a cheese-and-sausage pizza that has burned the roof of my mouth, I make a turn onto Scott Street and realize I have missed the entrance to Paul’s drive.

Maybe I don’t remember Bear Creek as well as I thought. I turn around and pull into a curved driveway that sits on a full acre of land, only two blocks from downtown Bear Creek. Three stories, brick, with a formal garden and a couple of birdbaths, this house doesn’t look like it is owned by someone who has suffered from financial reverses. What I keep forgetting, however, is how depressed prices must be over here.

Paul probably got this for a third of what he would have to pay for its equivalent in Blackwell County.

As I press the doorbell, I realize I am fall of anxiety, My family must have been so inconsequential to the Taylors that Paul doesn’t have the slightest idea of the impact he has had on the lives of my mother or me. I wonder what my sister Marty remembers about Paul. As big a pain in the butt as that conversation will be, I should call her and find out. Naturally, Jill comes to the door, though I was hoping I wouldn’t have to see her. I always liked her, and feel awkward seeing her under these circumstances.

“Hello, Gideon,” she says warmly, obviously thinking I am here to help her husband. She gives me a hug, touching me for the first time in our lives. Though once a high-school beauty, now she is almost gaunt, and her once-lovely face is stretched tight against her skull, giving her the look of a middle-aged woman with an incurable disease. Living with Paul has obviously taken a toll.

“Hi, Jill,” I say, and become immediately tongue-tied.