Sean laughed and gave Luke one last, brief hug. “Take care, bud. I’ll be on the cell all the way. We’ll keep you posted on our progress.”

“Just drive like an old woman, that’s all I ask. Now, get on the road!”

Maureen Riordan had said goodbye to her sons a hundred times; sometimes she’d even bid them farewell as they were going off to war. It was always a little hard, though they were grown men who had chosen their work, their lives, and she knew they were doing exactly as they’d planned. This time—kissing Rosie’s cheek and knowing it would be a while before she could hug her tight added a new dimension to the melancholy of farewell.

But this time as Sean and his family piled in his car and pulled slowly out of Luke’s compound, she leaned against George. His arm came around her and gave her a comforting squeeze. This was something she hadn’t had in so long—a partner to take the sting of goodbye away when the farewells were finally done and everyone had to get back to their lives. This time when she got back to her life, there would be love, affection, a best friend and even adventure as they took to the open road.

She sniffed back her threatening tears and said, “Well. They’re off. I’ll make more pancakes for anyone interested. And I brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”

Through all the many goodbyes over the years, this one was the easiest and sweetest for Maureen because she had George. With George she had places to go, people to see, new experiences to explore.

George was the only one to really notice that her mood was neither happy nor sad, but serene. Comfortable and quietly blissful. He put an arm around her waist, nuzzled her neck and said, “You’re looking especially beautiful, sweetheart.”

“I’m feeling that way, too. Thanks mostly to you.”

After Sean, Franci and Rosie left, roughly every twenty minutes Art said to Luke, “It’s Tuesday.”

And Luke would say, “I know that, but it’s not one o’clock yet, Art. We leave right after one o’clock.”

“I know that, Luke,” he said. And then he’d study his watch for a moment.

The watch had helped Art in several ways—he felt more confident and he was always on time returning from the river or doing his chores. He could only tell the hour hand and occasionally he got the two hands mixed up, thinking it was two o’clock when it was twelve-ten, but not often. Luke had miscalculated when buying him a watch with hour and minute hands rather than a digital, but they were getting by.

On Tuesday and Sunday afternoons Luke or someone else from the household would take Art to Fortuna to spend a couple of hours visiting with Netta. The term visiting should be used loosely as the two didn’t seem to talk all that much. On most of those visits Luke would go into the house with Art, say hello to Ellen and Bo and if they were present, the two other women who lived there. Once he was comfortable that all would be well, he’d ask Ellen if she minded him leaving to run an errand or two.

“Not a problem,” Ellen would always say. “Art’s a delight. Just be on time picking him up in two hours.”

Luke always made it back a little early and waited until Art was ready to go. When he was leaving with Art, Ellen would always say, “See you at two o’clock next time. Not early.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Art said for the umpteenth time.

“Tell me when it’s one o’clock, Art.”

At almost one, Luke went to give Shelby a kiss. “I’m headed to Fortuna, baby. Need anything while I’m out?”

“Just whatever you want for dinner,” she said. “And if you go to Costco or Walmart, grab some diapers and baby wipes.”

“How are you fixed if I don’t do much shopping? Has the little pee pot got a few days’ worth?”

“I’m good,” she said, laughing. “If you don’t go shopping, what will you do? Sit around Ellen’s house and wait?”

“No, I should talk to Ellen and Bo about Art—get their take on this getting-married business. He’s driving me to drink.”

“You do that,” she said. “Aren’t you leaving a little early?”

“He’s sitting in the truck, Shelby,” Luke said a bit tiredly. “When I invited Art to live here, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”

Shelby just laughed at him.

Their routine on visiting days was to leave Virgin River just after one and head into town. They’d have McDonald’s—Art looked forward to that almost as much as fishing, visiting and shopping. All the way to Fortuna, Art kept saying, “Netta wants to be the bride.”

“Not a good idea, bud,” Luke said. “I think you guys are too young for that.”

“But Netta wants to be the bride…”

By the time they finished lunch and got some gas in the truck, it was almost two and they could go to Netta’s house. Art would almost always look at his watch before getting out of the truck and say, “Two o’clock!” It baffled Luke that if Art was so conscious of the day and time, why did he have to badger Luke all day long. But what really should bewilder Luke was the way Art could do that without making him want to jump off a cliff. In almost all other things Luke was impatient and could be easily driven over the edge.

Ellen opened the door and said hello, let them in. Art stood inside the front door until Ellen told Art where to find Netta. “Netta’s in the backyard, Art. I think she’s been watering flowers with the hose. Go find her.” And then off he went, smiling. “Going shopping today, Luke?” she asked him.

“I wonder if we could talk about some things,” he said. “If you have a little time.”

“Sure. How about some tea or a soda?”

“Do you have a cola?”

“Coming right up. Let’s sit in the living room. I’m sure Art and Netta will be fine and the girls are watching one of their favorite movies.”

She poured herself a glass of iced tea, gave Luke a glass of ice and a can of cola and led the way. “How’s the baby?” she asked, sitting in her favorite chair.

“Terrific. If you like getting peed, puked and pooped on and getting no sleep.” Then he grinned and sat opposite her. “Turns out I happen to actually like it. He’s really something.”

She laughed. “How’s Art doing with the baby?”

“He’s very careful. He doesn’t bother the baby unless he thinks something’s wrong, like if there’s too much crying. I think he has very sensitive ears. Noise seems to get to him. If there’s a lot of crying, he’ll point it out to us even though we’re right in the middle of it, trying to quiet the baby. Shelby could be walking, jiggling, shooshing, and Art will say, ‘The baby’s crying, Shelby.’”

“It’s probably disorder that bugs him,” she said, laughing. “It’s really the only thing Art has to go on. His routine is probably his greatest security. Besides you and your wife, of course. Haven’t you noticed?”

Luke leaned back on the sofa. “Well, if his routine is his security, why does he start telling me first thing in the morning that it’s Tuesday or Sunday? Fifty times, even after I tell him I know?”

“He probably doesn’t want to forget. Or you to forget. It’s very important to him.”

“Hmm. But he goes off fishing sometimes—and it’s not exactly on the schedule…”

“I bet it is. I bet something about it is routine—like he’s finished his chores or had his breakfast or something. I mean, everyone’s different, but most mentally challenged adults function best if they do things almost by habit. For example, the girls all know that after your shower you dry off, put on your bra first, then your panties, then dry your hair, then put on your clothes, then your shoes. One of my girls had her appendix out and we wanted to keep her in her pajamas and at least lying on the couch, if not in bed, for the day, and that just was not happening. I thought we were going to have a brawl. We settled for stay-at-home clothes—a sweatsuit—and kept repeating, ‘no lifting’ over and over until I was saying it in my sleep.”

“That a fact?” Luke said. “That simple?”

She laughed. “Simple? Well, until it’s not. Sometimes that stuff can get on my last nerve.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen, something worries me a lot. Art keeps talking about getting married. I happen to agree with you—who are we to deny anyone love and affection, regardless of their mental acuity? But Art and Netta? Married?” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Someone would have to take care of them for life. Art’s never going to be completely self-sufficient. He gets by just great, even stays in his own cabin next door, keeps it clean as a whistle, can fix some of his own meals if they’re simple, but—”

Ellen was frowning. “Luke, are you sure about this? Netta hasn’t mentioned wanting to get married.”

“Art won’t shut up about it, I’m telling you.”

“I bet it’s one of those real specific, literal things. Come on, let’s go ask,” she said, standing up.

“Just like that? Ask?”

“We might not get the answer, but we can ask. Leave your drink—we’ll come back.” She led the way through the house and out back.

Netta was still watering flowers and Art stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking happy as a clam.

Ellen said, “Art? I have a question. Have you been talking about getting married?”

“I don’t drive a car,” he said with a shrug.

“I want to be the bride,” Netta said right away, not looking at anyone.

“I know,” Ellen said with a laugh. “I know, I know, I know. But do you want to get married?”

Netta looked at her and frowned in confusion.

“Netta, do you want to live here and work in the bakery?” And Netta said she did. “And Art? Do you want to live with Luke and Shelby?”

Art looked panicked for a second. He cast pleading eyes to Luke. “I have my own house, Luke. I help you.”

“You absolutely do. You live with us, you help us and you fish in our river. You seem to catch a lot of fish—we appreciate that.”

Art visibly relaxed.

“I want to be the bride,” Netta said, showering the flowers with the hose. “I want to be in the wedding.”

“You do such a great job in the bakery, Netta. Thank you for watering the plants. Your favorite show—all about weddings—will be on TV on Thursday. Do you two want some kind of snack right now?”

Both of them gave Ellen their complete attention and nodded.

“There are some apples in the basket on the patio table. Go ahead.”

“Pizza would be better!” Netta said. “Pizza or chips!”

“Just fruit between meals,” Ellen said. “We’ll have pizza Friday night.” Then she turned and walked back into the house while Luke stood there in something of a daze.

By the time Luke got back to the living room and to his cola, Ellen was sitting down in her chair. “Okay, you just totally blew my mind out there,” Luke said.

“Phooey,” she retorted. “You’re the one who explained to me that Art’s very literal.”

“But you told Aiden that some special-needs adults actually fall in love and get married…”

“They do. They’re as individual as the rest of us, in every way. But I don’t think Art and Netta want to get married. Netta’s really obsessed with the wedding show—she wants a wedding. Wants to be a bride, wear a white dress, have a party. She doesn’t have a realistic concept of what comes after that. She knows what marriage is, sort of. She knows the people on the wedding show are getting married, knows that I’m married to Bo, but she doesn’t really know what it means to be married. I thought it would make her so happy if I bought her a secondhand wedding dress to play around in—but she didn’t want to take it off, so I had to get rid of it.” Ellen rolled her eyes and blew out her breath. “Boy, did I pay for that. She was furious with me for days. A little furious for weeks.”

“I should know these things,” Luke said. “For Art, I should know things like this.”

“Listen, this is what I studied in college. This group home is what Bo and I do because we want to. Just three special-needs adults—only women. You do a great job with Art, but if you’re committed to his quality of life, it wouldn’t hurt for you to be just a little more involved in a support group of parents and guardians. You’d learn a lot and you could be involved in the community.” She paused and smiled. “You’d hear about some challenges that make yours look like a walk in the park. But, Luke, even though Art is your only concern and he seems to be doing just fine, something might come up and you should have people on your side—people who can help you if you need advice.”

“People like you…” It wasn’t a question.

“I go to an afternoon support group every Thursday. We meet at a community resource center and all my girls go along—there’s a nice, comfortable gathering and some activities for them while the rest of us chat. It’s informal. We need the connection. We call it Happy Hour,” she said with a smile. “There are small groups all over the place—some who meet for evenings, some for breakfast or lunch. There are seven in my group, which I chose because by that time of day Bo can handle the bakery and I can get away. When you get the baby under control and a little older, you, Shelby and Art should drop in. Art would enjoy himself, I think.”